The plastic band at Harper's wrist gave with a clean snick into Graves's palm; the last strip of adhesive tugged her skin before it let go. The IV was gone. The telemetry dots had left faint pink ovals, ghost marks that would fade. The binder hugged under one of Brock's shirts, soft cotton against her ribs where tape had been.
Brock locked the chair—one foot braced on the axle, his hand light on the handle. The belt lay loose at her waist, the blanket squared across her knees.
"When she's vertical, the binder stays on," Graves told him, brisk but not unkind. "No stairs alone. Flat walks only—three a day. Pain by mouth, on schedule. Anything green, bright red, fever, sudden dizzy or hard belly—you call and you bring her back."
"I've got her," Brock said. His voice carried the checklist back. "Binder when up, no heroics. First odd thing, we're here."
Graves touched Harper's shoulder, warm and brief. "You fought for this step. Don't waste it. Call me if it turns."
Harper caught Graves's hand before it fell away, squeezed once. "Thank you," she whispered, voice rough but certain.
Graves gave a short nod, then let go and crossed to the door. The latch clicked; the panel sighed open, spilling the hall ahead. Brock bent to her eyeline. "Your word."
She looked down the strip of corridor, then up at him. "Now."
He popped the brakes and started them home. The corridor held its breath—matte paint, concrete gone soft with wax, the low electrical hum that lives in old buildings. The hallway lay empty from end to end. Brock kept one hand on the handle and the other easy at the back of her shoulder so she knew where he was without being steered. The wheels rattled past the supply alcove, past a dark window that threw their shapes back at them and let them pass.
"Better than my driving?" he asked, just enough wry.
She huffed. "Anything's better than your driving."
At the elevator he bumped the button with a knuckle. The light clicked on; the doors opened clean. He backed the chair in so the footrests cleared the lip, set the brakes with his toe, and stood with one hand on the rail because that's how he's built. The car hummed up—numbers winking past, a soft sway when they slid through one floor and then the next. He glanced down; she was watching the panel like it was a small, polite miracle.
The bell pinged. "Home stretch," he murmured.
The doors parted on the residential hush: warmer air, coffee ghost, a hint of lemon from something wiped too hard. The carpet took the rattle out of the wheels; lights ran soft along the baseboards; door numbers climbed in quiet order. He didn't hurry. At his door he set the brakes with that double click and crouched into her eyeline so he wasn't a voice above her. The keypad waited at his shoulder, little green ready light blinking, familiar as a face.
"Watch the lip," he said, keying the code.
"I see it."
The latch clicked. He eased them over the shallow threshold, front wheels tipping and landing on the rug. The room breathed out—sun on the floor, the faint clean of soap, air that already smelled like him instead of hospital. He swung the chair a half turn so she faced the window and set the brakes, close enough to the waiting armchair that the next move could be hers.
"Stand for it?" he asked, fingers already finding the belt beside her hand.
"Please," she said. Her throat caught, but the word carried. "I want it standing."
"Good." He snugged the buckle a notch, nudged her toes under her knees. "Lean to me."
She rose with him—no count this time, just their breath catching the same rhythm. Hips under, calves alive, a sway that ran out against the steadiness of his stance. Two careful steps and the glass filled her vision. She stopped close enough to feel its cool; he stepped in behind, half-shield, half-embrace, one foot outside hers.
His palm settled warm at the small of her back; the other hand lay easy at the belt, contact only. When she let herself lean, his chest was there. His forearm crossed high above the healing ache, the flat of his hand open over her sternum so she could feel the steady lift beneath his skin. His jaw brushed her crown and stayed.
"Stay," she said, not asking this time.
"All day," he answered, voice low in her hair.
The room turned gentle around them: dust drifting in the sunbeam; the rug pressing its weave into her socks; glass cool under her fingertips while the sun warmed her cheek. She matched her breath to his until she didn't have to think about it. A fogged oval bloomed on the pane with each exhale, fading, returning, proof she was still here. When her thighs began to sing—the good kind before the shake—his thumb moved once at her sternum, a quiet check-in. The hand at her back floated and returned, not bracing but reminding: he had her, here, home.
Her forehead rested for a breath against the glass, fogging another small oval. "Brock?"
His answer came low, immediate. "I'm here."
Her throat tightened. "I'm sorry."
His hand shifted at her back, thumb drawing one line just to keep her tethered. "For what?"
"For leaving." The words scraped out, small and breaking. "For going out alone. I just—" Her eyes blurred; she blinked hard, a smile trying and failing through the tears. "I just wanted fresh air. I didn't think anything would happen. I thought—I thought I could make it quick. Pick up something for you. Pastries, for when you got back and—"
"No." His voice cut through, firm but quiet. Both his hands came up, turning her away from the glass, cradling her face between his palms. Thumbs brushed tears from her cheeks, his brow almost against hers. "Don't. Don't ever apologize for being human. For wanting air. For wanting to surprise me."
Her breath caught against his skin.
