Chapter 24 Eliza #2
The door closes with a soft click, leaving me alone with Cooper and the mountain silence that feels so different from the urban chaos we escaped.
No sirens, no gunfire, no footsteps echoing in concrete tunnels.
Just the soft whisper of wind through pine trees and the steady rhythm of Cooper’s breathing.
“He likes you,” I tell Cooper’s sleeping form. “Ghost, I mean. He doesn’t say much, but I can tell he respects what you did. What we did.”
My free hand traces patterns on the blanket, restless energy needing an outlet. “I keep thinking about that homeless camp. About Janet, who could have taken our money and disappeared but chose to help instead. About humanity in the middle of inhumanity.”
Cooper’s fingers twitch slightly in mine, and I wonder if he can hear me on some level. If my voice pulls him back from whatever dark dreams soldiers have.
“I haven’t lost faith in people, remember? I was certain that woman would come back.”
The sun disappears behind the mountains, and automatic lighting systems bathe the room in warm, golden tones that make everything feel safer than it probably is. Through the windows, stars begin to appear in the clear mountain air—more stars than I’ve ever seen from any city.
Another knock, softer this time. The door opens to reveal Skye in medical scrubs carrying a steaming plate and a cup of coffee that smells like heaven.
“How’s our patient?” She sets the food on the bedside table, within easy reach.
“Sleeping soundly. His breathing seems steady. Everything looks normal to me, but I’m not qualified to judge.”
Skye examines Cooper’s bandages without waking him. “Healing well. No signs of infection. His body is doing what it needs to do.”
“How long?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “How long before he’s back to normal?”
“Define normal.” Skye settles into the chair Ghost vacated, her manner more relaxed now that she’s confirmed her patient’s stable condition.
“If you mean how long before he can walk around without getting winded, probably another week. If you mean how long before he’s cleared for active duty …
” She shrugs. “That depends on him. Men like Cooper heal faster than they should and return to work sooner than they ought to.”
“Because they’re stubborn?”
“Because they’re driven by something bigger than self-preservation.” Skye’s gaze moves between me and Cooper’s sleeping form. “Usually, that something is the mission, the team, the greater good. But sometimes it’s more personal.”
The observation hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications I’m not sure I’m ready to examine.
“Eat,” Skye says, nodding toward the untouched plate. “You’re no good to him if you collapse from exhaustion or malnutrition. That’s a medical order.”
The food is surprisingly good—some kind of pasta with vegetables and meat that tastes homemade rather than institutional. Real cooking, the kind that speaks of care and attention rather than mass production.
“This place,” I say between bites, “it’s not what I expected when Ghost said safe house.”
“Guardian HRS has resources most people can’t imagine.” Skye adjusts her position. “We believe in taking care of our people properly. Medical care, real food, comfortable accommodations. Trauma recovery works better when the environment supports healing.”
“Trauma recovery.” The words taste strange in my mouth. “Is that what this is?”
“You’ve been through something most people never experience and hopefully never will.
” Skye’s voice carries the gentle authority of someone who’s helped many people process similar experiences.
“Combat situations, life-and-death decisions, extreme physical and emotional stress. Your brain needs time to integrate those experiences.”
“And until then?”
“You might have trouble sleeping. Hypervigilance—constantly checking for threats that aren’t there. Intrusive thoughts about what happened. Difficulty trusting that you’re truly safe.” She pauses, studying my face. “Sound familiar?”
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize she’s describing exactly how I’ve been feeling. The way I keep checking the windows, listening for footsteps that don’t come, replaying moments from our escape in vivid detail.
“It’s normal,” Skye continues. “And it gets better. Especially when you have someone to process it with.”
Her gaze moves meaningfully toward Cooper, and I understand what she’s not saying. That healing happens faster when you’re not alone. When you have someone who understands what you’ve been through because they were there with you.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask, deflecting from observations that hit too close to home.
“Emergency medicine? Years.” Skye checks her watch, a practical digital model that looks designed for field work. “I’ve seen a lot of operators come through here. Most of them are emotionally unavailable, professionally paranoid, and constitutionally incapable of admitting vulnerability.”
She nods toward Cooper. “That man let you help him back to his room when he would have crawled here on his hands and knees rather than accept assistance from his teammates. That tells me something significant about what you mean to him.”
Before I can respond, Cooper stirs. His eyes open slowly, pupils adjusting to the lamplight, consciousness returning in careful stages.
“Eliza?” His voice comes out rough with sleep.
“I’m here.” I squeeze his hand, and his fingers tighten around mine immediately. “How do you feel?”
“Like I got shot—twice and spent eighteen hours bleeding.” A ghost of a smile crosses his features. “But alive.”
“The important thing,” Skye observes, making notes on his chart. “Pain level, one to ten?”
“Four. Maybe five when I move wrong.”
“Good. That’s down from earlier.” She caps her pen, satisfied with his responses. “I’ll let you two talk. Call if you need anything. There’s an intercom button beside the bed.”
The door closes behind her, leaving us alone in the golden lamplight. Cooper’s eyes find mine, studying my face with the same intensity he brings to threat assessment.
“How are you doing?”
“Me?” I lean back and breathe out, then answer with as much honesty as possible. “Getting some rest. Eating real food. Processing what we’ve been through.”
“And how is that processing going?” His thumb traces circles across my knuckles. “Come here,” Cooper says, his good arm lifting slightly. “Let me hold you.”
I hesitate, eyeing the medical equipment and fresh bandages. “I don’t want you to pull stitches or rip anything out.”
“Come. Let me hold you. I promise not to do anything that’ll make Doc Summers yell at us.”
The request is simple, but it carries the weight of everything we’ve been through. Trust and vulnerability and the kind of intimacy that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with intent.
I stand carefully, then settle onto the bed beside him, mindful of his injuries. His good arm comes around me immediately, pulling me against his uninjured side, and the solid warmth of him chases away anxieties I didn’t realize I was carrying.
“Better,” he murmurs against my hair.
“Better,” I agree, my head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder where I can hear his heartbeat.
Outside, the mountain settles around us like a protective blanket. No Phoenix operatives, no underground tunnels, no gunfire echoing through concrete corridors. Just this moment, this bed, this man who threw himself between me and death without hesitation.
“Cooper?”
“Mmm?”
“What happens now? Tomorrow, I mean. Next week. When you’re healed and Phoenix is still out there wanting me dead.”
His arm tightens around me, and I feel him thinking, processing tactical considerations I can’t begin to understand.
“We figure it out,” he says finally. “Together.”
“Together?”
“Yes, love.” His words settle between us, heavy with promise and uncertainty. Together could mean a lot of things—professional partnership, temporary alliance, something deeper that neither of us is ready to name.
But right now, with his heartbeat steady beneath my ear and his arm holding me close, together feels like enough.
“Sleep,” Cooper murmurs, his voice already drifting back toward unconsciousness. “I’ve got the watch.”
Even injured, even exhausted, he’s still trying to protect me. The irony makes me smile into the darkness.
“No,” I whisper back. “I’ve got the watch. You sleep.”
For the first time since this nightmare began, he lets me. I remain awake, listening to Cooper breathe, standing guard over the man who’s made it his mission to keep me alive.
Outside, the stars wheel across the mountain sky, and somewhere in the distance, Phoenix continues its hunt. But here, in this room, wrapped in Cooper’s arms, I finally understand what safety feels like.
It’s not a place or a situation.
It’s a person.
And I’m not letting anything happen to him.