I arch into him, hands fisting in his hair, breathing his name against skin that tastes like salt and coffee and something uniquely him. His good hand works my jeans open while I tug at his belt, both of us fumbling and laughing and desperate.
He enters me slowly, stretching me, filling me, his forehead pressed against mine. Our breathing synchronizes, ragged and harsh in the quiet hangar. I wrap my legs tighter around him, changing the angle, pulling him deeper. The sound he makes against my neck is half groan, half curse.
"Cara." My name on his lips, reverent and wrecked.
We move together, finding the rhythm we've learned these past weeks. His hand braces against the workbench for leverage while mine grips his good shoulder, feeling the flex of muscle under skin. The injured one I'm careful of, even now, even as pleasure builds and thought narrows to this - the slide of him inside me, the scrape of denim against my thighs, the metal edge of the workbench cool against my spine.
He shifts, changing the depth, the friction, and pleasure spikes sharp enough to make me cry out. My nails dig into his shoulder. He does it again, deliberate, watching my face with that focused intensity that makes me feel seen and wanted and known.
The orgasm builds at the base of my spine, radiating outward in waves that make my thighs shake. When it hits I arch hard against him, his name torn from my throat. He drives into me harder, chasing his own release, and I feel the moment he breaks - the shudder that runs through him, the way he buries his face against my neck, breathing hard and saying my name like a prayer.
We stay tangled together afterward, his weight pins me to the workbench. The metal digs into my back. I don't care. Don't want to move. Don't want this moment to end.
"That was some celebration," I say eventually.
He pulls back enough to look at me, brushing hair from my face with gentle fingers. "You okay?"
"More than okay." I kiss him softly. "Though I think we're going to need to invest in a proper bed and a better heater if this becomes a regular thing."
"Already have a proper bed. In the cabin." His smile is pure mischief. "But the workbench has its advantages."
"Such as?"
"Spontaneity. Excellent structural support. Easy cleanup."
I laugh and push at his chest. "You're ridiculous."
I love his terrible jokes and his methodical approach to everything and the way he looks at me like I'm the best thing that ever happened to him. I love waking up beside him in a town small enough to walk across in fifteen minutes, knowing that people here have accepted me as one of their own. I love the work I'm doing with the task force, coordinating investigations across Alaska, helping dismantle the networks that destroyed careers and lives. The work isn't finished - not even close.
The evidence I transmitted exposed Montrose and his immediate circle. Eight arrests so far, with more coming as prosecutors build their cases. The financial records revealed a trafficking operation spanning three states, moving women and contraband with precision that suggested serious organization. But the question of who was paying Montrose, who stood at the top of the pyramid, remains unanswered.
His offshore account showed regular deposits totaling millions over five years. Money flowing from shell corporations registered in countries with no extradition treaties and banking secrecy laws that made tracking nearly impossible. Someonewith serious power and resources built this empire and used Montrose as their enforcement arm. Someone who's still out there, probably already rebuilding what we destroyed.
A thread for the task force to pull. A thread I'll help them follow.
But that's tomorrow's work. Today is about celebration and flight and the man helping me down from the workbench.
We clean up and redress, stealing kisses between tucking in shirts and finding lost socks. The hangar feels warmer than it did before, or maybe that's just me. Finn opens the hangar doors, revealing the runway beyond, then goes through pre-flight checks with the focused attention of someone performing a ritual that matters as much as the flying itself.
"Ready?" he asks, offering his hand to help me into the passenger seat.
"Ready."
The cockpit is small but comfortable, instruments gleaming, everything precisely organized. Finn settles into the pilot's seat with visible relief, like this is where he belongs and he's finally coming home after years away. He goes through his checklist methodically, checking controls, testing systems, running through procedures drilled into muscle memory.
The engine catches with a roar that vibrates through the frame. Finn taxis to the runway with steady hands, then pauses at the threshold.
"Last chance to back out," he says over the headset.
"Not a chance."
His grin is pure joy. Then we're accelerating down the runway, snow blurring past the windows, the plane lifting with smooth grace into air so clear it feels like we could see forever.
Alaska spreads below us in endless white and green. Talon Mountain rises to the north, peaks catching sunlight and throwing it back in diamond brilliance. Forest stretches in alldirections, broken only by frozen lakes and the occasional road cutting through wilderness. From up here, civilization looks small and temporary, a brief interruption in landscape that existed long before humans arrived and will remain long after we're gone.
I watch Finn at the controls, face transformed by peace so complete it makes my throat tight. This is what the crash took from him. Not just the ability to fly but the sense of purpose that came with it. The feeling of competence and control and belonging to something bigger than ground-bound existence.
"Beautiful," I say into the headset.
