Chapter 60
Hannah
“You’re not cleared.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
I stare at him across the hospital room.
Back in the U.S.
Safe.
Clean.
Controlled.
And somehow—
this feels more volatile than a war zone.
“You can barely take a full breath without wincing,” I snap. “Your ribs are still healing, your internal bruising hasn’t fully resolved, and you were unconscious less than forty-eight hours ago.”
Clay stands there like none of that matters.
Like I didn’t just list out exactly why he shouldn’t even be on his feet.
“I’m fine.”
There it is.
That word.
Again.
Something inside me snaps.
“No,” I fire back, stepping closer. “You’re not fine. Stop saying that like it makes it true.”
His jaw tightens.
“And stop acting like you get to decide that.”
That—
That hits harder than anything else he’s said.
My chest tightens.
Anger flares fast.
Hot.
Sharp.
“I was the one who kept you alive,” I shoot back. “So yeah—I get a say when your body isn’t done recovering.”
“That was your job.”
The words land like a slap.
Not because they’re wrong.
Because of how easily he says them.
Like that’s all it was.
Like that’s all this is.
Something twists hard in my chest.
Pain.
Anger.
Something worse.
“Right,” I say, my voice dropping. “Your job is to nearly die. Mine to clean it up. That it?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
Silence crashes between us.
Tense.
Explosive.
Because we’re both right on the edge now.
“You don’t get it,” he says finally, voice lower now. Controlled—but tight.
“Then explain it to me,” I fire back. “Explain why you think walking back into a mission in this condition is a good idea.”
“It’s not about what I think,” he says. “It’s what I do.”
“That’s not an answer—that’s an excuse.”
His eyes flash.
“There are people out there who don’t get to wait until I feel one hundred percent.”
“And there are people in here who don’t get a second chance if you collapse again!” I shoot back.
That stops him.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
I step closer.
Not backing down.
Not this time.
“I watched your body shut down,” I say, my voice lower now—but more intense. “I watched your pulse drop. I watched you fight to stay conscious when you should’ve already been gone.”
His expression shifts.
Just slightly.
“I am not doing that again,” I add.
The words come out before I can stop them.
Too honest.
Too real.
His gaze sharpens.
Locks onto mine.
“Why?” he asks.
One word.
Quiet.
Dangerous.
Because he’s not asking about the mission.
He’s asking about me.
About why I care.
Too much.
More than I should.
I freeze.
Just for a second.
And that’s all he needs.
“Because I don’t like losing patients?” he presses, echoing my earlier words.
Damn him.
“That’s not—”
“Then what is it?”
The room feels too small.
Too tight.
Too close.
Because I don’t have an answer I can give him that doesn’t change everything.
“That’s not the point,” I say instead.
“It is to me.”
Of course it is.
Of course he doesn’t let it go.
“Clay—”
“No,” he cuts in. “You don’t get to tell me to stay down and then walk away from why it matters.”
“I’m not walking away—”
“Then say it.”
The words hit like a challenge.
Like a demand.
Like he’s standing right in front of something he doesn’t fully understand—but refuses to ignore.
My heart pounds.
Hard.
Too fast.
Because I know exactly what he wants me to say.
And I’m not ready.
Not here.
Not like this.
“You’re not ready to go back,” I say instead, forcing the conversation back where it’s safer. “That’s the only thing that matters right now.”
His expression hardens.
Walls slamming back into place.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought.”
Regret hits instantly.
Sharp.
But I don’t take it back.
Can’t.
Because if I do—
This becomes something else entirely.
“Command already cleared me for light movement,” he adds.
“That’s not a full mission.”
“It’s a start.”
“It’s a mistake.”
His jaw tightens again.
“And keeping me benched isn’t?”
“Keeping you alive isn’t a mistake.”
The words hang there.
Heavy.
Because that’s the truth.
Raw and unfiltered.
Something flickers in his eyes.
Gone almost as quickly as it appears.
“Not your call,” he says quietly.
That one lands.
Deep.
Final.
Because he means it.
Because no matter what happened—
No matter what almost—
He’s still him.
And I’m still—
Not part of that world.
Not really.
I straighten slightly.
Rebuild the distance.
Fast.
Professional.
Controlled.
“Fine,” I say coolly. “Then go.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“Go,” I repeat. “Push it too soon. Tear something worse. Collapse again. See how that works out for you.”
Anger flashes across his face.
Real this time.
“Careful, Doc,” he warns. “You’re starting to sound like you actually care.”
And that—
That’s the final hit.
“Get out,” I say.
The words are quiet.
Deadly.
Controlled.
But there’s no mistaking them.
A beat.
Then another.
Neither of us moves.
Because something just broke.
Or started.
Hard to tell which.
His gaze holds mine for one last second.
Something there.
Unspoken.
Unresolved.
Then—
He turns.
And walks out.
The door shuts behind him.
And the silence that follows—
Is louder than anything we’ve faced so far.
I stand there.
Frozen.
Heart still racing.
Hands clenched at my sides.
Because I didn’t say it.
Didn’t tell him the truth.
Didn’t admit—
I close my eyes briefly.
Forcing the feeling back down.
Because it doesn’t matter.
Because it can’t matter.
Because he’s going to walk back into that world—
With or without me.
And I—
I don’t belong there.
Not in the way he does.
Not in the way he always will.
But that doesn’t stop the tightness in my chest.
Doesn’t stop the anger.
Or the fear.
Or the one thing I refused to say—
Because I’m not ready to face it yet.
Not even close.