Chapter 392
[ 512 words ]
Chapter 392:
He reached out and took her hand, the one not holding a saline wipe. His thumb stroked the back of her knuckles. “The mission is over,” he said, his voice a low, reassuring rumble. “I have leave before my next deployment. I’m not going anywhere.”
The relief that washed over her was so profound it made her feel lightheaded. He was staying. He was here.
A playful glint entered her eyes. As she applied the antiseptic, she pressed down just a little harder than necessary.
He hissed in a sharp breath. “Trying to murder your husband, Nurse Thompson?” he asked, but he was smiling.
She smiled back. “The thought crossed my mind.”
They looked at each other, and the shared laughter was a balm on their raw, frayed nerves.
When she finished, his chest was covered with a clean, white dressing, expertly applied. The exhaustion of the last forty-eight hours finally crashed down on both of them.
𝖠𝗱𝖽𝗶cti𝘷е 𝗇о𝘃𝗲𝘭𝘴 on g𝖺𝗹𝗻o𝗏е𝗹𝘀.𝗰𝗈𝗺
Jarrod didn’t leave. He pulled the plush visitor’s armchair close to her bed, stretched out his long legs, and closed his eyes. He was a sentinel, standing guard even in his sleep. Caroline watched him until her own eyelids grew heavy, and for the first time in a long time, she slept without fear.
The next morning, they woke to the gentle sunlight streaming through the window. They decided to visit her father together. Caroline changed into a clean set of scrubs Brenna had brought for her, while Jarrod simply put his dusty, blood-stained uniform shirt back on. It was a statement. He was a soldier, and this was his battle now.
They walked out of the VIP room holding hands. The gesture was natural, easy, and utterly public. It was a declaration.
On their way to the fifth-floor ward, they saw Dr. Finchley hurrying toward them, his face arranged in an expression of deep, sycophantic concern.
“Colonel Romero, good morning,” he said, his eyes flicking nervously between Jarrod and Caroline. “And Miss Thompson. I do hope you’re feeling better.”
Jarrod stopped. He looked down at Caroline, then back at Finchley. He tightened his grip on her hand, pulling her a half-step closer, tucking her securely against his side. The gesture was subtle, but unmistakably possessive.
He then lifted his gaze to meet Finchley’s, his expression flat and unreadable. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, calm, and carried the chilling finality of a death sentence.
“It’s Mrs. Romero.”
Dr. Finchley’s practiced smile wavered, his eyes darting to Jarrod as if searching for a sign of a joke. He had long been aware of their marriage, but he had mistakenly assumed that, professionally, they preferred to maintain the facade of their previous working dynamic for the sake of the hospital’s rigid hierarchy.
“Of course, Mrs. Romero,” Finchley stammered, his color shifting from pink to a sickly, mottled grey as he realized the danger of his earlier laxity. “Please, accept my deepest apologies. I… I simply meant to observe the protocol you both previously established.”
Caroline, too, was stunned. She hadn’t expected him to be so blunt, so public. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise.
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