Page 88 of Falcon’s Forever

Hospital and compound secure. Emily stable confirmed. North fence repairs complete. No further threat activity. Next full briefing tomorrow morning.

Below it, another line.

Security Phone:

Falcon has stepped back from hospital-contact updates unless requested. Ice Pick remains point of contact.

I read it twice.

Frankie notices. "What?"

I hand her the phone. She reads it and gives it back without a word, which I'm grateful for.

He's not disappeared. He's stepped back, still working, still protecting all of us from the compound, just removed himself from the part that belongs to me right now. I asked for space and respect, and he's giving me both, and it hurts and it also feels safe, which might be the strangest combination I've ever felt about the same man.

Maybe trust doesn't come back in one dramatic moment. Maybe it comes back like this. A meal sent without a condition attached. Information shared without being asked twice. A man choosing not to walk through a door because the woman on the other side told him she needs him to stay away.

I set the phone down.

Sarah leans against my shoulder again. Frankie steals another brownie. Ice Pick goes back to his position at the end of the corridor. Emily sleeps twenty feet away, breathing on her own.

The Saint’s Outlaws are back at the compound, rebuilding what got damaged. Nobody's alone tonight, not any of us, not even him. For the first time since the shooting, I let myself lean back in the chair and stop watching every entrance. Only for a few minutes, but it's enough.

Maybe healing works the same way trust does. You don't wake up fearless one morning. You just start noticing the moments somebody else can keep watch instead of you.

And you let them.

Chapter 13

Falcon

In the morning, I learn that rebuilding a section of security fence after somebody cuts through it is a miserable job in freezing weather, and that Rook becomes unbearably cheerful the second he knows I'm in no position to tell him to shut up.

"You missed a bit." He’s pointing at the fence.

I tighten the last bolt and look over my shoulder. He's standing ten feet back holding a mug of coffee while I'm on my knees in wet grass, gloves caked in mud, and the knees of my jeans soaked through.

"Say that one more time and I'm putting you through the fence." I bit back the retort I want to give. I can’t disrespect him.

"You'd have to fix it again." I don’t know if I am going to make it through the next few minutes let alone however long it takes me to get my patch back.

Digger laughs from the other side of the post. The stitches along his forehead make his grin look slightly crooked, but Knox cleared him for light work as long as he doesn’t lift anything heavy or, in Knox’s exact words, use his damaged head for any decisions. Apparently, standing here and annoying me counts as medically appropriate duty.

I point the wrench at him. “You’re enjoying this too much for a prospect.”

“Just learning from senior leadership,” Digger replies.

Rook nearly chokes on his coffee. I finish tightening the bolt, get back to my feet, and test the wire with both hands. Solid.

“Better,” Rook says, which from him is high praise.

Digger starts gathering the scattered tools. I bend down and take the heavier box from him before he can lift it.

“I can carry it,” he protests.

“Knox said light duty,” I remind him.

Digger keeps one hand on the box. “It’s a toolbox.”