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Zorro was up and gone by four forty-five, slipping from the room silently.

Muster. PT. Duty. Everly barely stirred when he leaned in and brushed a kiss to her temple, but her body registered his absence like a tide pulling back from shore.

There it was again, that little heart stutter, and new memories to overlay the old ones where Rob never kissed her goodbye.

She lay there a few minutes longer, tangled in sheets that still smelled like him, salt and cedar, sun-warmed skin, a hint of hotel soap, and tried to pretend her pulse hadn’t spiked when the door clicked softly shut.

She had three panels today, and she needed to touch base with Madeline. She had some ideas for changes to Rob’s tribute, necessary changes that felt more honest, more hers . They had been tugging at her all morning, rising with the clarity that followed chaos.

She slipped out of bed quietly, feet brushing the cool tile, and was caught again, visually, emotionally, by that tiny square of khaki fabric draped over the arm of the chair.

The infamous shorts. His UDT relic . God, they were ridiculous . Cut high, built for speed not modesty, and cocky as hell. But they were Zorro in fabric form. A little bit of humor. Decent only in theory.

Scandalous in execution, and so damn sassy , it made her smile just looking at them.

Not just because of how they looked, though, yes, the thought of him wearing those things was enough to short-circuit rational thought, but because they were so unapologetically him. Bold. Unfiltered. The kind of man who showed up, owned his skin, and made people laugh in the middle of hell.

They celebrated him. That impossible combination of warrior and flirt, healer and smartass, heat and heart. They reminded her that he wasn’t just someone she’d fallen into bed with. He was someone who made her feel alive again.

Even his shorts had personality.

She was already wondering when she’d get to see him back in them.

She touched them briefly, then walked across the room in Zorro’s T-shirt, fulfilling the mantra on the front: Lift, Run, Shoot.

She laughed softly at the tease from Buck when she’d appeared in front of the team.

She cautiously pulled the door open a crack.

The hallway was empty, but laughter echoed faintly down the corridor, Blitz or Buck, probably both.

Footsteps thudded, and the elevator dinged.

She waited another thirty seconds to be sure they were gone, then bolted.

The dash of shame to her room was the stuff of slapstick espionage, bare legs, guilty conscience, hair in disarray. But once she crossed the threshold, slammed the door, and leaned back against it panting, she laughed.

She felt… good. Immensely good. So damn good she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Not just physically, though, yes, her muscles hummed with the memory of last night’s touch, and her body still pulsed in slow waves of warmth, but deeper. Lighter. As if something in her had finally unknotted itself after years of tight, silent pain.

She closed her eyes for a moment and let it wash through her.

Part of this euphoria was definitely him. She shivered. Okay . A good portion.

But the rest? The morass, the twisted threads of guilt, betrayal, and that deep ache she’d carried like armor, was gone . Whisked away and jettisoned from her like unwanted chaff. Like she’d finally exhaled after holding her breath for years.

Not that this meant everything was solved.

She wasn’t naive. There were still conversations to have. Still grief between them that hadn’t been spoken aloud. If this thing between them, this gravity, this wild, impossible pull, was going to become something real, they’d have to face it.

Together.

Her mouth went dry at the thought.

She’d asked him last night what it would take to build a new world with him.

His answer had blown past every defense she had.

Mateo exceeded her expectations with terrifying ease. Not just with his hands or his mouth but with his heart . With the way he saw her. Challenged her. Invited her to be whole.

That meant…she couldn’t stay the same. Not if she wanted to meet him in that new world.

She would have to reassess everything . Change the way she’d been living. The rules she’d written. The armor she’d worn. If she didn’t, he would. He would walk away before he let himself be loved half-heartedly. She could never hurt Mateo like that.

She’d always prided herself on being a champion of ethics, of control, of resilience in the harshest trauma zones. She’d carved out a name for herself, steadfast, mobile, mission-focused. No attachments. No softness. Just skill. Just service.

There was still that contract in the Philippines. Commitments she couldn’t abandon. Lives she’d pledged to help. But when that was done? Could she give up that wandering, ascetic life? That constant pivot between crisis and distance?

Could she choose him?

Not just as a man in her bed, or a temptation to resist, but as a man to build with .

Even more importantly, could she choose herself ?

