10. Caleb
Caleb
T he Missoula hotel suite felt like another planet. Polished floors. Filtered air. Lights that didn’t shift with the clouds or dim with the wind. I used to live in places like this—briefings, grant committees, lecture halls—before the wilderness rewired my instincts. Now, still air felt unnatural. Silence without birdsong felt wrong.
But she looked like she belonged.
Hannah sat on the bed, her ankle elevated on a pillow, laptop open and casting blue light across her face. One of my old flannels hung loose on her frame, sleeves rolled. Her hair was a mess of soft tangles, strands falling across her cheek. She was courtroom and cabin. Wildfire and precision. Somehow, she made both worlds hold hands.
I stood at the window, watching the city blink alive.
Zoe had already mirrored the drives, encrypted the raw files, and—according to a quick exchange I overheard—filed a preliminary motion with the DOJ.
While I’d been in the shower, Hannah hadn’t rested. She moved like a lawyer on the front line—issuing press statements, queuing data drops, coordinating strategy with her team back in New York. Watching her work was like watching a storm find its aim. Precise. Relentless. Beautiful.
"You’re hovering," she said, not looking up.
"I’m recalibrating."
She smiled faintly. "It’s okay to admit it’s overwhelming. I’m overwhelmed too."
I crossed the room, slower than I needed to. I hadn’t stopped moving since we left the cabin. My body didn’t trust stillness anymore. But the threat now wasn’t something hiding in the woods—it was in boardrooms and inboxes.
"You did good today," she said quietly. "You gave Zoe everything she needed."
I sank beside her. The bed dipped under my weight.
"It’s not just data anymore. It’s a voice. Mark’s. Mine. Yours."
She looked up. Something caught in her gaze. Soft. Fierce.
"We don’t have to rush," she said. "We’ve already made them sweat. That’s a win."
"I’m not afraid," I said. And I wasn’t.
Not of FireCore. Not anymore.
I was tired, but not broken. This was the kind of tired that came after building something. Not burying it.
Her hand found mine. No fanfare. No hesitation. Our fingers locked like they’d always been meant to.
"There was a time," I murmured, "when I thought I could make a difference. Before Mark. Before FireCore tried to erase us."
Her grip tightened.
I looked down. Her hands—ink-stained, certain. Mine—scarred, steady.
"And now?" she asked.
I looked at her. Really looked. "Now I’m next to the woman who reminded me I still have a voice. Who didn’t run when I gave her the worst parts. Who stayed."
Her throat worked around a sound she didn’t let fall. "You don’t have to do this alone, Caleb. You never did."
I leaned forward. Our foreheads touched. Breathing in sync. That was all it took to believe.
Then, softly: "Stay."
I didn’t flinch. "Okay."
Her exhale was slow, steady. Like she’d been holding that breath for days.
She leaned back. "I need a shower. A real one. Just to feel human again."
I gestured toward the bathroom. "You sure you don’t want me to walk you through the water table readings first?"
She laughed—low, raspy. Real. "Later."
She reached for her crutches, but I was already on my feet.
"Let me."
She didn’t argue. We moved across the room together, unhurried. At the bathroom door, she paused.
"Don’t go far. I don’t want to fall asleep before you come back."
I brushed a curl from her cheek. "I’m not going anywhere."
When the door closed behind her, the suite felt still.
No trees. No wind. No pursuit.
Just possibility.
For the first time in three years, I wasn’t bracing for the next hit.
I was ready.