Page 136 of Surfer's Paradise

“Noted.”

Dom gave him one last nod, then turned for the door.

The room fell into silence.

And for the first time in his whole goddamn life—

Isaac had nothing to do but think.

* * * * *

By day four, Isaac was losing his goddamn mind.

He wasn’t built for sitting still.

Never had been.

The first two days in the hospital were fine. Not good, but fine. He’d been stuck in a hospital bed, doped up, stitched up, poked and prodded, told a hundred times that he should’ve been more careful. That he should take it easy. That he couldn’t train, dive, or deploy.

He tuned all that shit out.

The worst part was that he’d had too much time to think.

Then, they let him go.

And by the time Thursday rolled around, he was home, alone, and absolutely fucking feral with boredom.

He tried to sleep. He was tired, but his brain wouldn’t shut off.

He tried to watch movies. He got halfway through three of them before turning them off, unable to focus on anything for more than ten minutes.

He tried to eat. He made himself a solid meal—chicken, rice, some greens, protein-heavy, like his body was still in work mode. But halfway through, he realized he wasn’t hungry. Notreally. He’d lost track of time, lost track of the day, lost track of what the fuck he was even doing.

The house was too quiet.

His phone was too silent.

And it was driving him insane.

Isaac had never understood boredom before. His life was always motion, momentum, pushing forward, no time to stop. There was always a mission, training, adrenaline, sex, something to burn through the restless energy that lived under his skin.

But now?

Now, he was stuck.

His ribs were still tender as hell. The bruising across his torso was fucking ugly, deep and dark, a nasty reminder every time he moved wrong.

But he could move.

And he needed to move.

He checked his phone again, scrolling through dry texts, nothing interesting.

No messages from Rosie.

Nothing.

She knew.

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