"You have freedom," he said, slower now, every word steady as the hands that held her. "You're allowed to step outside. What happened to you isn't yours to own. Not one piece of it. Don't ever think it is."
Her mouth trembled under his thumb. She shut her eyes, and the tears continued anyway, tracking warm across the heel of his hand. He didn't let go.
His hands still framed her face when he leaned in, lips pressing to her forehead. He didn't move after the first brush—just stayed, his mouth warm against her skin, her head cradled there like he could keep her safe by sheer will if he didn't lift it. She felt the quiet tremor in his breath where it touched her brow.
When he finally eased back, it was only to guide her, gentle as gravity, down into the waiting chair. He crouched in front of her, big frame folding close, one knee to the rug. His eyes were level with hers, bare in a way he never let anyone else see.
"I'm the one who should be sorry," he said, voice rough.
Her mouth opened. "No, Brock—"
But he shook his head, cutting it off before it could grow. "If you'd had a phone, you wouldn't have been alone. I could've called, tracked you, gotten to you before it was too late." His jaw worked; he dropped his gaze, fighting the shake in his throat. "I should've kept you safe."
Her hands lifted, threading through his hair, drawing his face closer, trying to anchor him the way he'd anchored her. "You weren't too late," she whispered. "I'm here. You got me here."
His eyes closed, lashes damp against her skin where he leaned into her touch. "I know," he managed, voice breaking. "But—before. Before it all happened. Before you were hurt that bad. Before you almost died in the back of that SUV."
Her fingers combed slow through his hair, steady as breath. He bowed his head into her palms, shoulders braced, held up by the simple fact that she was still here to touch him. The quiet thickened around them—the city's hum beyond the glass, the room warm at their backs, no machines left to cut through it.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red but steady. He thumbed at her cheek, tracing the last salt track away. "You want to stay out here a bit," he asked, voice low, "or get into bed?"
Her breath shivered out; she leaned back into the chair just enough to feel how much her body hated it. "Bed," she admitted, quiet but certain. "I want to be in bed."
Something eased across his face—not quite a smile, but close. "Good," he said. His hand firmed at her shoulder. "Let's get you home all the way."
He rolled the wheelchair in from where he'd left it by the wall and set the brakes beside her. "Up for a second," he murmured. Her hands found his shoulders; he bore just enough of her weight to turn and lower her, settling her onto the cushion. He checked the belt, easing the slack so it wouldn't bite, then slipped the blanket back over her knees. One foot braced on the axle, he swung the chair from the window toward the hall.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready," she said, though her voice dragged with the weight of it.
The wheels whispered across the rug, then onto the cooler stretch of the corridor floor. His quarters held their usual quiet: matte walls, the faint oil tang of cleaned gear, the low hum of the vents. He turned them through the doorway, careful with the footrests, and locked the brakes with a double click at the side of the bed.
He crouched into her line. "Same as the chair. Up with me, turn, sit. I'll carry whatever you can't."
Her hand found the canvas strap, two fingers hooking in. "Okay."
"Good girl," he said under his breath, more vow than praise.
He slid his palm low at her back, two fingers into the belt at her hip. "On three," he murmured. "One… two…"
She tipped forward into him; his stance caught her, solid as stone. Hips under, knees hunting, the belt firm in his hand. "Three."
They rose together. For a breath the world tilted, then leveled against his chest. He pivoted her slow until the edge of the mattress pressed against her calves.
"Reach back," he said softly. "It's right there."
Her hand skimmed air, then quilt. She lowered, ribs catching, thighs trembling, until the bed took her weight. He eased the belt loose, slid the tubing clear so nothing snagged, and guided her back against the pillows.
The breath she let out shook, but relief lived in it. She shifted just enough to see him in the lamplight. "Better."
He smoothed the blanket over her legs, brushed her hair back from her damp temple with his knuckles. "Better," he echoed.
He stayed close as she settled, checking the belt was off and the line free. For a moment it seemed he'd straighten and step back. Instead, he toed off his boots, shrugged out of his jacket, and eased onto the mattress beside her. The bed dipped under his weight, steadying, not jarring.
Her eyes found him, tired but intent. She turned—slow, stubborn—with a breath that caught against the pull in her side. He reached to steady her, but she shook her head, pushing through until she'd curled against him, her cheek at his chest.
He drew her in without hesitation. One arm looped around her back, hand wide and sure against her ribs above the ache; the other smoothed her hair where it clung damp against her temple. He bent, pressing his mouth into her crown, a long exhale sinking into her skin.
"You're home," he murmured, voice rough.
She winced once, then softened, her body finding the line of his like it had been waiting. Her fingers caught in the fabric of his shirt, holding on. "Missed this," she breathed, thready but certain.
He tightened his arm fractionally, jaw against her hair. "Weeks too long," he said. "I'm keeping you in arm's reach this time."
The quiet of the quarters folded in around them—vent hum, the low shift of fabric, her breath syncing to his chest. For the first time since the rescue, the space felt lived in.
