Page 91 of Zorro

God, he was good at this. Not just the words, but the weight behind them. The steadiness. The earnestness. There was no ego in his voice, no need to prove anything. Just quiet, devastating truth.

“She’s also real handy with a needle and thread,” he added, grinning toward her. “I’ve been on the receiving end of that bedside manner. Crisp. Efficient. Some might say cold-blooded.”

Everly narrowed her eyes. “You always say it’s a flesh wound in that cocky tone. I wanted to remind you, it wasn’t.”

“Apparently, I needed several lessons.”

“The cockier they are, the harder they?—”

“Get taken down a few notches. I couldn’t have had a better teacher.”

The audience was laughing now. The tension was gone, replaced with something warmer. More human.

Everly leaned toward her own mic, arching a brow.

“Well,” she said smoothly, “medics improvise, and so do I. Especially when I have to compensate for a certain patient who insists on offering surgical advice mid-hemorrhage.”

Zorro made a wounded sound. “Just consulting with a professional.”

“You told me my suturing lacked dramatic flair.”

“Constructive feedback. Although, some of me rubbed off a little. That tiny happy face you sutured into the stitches wasn’t protocol.”

She covered the mic, as people murmured, whispering. “I never stitched a happy face for anyone else.” She shook her head, hiding a reluctant smile. She remembered the remark, and the moment. She hadn’t been sure he’d noticed. Of course he had. She uncovered the mic, his eyes sparkling. “You have a sassy mouth, Petty Officer.”

He winked. “Yet you stitched it shut with remarkable restraint.”

Another round of laughter. But beneath it, under the table, she felt it. The soft slide of his fingers against her wrist. Slow. Intentional. Just a brush at first…then a gentle curl, like he was anchoring her, building a connection.

Everly swallowed, pulse tripping, eyes still fixed on the room in front of her, but her whole body had gone warm. A little undone. There it was again, that damn grin he wore like a second skin. Sassy. Shameless. He had meant for it to be hers, and now she could claim it.

She turned back to the audience, voice steady. “To answer the second half of the question,” she said, forcing her brain to work, “medics like Petty Officer Martinez operate under pressure that most of us only simulate. Their tools are limited. Their timelines, brutal. Yet they routinely do what should be impossible.”

She looked at him then, their knees brushing, his gaze quiet now. Serious.

“What sets them apart isn’t just skill. It’s judgment. Gut-level clarity. When to act. When to fight. When to stop the bleeding.”

Her foot found his under the table. Brushed. Paused. Stayed.

“I would trust that judgment with my life,” she said.

There was a long moment of stillness.

Zorro didn’t speak. Didn’t smile.

He just reached under the table and squeezed her hand once. Quiet. Fierce.

The panel moved on. Another question. Another speaker. But Everly barely heard it.

While her body had surrendered last night…

…her heart?

It had already gone quiet into his hands. No resistance. No warning.

This time, there was no getting it back.

She knew she’d fallen. Knew she was in love with him.

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