Chapter 62
Clay
Ishould be sleeping.
I’m not.
The room is quiet.
Too quiet.
No engines.
No voices.
No movement.
Just… still.
Hate that.
I shift slightly in the bed—
Bad idea.
Pain reminds me exactly why I’m here.
Yeah.
Still not a fan.
I exhale slowly, staring up at the ceiling.
Trying not to think.
Doesn’t work.
It never does.
Because my head keeps going back—
Not to the mission.
Not to the compound.
Not even to the hit.
To her.
Hannah Bower, MD.
The way she looked at me.
The way she didn’t back down.
The way she—
Yeah.
That.
I scrub a hand over my face.
Carefully.
Because even that still hurts.
“Not your call.”
The words echo back.
Mine.
And the look on her face after—
That wasn’t nothing.
Not even close.
I didn’t mean—
No.
That’s a lie.
I meant it.
I always mean it.
That’s the problem.
I don’t take orders from anyone when it comes to my job.
Not even her.
Especially not her.
But that doesn’t explain—
Why it bothered me.
Why it still does.
I push up slightly—
Ignore the pull in my ribs.
Focus on something else.
Doesn’t work.
Because I can still hear her voice.
Sharp.
Fierce.
“You’re not ready.”
Yeah.
I heard that.
Still hearing it.
Still—
Something shifts in my chest.
Not pain.
Something else.
Something I don’t like.
Something I don’t have a name for.
I exhale again.
Slower this time.
Because I know what this is.
I’ve seen it before.
Not in me.
But in others.
That look.
That tone.
That—
Care.
I let out a quiet huff.
“Not happening,” I mutter.
Because it’s not.
Because it can’t.
Because I don’t have time for—
Anything like that.
Not with the way we live.
Not with what we do.
And she—
She doesn’t belong in that world.
Not like that.
Not—
My jaw tightens.
Because that’s not entirely true either.
She stood in it just fine.
Better than most.
Didn’t break.
Didn’t run.
Didn’t—
Didn’t leave.
That thought hits harder than anything else.
Because she could have.
Should have.
Didn’t.
I stare at the ceiling again.
Longer this time.
“Just a doctor,” I mutter.
The words don’t sit right.
Not even a little.
I close my eyes.
Try to shut it down.
Push it away.
File it under things that don’t matter.
Things I don’t deal with.
Things I don’t—
Her voice cuts through again.
“You don’t get to leave.”
Yeah.
That.
That sticks.
I exhale slowly.
And for the first time—
I don’t push it away.
Don’t fight it.
Don’t try to shut it down.
I just…
Let it sit there.
Uncomfortable.
Unfinished.
Unresolved.
Because something tells me—
This isn’t over.
Not even close.