"And the conditions?"
"Mandatory therapy. Regular check-ins. No more solo ops." His hand cups my face. "Worth it."
"You shouldn't be here. If they find out?—"
"They won't. I was very careful." He leans his forehead against mine, and I can feel him breathing, feel the solidness of him, feel six months of absence dissolving into right now. "And if they do, we'll figure it out. Together."
"Colt—"
"I'm not asking you to leave the program. I'm not asking you to break the rules or compromise your safety." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "I'm just asking for right now. For this moment. For?—"
I kiss him.
Hard and desperate and six months of missing someone I barely knew but couldn't stop thinking about. He kisses back with the same intensity, same need, and we're standing in the rain in Portland and nothing else matters.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Your apartment. Show me."
We take the stairs again because we can't not be touching, can't maintain the distance the elevator would force. His hand is warm inmine, familiar despite the months apart, and I'm pulling him down the hallway to my door.
Emma Richardson's door.
But when I open it and pull him inside, when he looks around at the sparse furniture and the walls I haven't bothered to decorate because none of this is real?—
"It doesn't look like you," he says quietly.
"That's the point."
"Emma Richardson." He says the name like he's testing it. "That who you are now?"
"On paper."
"But not really."
"No. Not really." I touch the dog tags around my neck. "These don't belong to Emma Richardson."
His eyes follow the movement, and something shifts in his expression. "You're still wearing them."
"Every day. Like you did." I meet his gaze. "Reminder of choices. Of promises. Of?—"
He crosses the distance between us, and then his mouth is on mine again, and we're stumbling backward toward the couch. His jacket hits the floor. My boots get kicked off somewhere. His hands are under my shirt, and I'm pulling at his, needing skin contact, needing proof this is real.
"Six months," I breathe against his mouth.
"Too long."
"Way too long."
We fall onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and need and six months of wanting compressed into right now. His weight settles over me, perfect and familiar. His mouth finds my throat, and I arch into him, hands sliding under his shirt to feel the muscle and warmth and scars I remember from before.
"Colt—"
"Yeah?"
"How long do you have?"
He lifts his head, looks at me with dark eyes. "As long as youneed."