They lay in the stillness, her body curved into his, the rise of his chest steady under her cheek. His hand drifted slow up and down her arm, mapping without hurry, fingers brushing over the pale ridges and pink scatter of half-healed scars. She watched him trace them like they weren't damage but lines he meant to memorize. Her gaze slipped lower, to the blanket stretched over her legs, and in her mind she saw what lay beneath—bruises fading, stitched seams, the raw map of survival.
Before the weight of it could pull her further, his fingers slid under her chin and tilted her face back up to him. His eyes caught hers, steady and close. "Don't look at them like that," he said, voice low but certain. "Every mark just means you're still here. I'll take all of them if it means I get you back."
She stared at him, eyes wide and wet, holding herself stiff against the tide. Her breath snagged once, twice, before she could stop it. He bent and pressed his lips to her forehead again, lingering there, his hand cradling her face.
"Shhh," he murmured against her skin. "I've got you. You're safe."
It broke something loose. Her hands fisted in his shirt, and the tears came hot, unspooling faster than she could wipe them. "I was so scared," she gasped, words shaking apart. "I thought—" Her throat caught; she forced it out anyway. "I thought no one was coming. That you'd never find me. That I'd bleed out on that floor, alone in the dark—"
"No," he cut in, fierce but quiet, pulling her tighter against his chest. His hand slid into her hair, steadying her as she shook. "Never. I was already coming. You hear me? Already on my way."
Her sobs racked through her ribs, painful and raw. "I thought it was over. I thought—I was gone."
He hushed her again, his voice breaking now too, but he held the line. "Not gone. You're here, Harper. I've got you. Always."
She pressed her face into him, her tears soaking his shirt, her body trembling with all the fear she hadn't let herself speak. He held her through it, her sobs shaking both of them. His hand never stopped its slow path through her hair, his breath low and steady against her crown. For a long time he said nothing—just stayed, because words felt too small against what she'd carried.
When her breathing began to hitch less, he let out one of his own, rougher than he meant. His cheek pressed to her temple. "I was scared too," he said, voice low, almost hoarse.
She stilled, just enough to hear him.
"When that video came through…" His jaw tightened against her skin. "I didn't know if you were still breathing. And then, seeing you hanging there…" His arms clutched her tighter, trying to squeeze the memory out of his bones. "You wouldn't wake up. And in the truck, when you crashed—" His breath broke, chest shuddering under her cheek. "I thought I was losing you, right there in my hands."
Her eyes blurred fresh, but she tipped her face up, catching his jaw with her hands, pulling him where she could see him. "Brock." Her thumbs traced the hard lines of his cheek, gentle against the stubble. "You didn't let go. Not once. You walked into that room. You cut me down. You kept going when I couldn't."
He shook his head, trying to swallow it back, but she ran her fingers into his hair, holding him steady. "Look at me," she said, fierce through the tremor. His eyes found hers, rimmed red, all the armor stripped off.
"I remember your voice," she whispered. "That's what I held onto. Not them. You. You came."
Her words landed heavy, but she kept her hands on him until his gaze finally came back to hers—still wet at the edges, searching. For a moment the air between them held, thick with everything neither could say. Then she leaned up, closing it, and her mouth found his.
It was soft, almost tentative at first, but the need in it was unmistakable—the kind born of fear survived and distance bridged. The shape of him was familiar, the pressure careful; he kept it gentle where her ribs ached and let her set the pace. His hands slid to frame her face, careful of every healing seam, while hers stayed tangled in his hair. Their breaths came uneven, salt and warmth mixing, until the kiss settled into something steady that felt less like an answer and simply stood as proof.
The kiss eased on a shaky breath. She tucked her face into the curve of his throat, curls damp against his skin, and held there. His arms wrapped around her, close but careful, and she stayed curled into him, listening to the uneven drum of his heart under her ear.
They sat in the hush, the room shrinking down to the vent hum, the rhythm of their breathing, the heat of skin on skin.
"Harper?" His voice was rough when it came, uncertain whether he should break the quiet.
She shifted, lifting her head, eyes searching his.
For a long moment he just looked at her, the words fighting the wall of hesitation he always built. Then his thumb brushed her cheek, tracing the tear tracks there, and his jaw set. "I love you."
It came low, unpolished, dragged straight out of the place he guarded most. Once it was out, it stayed there between them, solid and inescapable.
She stared at him, the silence stretching, and his stomach dropped. His grip on her tightened a fraction; his mouth started to move, reflex kicking in. "I didn't mean to throw that at you now, I just—"
Her hands came up, firm against his face, stopping the words before they could run. She kissed him, soft but certain, her whisper slipping against his lips. "I love you too."
For a second he stopped breathing. The tension that had lived in his shoulders since the video snapped loose; his hands shook where they cupped her jaw. A sound broke out of him—half laugh, half sob—and he leaned into her, kissing her back with a gentleness that carried none of his usual guard, just the raw truth of it. His forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling, and the room settled around them, changed in a way that felt permanent.