But it's real.
And real is enough.
We stay like that for hours. Talking and kissing and falling asleep tangled together on Emma Richardson's couch. He tells me about the psych eval (passed, barely), about CJ's conditions (annoying but fair), and about the past six months of trying to convince himself he could wait.
I tell him about Portland. About Emma Richardson. About working at a coffee shop and living a life that doesn't fit. About wearing Sophia’s dog tags every single day like a countdown.
When I wake up, it's dark outside, and Colt is still here, still solid, still real. His arms are around me, and I can feel his breath against my hair, and for the first time in six months, I feel like I can breathe properly.
"You're still here," I whisper.
"Told you. As long as you'll let me stay."
"How is this going to work? You're in California. I'm here. The program says eighteen more months?—"
"We'll figure it out." His arms tighten. "I'm very good at solving problems. And this? This is a problem worth solving."
I turn in his arms to face him. "CJ is going to kill you if he finds out."
"CJ knows."
I blink. "What?"
"He gave me your location. After the psych eval. After I passed all his tests." Colt stops and takes in a deep breath, looks at me like I’m his entire world. "He said some people are worth breaking the rules for. That I should stop punishing myself and go get what I want."
Tears blur my vision. "CJ is a romantic."
"CJ is a strategic pain in the ass who wants his best operator back in fighting shape."
"So he told you where I was."
"Something like that."
I touch the dog tags around my neck. "You're really here. For me. Even though it's complicated and messy and?—"
"Yeah, Magnolia. I'm really here." He pulls me closer. "Because six months ago, I made you a promise. Two years, I said. But I'm realizing now that was bullshit. I was always going to come. Whether it was six months or six days. I was always going to find you."
"Why?"
"Because you made me feel something real. First time in five years. Because you're strong, fierce. Because—" He stops, swallows. "Because choosing you feels like choosing right for once. And I'm done choosing wrong."
The tears come again, but this time they're good tears. Relief tears. Six months of holding myself together finally allowed to crack apart because someone's here to catch the pieces.
"Stay," I tell him. "However long you can. Just—stay."
"Okay."
"And then come back. When you have to leave. Come back."
"Okay."
"And in eighteen months when this is over?—"
"I'll be right here. Waiting. Ready." His hand cupsmy face. "Whatever comes next, we figure it out together. No more counting down days alone. No more pretending we can wait when we can't. We do this together."
Together.
The word settles into my chest like a promise.
