"You're mine," I say. Not a question. A statement. A claim.
"Yes." She arches beneath me, pulling me deeper. "And you're mine."
"Yes."
We move together, bodies finding rhythm like we've done this a thousand times before. My hips drive forward, slow and deep, and she meets each thrust with a roll of her own. The friction is exquisite. The heat between us builds with every stroke.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, leaving marks I'll feel tomorrow. If we survive tomorrow. The thought makes me thrust harder, needing to claim this moment, claim her, before death has a chance to take it away.
"Harder," she breathes against my neck. "Don't hold back."
I don't. Can't. My control shatters and I drive into her with everything I have. The sleeping bag shifts beneath us. Her legs lock around my waist, heels digging into the small of my back, pulling me impossibly deeper.
The angle changes and she cries out. "There. Right there."
I maintain the position, hitting that spot with every thrust. Her inner muscles flutter around me, tightening. She's close. So close. I can feel it in the way her breathing changes, how her fingers scramble for purchase on my sweat-slicked skin.
My hand slides between us, finds where we're joined. My thumb circles her and she gasps, hips jerking against mine.
"Rhys." My name breaks on her lips. "I'm going to?—"
"Let go. I want to feel you."
Her body goes rigid. Back arching off the floor. Mouth open in a silent scream. Then she shatters, inner muscles clenching around me in waves so tight I can barely move. The sensation drags me over with her. Release crashes through me with the force of everything I've held back for three years. Grief and rage and need all pouring into her as I bury myself deep and let go completely.
We stay locked together, trembling. Her heart pounds against my chest. My face is buried in her neck, breathing in the scent of her sweat and skin. For long moments neither of us moves. Just breathe together in the aftermath, holding onto this moment of being completely, utterly alive.
After, we collapse together on the sleeping bag, hearts still racing. Her head finds my chest. My hand traces lazy patterns on her bare shoulder. The sleeping bag pulled over us both.
"That was different," she says quietly.
"Better?"
"Just different. Last night was about fire. This was about connection."
"I like both."
She laughs softly. "Me too."
We stay like that for long minutes. Not talking. Just being together. Storing up this peace before we walk into chaos.
Finally, reluctantly, we get up. Get dressed. Return to being Sheriff Blackwater and the woman who's become my partner in every sense of the word. But everything between us has changed. We're not just working together anymore. We're bound together in a way that has nothing to do with the case.
Downstairs, the team is gathering. Checking final equipment. Loading weapons. The atmosphere has shifted from planning to execution. Everyone moves with purpose now. With focus.
Zeke looks up when we return. If he suspects what we were doing upstairs, his face doesn't show it. Just hands us each a tactical radio and a night vision monocular.
"Final check," he says. "Comms?"
We test the radios. Clear signal.
"Weapons?"
I chamber a round in my rifle. Check my sidearm. Harlow does the same.
"Medical?"
I pat the trauma kit on my vest. "Good to go."
