Page 94 of Echo: Line
"Better." No hesitation. "Definitely better."
Alex appears in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, wearing tactical pants and nothing else. The scar tissue across his shoulder catches the overhead light—the round he took inSyria that started all of this. My eyes trace the line of it, then the newer marks. The knife wound from the warehouse. The burn from the chemical facility. A map of violence written on skin.
He catches me looking. "Morning."
"Hey." I pour him coffee, add the sugar he pretends he doesn't want. "Sleep okay?"
"Like the dead." He takes the mug, his fingers brushing mine deliberately. "You?"
"Good."
Willa's watching us with poorly concealed amusement. "I'm going to check on Khalid. You two have fun being disgustingly domestic."
She leaves. Alex moves into the space she vacated, close enough that I can feel his warmth.
"I have something for you," he says. "Later. After training. Just us."
"Yeah. What?"
"I'll meet you there." He drains the coffee in three swallows, kisses my forehead, and leaves before I can ask more questions.
The firing range sits in the deepest section of Echo Base, reinforced concrete and sound dampening that makes gunfire sound like distant thunder. I'm running through tactical drills—failure-to-stop, multiple targets, movement under fire—when Alex arrives carrying his maintenance kit.
He settles onto a bench behind the firing line, doesn't interrupt, just watches while I work. His presence is steady, grounding, familiar in a way that still surprises me sometimes. Half a year and I'm still not used to having someone who just... stays.
I finish the drill, clear my weapon, and join him on the bench.
"What's on your mind?" I ask.
He's cleaning his rifle with methodical precision—disassemble, inspect, reassemble. The movements are automatic, muscle memory built over years.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks instead of answering.
I watch him work the bolt assembly. "How different my life is now."
"Good different or bad different?"
"Good." I lean into him slightly, shoulder to shoulder. "Half a year ago, I was hunting terrorists. Now I work with them. Officially. And I've never been happier."
He pauses mid-movement. "You mean that?"
"Yeah." I lean into him slightly, shoulder to shoulder. "I like this. Us. Here. Building something that matters."
"Even though it's dangerous?"
"Especially because it's dangerous." I meet his eyes. "The FBI was safe. Rules, procedures, bureaucracy. This? This is real. Every day we make a difference. Save people who need saving. Fight the ones who deserve fighting."
"Doesn't scare you?"
"Terrifies me." My hand finds his. "But I'd rather be terrified and alive than safe and dying slowly behind a desk."
He studies me for a long moment. Then he nods, returns to cleaning his rifle. "Good. That's good."
The day unfolds like most do—structured chaos with purpose behind it. Training session where Sarah runs me through close-quarters combat. I'm getting good at it, nowhere near operator level but competent enough to survive if things go sideways. Lunch with the team where Stryker tells increasingly improbable stories about missions I'm pretty sure are mostly fiction. Afternoon spent in my workspace reviewing evidence on Committee financial networks Tommy uncovered.
The work is satisfying in ways FBI casework never was. No red tape, no politics, no bureaucrats second-guessing everydecision. Just clear objectives and the freedom to pursue them however necessary.
By evening, I'm back in our quarters, showered and changed, trying to figure out why Alex has been acting strange all day. He arrives at 1900, also freshly cleaned up, wearing the shirt I bought him last month. He never wears that shirt unless something's important.