The version of her that was tired of being a statue of perfection. The one who no longer wanted to be measured by how much pain she could carry, how little she could want, how tightly she could keep her voice modulated and her hands clean.

She closed her eyes. The betrayal, the guilt, the dull ache of Rob’s final months. It wasn’t just grief anymore. It was grieving what never was . What she never asked for. What she never received. Her silence had been complicit. Her steadiness had become her shield.

But now?

Zorro had blown that open. He didn’t just make her feel desire, he made her feel safe inside it. Wanted. Wild. Worthy. Could she believe she was allowed to want ? To let joy in? To love a man like him not despite what he was, but because of it?

That was the question. The real one.

For the first time…she didn’t feel afraid to ask it.

Could she finally want something… stable ? For him. For her . For them .

The room was a mess. Conference papers were still strewn across the desk.

Her suitcase gaped open on the luggage stand like it had given up trying to contain her chaos.

A tangled bikini lay draped over the armchair from that impromptu pool ambush.

Her bra was clinging to the corner of the minifridge like it had made a break for it and failed.

She stared at the mess and shook her head, a strange giddy warmth pulsing beneath her skin. She moved on autopilot, straightening the bed, folding what could be salvaged. Her hands stilled when she reached for the garment bag she’d nearly forgotten, the second outfit Pippa had insisted she wear.

With careful fingers, she unzipped it.

Gold lace gleamed beneath the lining like captured sunlight.

Her breath caught. The tank was spun from something impossibly delicate, filigreed lace.

Real gold. The kind that shimmered without effort.

The cropped jacket that went over it was white lace, short-sleeved, tailored at the waist but edged in scallops so intricate they looked like frost. The pants… oh, the pants.

Cropped just above the ankle. Tuxedo-style in sharp white with a bold gold stripe running down the outer seam, matching the lace of the tank. The hem was kissed with the same gold.

It was elegant. Modern. Defiant. For a moment, Everly stared at it like it was a challenge.

She hadn’t dared wear anything this beautiful in a long time. Not since before Rob. Not since before she’d traded red dresses for trauma charts and grief. It was easier to be invisible. Safe.

But something inside her shifted now. Soft. Unspoken.

She would show up and she’d shine. Even if it scared the hell out of her.

Her palm pressed to her sternum, trying to keep her damn heart inside her body. Her breath shook. Zorro’s shirt clung to her skin. Warm, rumpled. His scent, a darker heat that made her stomach flutter like it had something to confess.

The slow drag of his fingers tracing the bare curve of her spine. The whisper of his mouth at her ear, all gravel and need. The way his body had moved over hers, muscle to muscle, breath to breath, like he’d been built to ruin her softly.

She swallowed hard. A low ache bloomed in her pelvis, hot and unwanted.

It wasn’t fair. A man shouldn’t be allowed to kiss like that. To leave impressions not just on skin, but inside . She could still feel his weight. The way his hand had spread over her ribcage like a vow. How he’d held her like she was both battlefield and sanctuary.

God.

She pushed off the door and crossed the room, needing movement, distance, anything to break the spell. But even her steps felt different, looser, slower, like her body hadn’t quite remembered it wasn’t still tangled with his.

Zorro. Mateo. Fuckhead. Asshole. Indecent. Charmer. Fool. Whatever name she gave him, it tasted like trouble.

She dragged a hand through her hair and muttered, “Get it together. woman.” But her voice was hoarse. She looked at the clock, and urgency filled her. Get moving and stop courting more trouble.

In the shower enclosure, the water was warm, cascading down her back as steam curled around her shoulders. Everly pressed her palms flat to the tile, letting it wash over her like absolution, and then she felt it.

Him .

A shift in the atmosphere. That subtle, unmistakable hum that only one man carried when he stepped into a room. She didn’t even turn.

“You just let yourself in?” she asked, voice husky with steam and memory.

Behind her, the shower door opened.

“I knocked,” Zorro said, his tone all velvet mischief. “Very politely. Are you sorry you gave me your spare keycard?”

He stepped in, water immediately gliding over the thick muscle of his chest, catching in the indent of his abs. His hair was damp with sweat, jaw shadowed, skin flushed from the run. He reached for the soap with a casual reverence, like it might tell him secrets if he handled it just right.