Page 52 of Legacy's Destiny

Deacon smirked, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I’d fight you for it.”

Before she could retort, the doctor returned, flipping through her chart and launching into another discussion with Deacon. This time, Deacon paused often, asking for clarification. The doctor slowed his speech and eventually nodded with understanding. He finished with a smile and a wink at Echo before leaving the room.

Deacon turned to her and extended his hand. “You’ve been cleared. There are some microfractures from the CPR, and they might bother you occasionally, but they’ll heal completely.”

Echo let out a relieved breath as she took his hand. “Well, that’s good news.” She smirked. “Now, does this mean I’m officially done with doctors for a while?”

Deacon grinned. “We’ll see. There’s no sign of infection in your body, and your lungs look clear,” Deacon explained as they walked toward the exit. “The doctor said to follow up with a mental health check-up when we get back to the States.”

She stopped in her tracks, tilting her head up to look at him with narrowed eyes. “Mental health?”

“When I explained that you’d drowned, had CPR, and were brought back to life, he indicated that mental health access should be routine. Which,” Deacon added, leveling a steady gazeat her, “I agree with. And no,” he said preemptively, “I didn’t tell him about your night terrors.”

Echo tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling in exasperation. “They’re getting better,” she muttered defensively.

“You shouldn’t have them at all,” Deacon countered smoothly, his tone calm but unyielding. “It was a traumatic experience.”

She turned her gaze back to him, her brows knitting together. “Which is why you think I need to talk to someone.”

“That’s exactly why. Besides, I know a guy.” His voice softened, but his expression remained resolute.

Echo narrowed her eyes and sighed. “I’m not going to win this argument, am I?”

“Not if you don’t want me to tell the CIA that you’re having night terrors.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He cocked an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “Unless you promise me you’ll see someone? I absolutely would.”

Her groan was laced with resignation. “You know a guy, huh?” She folded her arms, narrowing her gaze. “That sounds like some Mafia thing.”

Deacon tilted his head and gave her a slow shrug, his smile turning mischievous. “Maybe. Just don’t eat the cannoli.”

The absurdity of the statement had her bursting into laughter. “Fine,” she conceded, shaking her head. “I’ll see somebody. But it might not be your guy.” She added a mock New York accent to her reply, and his deep chuckle filled the space between them.

He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “That’s all I needed to hear. Let’s get back to the hotel.”

“Are we traveling to Thailand to meet with Flanagan?” she asked as they stepped out of the room.

“No,” Deacon replied. “My boss said the director will be coming here, and he’ll arrive tomorrow.”

They walked toward the nurses’ station, where Deacon exchanged a few words with the nurse behind the counter. She handed him a clipboard, and Deacon pointed to a spot where Echo needed to sign. She scrawled her name on the document, not understanding a single word on the page.

“Talk about trust,” she quipped, glancing up at him. “I could’ve just sold my firstborn.”

Deacon chuckled, his voice warm. “I wouldn’t let that happen. You’re just signing your release and acknowledging the conditions of discharge.”

“Oh, well, if that’s all.” She grinned, laughing as they headed out of the hospital.

Deacon flagged down a taxi, and they climbed into the backseat of the compact vehicle. The space was cramped, but Echo hardly noticed. She was too busy marveling at the city around her. The streets were a sensory overload of noise, people, and vibrant chaos. After over two weeks in the jungle, the sheer volume of humanity pressing into the streets of Pleiku, South Vietnam, was almost overwhelming. Motorbikes weaved through traffic recklessly while street vendors called out in a language she didn’t understand. The tang of spices and smoke from food carts mingled with the acrid scent of exhaust.

She leaned back into the seat, letting it all wash over her. “This is … a lot,” she said, glancing sideways at Deacon.

He smirked. “A bit different from the jungle, huh?”

“A bit,” she echoed dryly, her lips twitching into a smile as she watched a family of four precariously balanced on a single motorbike zip past their taxi.

Deacon took her hand, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles. The simple gesture grounded her amid the swirl of the bustling city. She squeezed his hand in return, her lips curvinginto a quiet smile. Somehow, among the chaos, she found peace sitting beside him.

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