"You'll never see me again."
"That's not true." He pulls something from his pocket. Two cards. "This one—" He hands me the first card, white with printed text. "—is Guardian HRS official emergency line. Twenty-four-seven response. Someone will always answer. They're good. They'll help. I may, or may not, have told CJ he should hire you."
I take it, feel the weight of professional support. Of an organization that saves people.
"And this one—" He hands me the second card. Blank except for a handwritten phone number. "—is not official. Not Guardian HRS. Just me."
I stare at the number. "Colt?—"
"You call that number, I come. No matter where you are. No matter what I'm doing. No matter how long it's been." His eyes are intense, absolute. "I come. That's my promise."
"You can't promise that. You don't know where they're sending me. You don't know if you'll even have this number in two years?—"
"I'll have it. And I'll answer." He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. "Two years. When your protection detail ends, when you're free—call that number."
"What if I can't? What if something happens and?—"
"Then I'll find you." His hand tightens on mine. "I'm very good at finding people who don't want to be found. And you? You're someone I'm never going to stop looking for."
The tags are warm in my palm from his body heat. Five years of him wearing them. Five years of guilt and penance and choosing wrong.
And now he's giving them to me.
"What about Sofia?" My voice cracks. "What about remembering her?"
"I'll remember her by making better choices. By choosing people over protocol. By—" He stops, swallows hard. "By choosing you."
A black sedan pulls up. Federal plates. Witness protection coordinator.
Our time is up.
Colt stands, pulls me to my feet. For a moment, we just stand there, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, smell the gunpowder and desert dust that clings to us both.
"This isn't goodbye," he says quietly.
"Feels like goodbye."
"It's a pause. Two years. Then you call that number."
"What if you've moved on by then? Found someone else? Decided I was just?—"
He kisses me. Hard and fast and absolute. When he pulls back, his eyes are fierce. "I spent five years trying to move on from guilt. I'm not spending two years moving on from you."
The coordinator is approaching, professional and efficient. "Ms. Brooks? We need to go."
I look at Colt one more time, memorizing him. The stubble on his jaw. The shadows under his eyes. The way he's looking at me like I'm something precious instead of a product to be sold.
"Two years," I say. "Deal."
"Two years," he confirms.
I slip the dog tags over my head. They settle against my chest, still warm, carrying the weight of his guilt and his choice and his promise.
Then I turn and walk toward the sedan before I can change my mind.
The coordinator opens the door, and I slide into the back seat. Through the window I can see Colt standing there, hands in his pockets, watching me leave.
CJ approaches him, says something I can't hear. Colt responds without looking away from me.
