Page 73 of Undercover Hearts

The timeline struck Michelle with unexpected force. Throughout her career, her physical capabilities had been a constant she relied upon. The thought of months of limitation and dependence created a cold knot in her stomach.

"That's not—" she began, but Dr. Hassan cut her off with gentle firmness.

"That's the reality, Captain. Your body needs time to heal, and rushing the process will only extend the timeline." Her expression softened slightly. "I understand the drive to return to normalcy, but recovery requires patience."

Michelle didn't argue further, though the frustration must have shown on her face. Dr. Hassan made a few notes in the chart, adjusted Michelle's medication, and promised to return later.

As the door closed behind the doctor, silence settled between Michelle and Jenna. The reality of recovery stretched before them, along with all the conversations they'd deferred until after the operation concluded. Now that moment had arrived, and Michelle found herself uncharacteristically uncertain where to begin.

"Chief Marten wants to debrief when you're up to it," Jenna said finally, offering a neutral topic that bridged their professional and personal worlds. "No rush. She said the evidence is solid regardless."

Michelle nodded, grateful for the conversation opening. "Thank you. For staying. For..." She gestured vaguely with her uninjured arm, encompassing everything from the immediate life-saving pressure on the cliffside to the days at her bedside.

Jenna's expression softened, the professional mask slipping to reveal something more vulnerable. "I wasn't going anywhere," she said simply.

The quiet certainty in those words created a warmth in Michelle's chest that expanded outward, wrapping around the cold knot of fear her injury had created. The operation had concluded. Their cover identities were no longer needed. Yet Jenna remained—not out of duty or obligation, but by choice.

What that meant beyond this moment remained unclear, clouded by medication and physical pain and the professional complications still to be navigated. But watching Jenna settle back into the chair beside her bed, Michelle found herself thinking that perhaps some conversations didn't require words to begin.

They had survived. Justice would be served. Everything else could unfold in its own time.

"You need to push harder," the physical therapist instructed, her professional encouragement doing nothing to soothe Michelle's mounting frustration.

One week after regaining consciousness, Michelle found herself in Phoenix Ridge General's rehabilitation facility, struggling to squeeze a rubber ball with her weakened left hand. What should have been simple had become humiliating as her fingers barely managed to apply pressure.

"Iampushing," she replied, jaw clenched against both pain and frustration.

The therapist—Dana Trevino, according to her name badge—maintained her neutral pleasantness. "The nerve pathways are rebuilding. Progress will be incremental."

From the corner of the room, Jenna watched quietly. She'd been a constant presence during Michelle's recovery, stepping out only when doctors required privacy. Her steadiness should have been comforting. Today, it only heightened Michelle's sense of inadequacy.

"That's a good start for today," Dana said after several more failed attempts. "We'll continue tomorrow."

"She's right about the progress," Jenna offered after the therapist departed. "Your grip is definitely stronger than yesterday."

"Damning with faint praise," Michelle muttered, struggling to stand from the therapy bench.

She wavered slightly, equilibrium affected by medication and weakness. Jenna's hand steadied her elbow with casual competence, not commenting on the assistance.

"I've got it," Michelle snapped, the words sharper than intended.

Jenna's hand withdrew immediately, but her expression revealed no offense taken. "Of course."

The simple acceptance punctured Michelle's anger, leaving behind deflated frustration tinged with shame. Jenna didn't deserve her irritation. She'd been unfailingly supportive through the worst of the recovery, sleeping in that uncomfortable hospital chair, handling the necessary debriefing when Michelle had been too medicated to participate.

"I'm sorry," Michelle said quietly as they moved toward her hospital room. "I'm not good at this."

"Being injured?" Jenna asked, walking beside the wheelchair rather than pushing it—another small courtesy Michelle hadn't requested but desperately appreciated.

"Being dependent," Michelle clarified. "I've never..." She trailed off, finding the admission surprisingly difficult.

"Never needed help before?" Jenna finished, her tone matter-of-fact rather than judging.

They reached the hospital room, where a nurse helped Michelle back into bed despite her protests. When they were alone again, Jenna settled in what had become her customary chair.

"When I was twenty-six," Michelle said after a moment, "I was in a car accident. Broke three ribs and fractured my wrist during a pursuit. I refused the department's offer of assistance. Managed everything myself, returned to duty two weeks earlier than medical clearance recommended."

"Of course you did," Jenna replied with a small smile that held understanding rather than mockery.