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“You need to be⁠—”

“I need you to get out. I’ll still be half-dead when you come back in an hour,” I snap, and he glares at me before leaving.

“You’re crabby post-coma,” Tracker says. The look I give him has him raising his hands in surrender. “Okay, tell me what you remember. I’ll fill in the gaps.”

A memory skims by me. A pool. A flash of blonde hair.

A promise.

“Don’t leave me.”

Sunday.

I pull in a sharp breath, but before I can say her name, the door to my room opens.

“They don’t have sprinkles still, despite my repeated requests in the suggestion box. I’m thinking we go big and try to speak to the chief of medicine—” Sunday pauses in the doorway.

The days rush back to me. Seeing her by the pool, the kiss that brought me back to life, a proposal. My Sunday. My fucking girl. She’s in a hoody and jeans, her hair tied into a high pony, glasses balanced on her nose. The two coffees she’s holding slip from her hands. “Oh—” She lets out a sob and rushes over to me.

I think I’m smiling, and she climbs onto the bed, kissing me. Sunday kisses me. Because she’s alive, and so am I.

“You’re okay,” I whisper, pulling her to me.

She nods tearfully, her smile wide. “I am.”

“This badass took a bullet in the neck,” Tracker says. “But she was up and about in a month demanding to see you.”

“A month?” I look at him. “How long have I been out?”

“Eleven weeks,” Sunday says, kissing my cheek. “Eleven long fucking weeks.”

Shit. Almost three months of my life gone. How is that even possible?

“What happened?” I ask.

Tracker kicks his feet up on the bed and interlocks his fingers behind his head. “Bit of a lack of communication. You called us in, Darcy called in the feds, it was a royal fucking mess. The agent saw you holding a gun, took fire and others followed suit. It’s a miracle no one died.”

That is a mess. Especially considering my team aren’t exactly on the straight and narrow. We’re probably still tangling the cops up in red tape to prevent anyone digging into who we are and what we do.

“Is Darcy okay?” I ask, and Sunday nods. “She was really working for the feds?”

She settles in my lap, seemingly unbothered by being this close with Tracker nearby. “Yeah. She told me she was kidnapped when she was fourteen and eventually sold to the Maddoxes. A few years ago, she got picked up by the FBI during a traffic stop. Once they realized who she was, they offered to take her home, but she said she’d rather stay where she was and help take down the Maddox family.”

Fuck. I was totally wrong about her. I had an ally this entire time and neither of us knew. “But she killed people.”

“Did she?” Sunday asks innocently. “I didn’t see her exhibit any violent tendencies at all. And I would never, ever lie to law enforcement.”

I grin. Those lies are fine by me if it keeps Darcy out of trouble. If it wasn’t for her, we’d both be dead. “And Michael?”

“Singing like a canary,” Tracker says. “I let the feds take the credit for him. They were so excited. It was adorable.”

Tracker will likely have enjoyed making it very clear to the feds that they owe him. I wish I could’ve been there for that conversation.

None of this feels real. The truth about Darcy, Michael’s arrest. I lift my chin, my gaze drifting across Sunday’s face. She’s playing with the collar of my hospital gown, expression distant. When I cup her cheek, she meets my eyes, leaning into my touch.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask.

She nods. “More than okay.”