Page 47 of Echo: Line
"Why?" She meets my eyes without flinching. "Because I'm FBI? Because we're in danger? Or because you felt it too?"
The truth sits in my throat like broken glass. "All of the above."
"Which one scares you most?"
Profiler question. Aimed right at the defenses I've spent eight years building. She's not playing fair.
"That you'll realize what you signed up for," I say. "What being with someone like me means. And you'll run."
"I'm not some civilian you need to protect from yourself, Alex. I made my call back in that forest. I'm not changing my mind now."
"You don't know what you're choosing."
"Then tell me."
The demand hangs between us. Direct. Uncompromising. The same tone she probably used in interrogation rooms when suspects tried to hide behind silence.
I should walk away. Should bandage her wound and check our perimeter and plan our next move. Should do anything except what I'm about to do.
Instead, I pull the other chair closer. Sit down so we're eye level. No tactical advantage. No height differential. Just two people in an abandoned cabin being more honest than either of us probably wants.
"I have nightmares," I start. Might as well lay it all out. "Not every night, but often enough. Some nights I wake up thinking I'm still in that compound, surrounded by bodies I put down. Or I'm at the checkpoint, watching that kid fall. Or I'm in interrogation rooms listening to Committee operators describe how they'll kill people I care about."
She listens without interrupting. Maybe she understands that some things need to be said straight through before the courage fails.
"When it's bad, I don't sleep for days. Just patrol the perimeter or train until exhaustion shuts down my brain. Kane calls it operational tempo management. I call it survival." I flex my fingers. "The kills haunt me, but not the way you'd think. Not guilt over pulling the trigger. Guilt over how easy it got. How routine. How I can put rounds in center mass and feel nothing except mission completion."
"That's not the same as being broken," she says.
"Isn't it? I'm thirty-two years old and I've spent the last decade learning how to kill people efficiently. That's my primary skill set. Not building things or creating value or contributing to society. Just eliminating threats." The words come faster now, pressure building. "I don't know how to have normal relationships. Don't know how to sit at a dinner table withoutplanning exit routes. Don't know how to look at strangers without cataloging potential weapons. That's what you're signing up for if you stay. Someone who's broken in ways you can't fix."
"I'm not trying to fix you."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
"Understand you." She shifts forward. The movement pulls at her stitches but she doesn't flinch. "You're using trauma as armor, Alex. Pushing me away before I can see you're scared of letting me in."
The profile hits dead center. She's FBI. She's trained for this.
"Maybe," I admit. "Or maybe I'm being realistic. People around me tend to die, Delaney. My entire Delta team in Syria. Operators who trusted me in the field. Anyone who gets close becomes a target."
"What are you scared of, Alex?"
The question again. Different angle, same target.
Long silence. Too long. Long enough that she probably thinks I won't answer.
"That you'll see who I really am and run," I finally say. "Or worse—that you won't run, and I'll get you killed. That I'll make the wrong tactical call and you'll pay for it."
The words hang in the stale air. Raw. Unfiltered. More honesty than I've given anyone except maybe Tommy after too much whiskey and not enough sleep.
She moves closer. Deliberate. Each inch calculated. When she speaks, her voice is steady. Sure.
"I'm not running. And I'm not dying. You want to keep me alive? Then stop treating me like a liability and start treating me like a partner."
"Delaney—"
"Stop." Her breath warms my face. "Stop pushing me away. I see you, Alex. The man, not just the operator. And I'm not afraid."
