"I need—" Everything. Nothing. This. "I need you not to disappear again."
"I'm not disappearing." His hand cups my face. "I'm right here. For as long as you'll let me stay."
"The program?—"
"Doesn't dictate my life. Or yours." He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. "We'll figure it out, Maggie. Together. But right now—right now I just need this."
So I give it to him.
Give us both this moment where Emma Richardson doesn't exist and the cartel is a distant threat and Guardian HRS protocols don't matter. Where it's just Maggie and Colt and six months of missing each other finally ending.
His hands find my face first, cupping it with a tremor that betrays the six months of pent-up longing, fingers shaking as they trace my jaw, my lips, like he's afraid I'll vanish if he doesn't hold on tight enough.
I lean into him, our mouths crashing together in a kiss that's anything but gentle—teeth clashing, nipping at lower lips, his biting down on mine just hard enough to draw a gasp from me, tasting the salt of sweat and the faint copper edge of desperation. It's messy, frantic, tongues tangling as if we could devour the distance that's kept us apart.
"God, Maggie," he growls against my mouth, voice raw, broken with need, and his hands drop to my shirt, yanking at the hem with urgent tugs that bunch the fabric before I help him rip it over my head, my bra following in a tangle of straps.
His shirt's gone in the next heartbeat—buttons straining as we pull in opposite directions, the sound of seams giving way swallowed by our ragged breaths—and then we're skin to skin, chest to chest, the first shock of contact electric after so long without.
His body is furnace-hot against mine, scars rough under my palms as I trace them greedily, mapping the hard planes of muscle that's tensed from months of restraint, the places where old wounds and new tension knot together.
The relief hits like a wave: no more longing through barriers,just this—his heartbeat thundering against my breasts, the faint scratch of his dog tags dragging cool across my ribs, sending shivers racing over my heated skin.
I press closer, nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him down onto me as we stumble toward the bed, clothes shedding in a trail of denim and lace—my jeans kicked off with a hiss of zippers, his belt clattering to the floor.
We're starved, ravenous, hands everywhere at once: mine fisting in his hair to angle his head for deeper kisses that bruise my lips, his sliding down my sides with that lingering shake, gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks, thumbs pressing into the soft give of my thighs as he spreads them, settling between like he belongs there.
Emotional and raw, this isn't just bodies—it's us reclaiming what the separation stole, the trust forged in bullets and betrayal now blooming into something fiercer, his eyes locking on mine between bites and breaths, whispering, "Magnolia," like a vow, then "Maggie," like the truth we've both been chasing.
We move together like we've done this a thousand times instead of just once in an abandoned ranch with violence closing in—slower now amid the frenzy, hips grinding in a rhythm that builds deliberate and deep, but laced with that desperate edge, every thrust a gasp of reconnection.
This is different. No perimeter alarms or incoming threats. Just the rain against the window and the sound of our breathing and the way he says my name—both names, Magnolia and Maggie, like they're equally real, like after all the waiting, we're finally whole.
"I missed you," I hear myself say.
"I know." His mouth finds mine again. "I know because I missed you. Every day. Every call I couldn't make. Every time I wanted to track you down and show up anyway."
"But you waited six months."
"Tried to wait two years. Failed spectacularly." He pulls back enough to look at me. "Does that scare you? That I couldn't stay away?"
"No." I trace his jawline, feel the stubble, the realness ofhim. "It makes me feel less crazy. Because I've been counting days like a sentence, and it's only been six months, and I already?—"
"Already what?"
"Already can't remember why I thought I could wait."
His smile is small but real. "So we're both bad at following rules."
"Apparently."
"Good." He kisses me again, and this time it's not desperate. It's a promise. "I'm done with rules that cost me people I—" He stops.
"People you what?"
"People I care about. People who matter. People who—" He's struggling with the words, and I realize this is hard for him. Admitting feeling. Admitting attachment. "People like you."
It's not a love confession. Too soon for that. Too complicated with witness protection and cartel threats and lives that don't quite fit together yet.
