Elaine is sitting on the edge of the bed, lacing her boots.

  Dig is pretending not to watch her hands move — because she always ties her boots with perfect symmetry, and he always notices.

  She finishes the second lace, pulls it tight, and says:

  “Your world doesn’t end at the nine inches between your boots and a stretcher, Dane.”

  Dig freezes.

  Elaine doesn’t notice.

  She’s in philosophical mode.

  “There’s an entire life outside that space. A good one.

  One where you don’t have to measure your worth by how fast you can carry someone who’s bleeding—”

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  She stops.

  Frowns at his expression.

  “…what?”

  Dig clears his throat.

  Looks away.

  Fails.

  “Nothing.”

  She squints.

  “You’re thinking something.”

  Dig rubs the back of his neck.

  “Well… nine inches is a… very specific measurement.”

  Elaine blinks once.

  Realizes.

  Groans into her hands.

  “Dane Mercer, I swear to God—”

  He tries not to grin.

  Fails completely.

  She smacks his shoulder — not hard, but with military precision.

  “It was a metaphor!

  A professional metaphor!”

  He raises both hands.

  “I know. I know. I just—

  Look, it landed funny.”

  “YOU landed funny.”

  He laughs.

  It’s the first time she’s heard him laugh in weeks.

  And she softens instantly.

  This is the Dig she wants back —

  not the PJ,

  not the rescuer,

  not the broken man with a brace and too much silence…

  …but the actual human she married.

  She sits beside him.

  “Dane,” she says, gentler now.

  “The world is bigger than the job you lost.

  And you get to choose who you are next.”

  Dig swallows.

  He nods, small but real.

  “…Okay.”