"You could have died out there." The words come out flat and factual, but emotion bleeds through anyway. "I watched those markers on Tommy's screen converge. Heard the gunfire through the radio. Knew you were wounded and still fighting because that's what you do."
"I came back," I say, reaching for her hand. "That's what matters."
"This time." Rachel's eyes meet mine, and the fear there is raw and unguarded. "What about next time? What about the next one they send? What about all the missions after this one?"
The questions hang between us, demanding answers I don't know how to give. Promises feel dangerous when my work involves walking into situations designed to kill people. Guarantees are lies when the next operation could end badly despite the best planning.
But standing here in her quarters, seeing the terror she's been carrying since I deployed, I can't offer her careful operational distance anymore.
"I couldn't stop thinking about getting back to you," I admit, the words rough and honest. "During the firefight, when those rounds hit my vest and I couldn't breathe, all I could think about was getting back here. Back to you and Lucas. That's what kept me moving."
Rachel's face changes. The fear doesn't disappear but it makes room for something else. Something that looks like hope struggling against better judgment.
"I was terrified," she whispers. "Watching those screens, hearing the gunfire, knowing you were wounded somewhere in the Montana wilderness. I kept thinking about eight years ago, about waking up to that note saying I deserved better. Thinking this time I wouldn't even get a note. Just confirmation that you died protecting us."
The pain in her voice cuts deeper than any physical injury.
I should step back. Should maintain professional distance. Should remember all the reasons why getting emotionally involved complicates operations and creates vulnerabilities.
Instead, I pull her closer.
Rachel comes willingly, her hands finding my shoulders, her body pressing against mine despite the compression wrapping and the evidence of violence written across my frame. She tilts her head back to meet my eyes, and what I see there destroys the last of my resistance.
"I'm not leaving you again," I say, the promise dangerous and necessary. "Whatever happens next, whatever missions come after this one, I'm not walking away."
"You can't promise that." Rachel says, but her hands are already moving, sliding up to frame my face with a tenderness that makes my chest tight.
"I can promise I'll fight like hell to come back. Every single time." My thumb traces the line of her jaw, feeling the rapid pulse beneath her skin. "I can promise you matter more than the careful distance I've been trying to maintain. I can promise that dying out there would have meant leaving behind the only thing that's ever made me want to stay."
Rachel's breath catches. For a heartbeat, we just stand there close enough that I can feel her breathing, see the way her pupils dilate, feel the heat building between us.
Then she kisses me.
Not gentle or questioning. Just claims my mouth with fierce intensity, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me down to her level with desperate need. I respond immediately, one hand sliding to the small of her back, the other cupping the base of her skull, holding her exactly where I want her while I kiss her like I've been dying to since Tucson.
She tastes like relief and want and the same desperate need from before. Her mouth opens under mine and I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers, swallowing the small sound she makes when I pull her tighter against me. The compression wrapping protests the movement but I don't care. Pain is distant and irrelevant compared to the feel of her body against mine, the way she responds to every touch like neither of us can get enough.
I walk her backward until her shoulders hit the wall beside her bunk, my body caging hers, one hand braced beside her head while the other grips her hip hard enough to leave marks. She arches into the touch, her head falling back against the concrete, exposing the long line of her throat.
I take immediate advantage, my mouth finding the pulse point beneath her jaw, tasting salt and skin and the rapid flutter of her heartbeat. She gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt, pulling me closer despite the compression wrapping between us.
"Colton." My name on her lips sounds like prayer and demand. "I need—I can't?—"
"I know," I say against her throat, teeth scraping over delicate skin. "I know what you need."
My hands find the hem of her shirt and pull it over her head in one smooth motion. The fabric catches briefly on her hair before falling away, leaving her in a simple cotton bra that somehow makes her more devastating than any gear ever could. Real and soft and trusting me with this vulnerability despite everything I've put her through.
"You're beautiful," I say, the words inadequate but true. "So damn beautiful."
My hands find the clasp of her bra, flicking it open with practiced ease. I peel the straps down her arms and toss it aside, and the sight of her bare before me makes my mouth go dry.
I cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they harden beneath my touch. Rachel arches into my hands with a sharp intake of breath that goes straight to my cock. I lower my head and take one nipple into my mouth, sucking hard while my hand works the other, rolling and pinching until she's gasping.
"Colton," she breathes, her fingers tangling in my hair, holding me against her.
I switch to the other nipple, teeth scraping over the sensitive peak before soothing it with my tongue. Her hips rock against mine, seeking friction, seeking more.
Rachel's hands move to my belt when I finally pull back, working the buckle with shaking fingers. "Less talking. More touching. I need to feel you. Need to know you're really here."
