"The immediate threat. Committee's pulling back. Webb's reassigning resources." I crouch down to her eye level. "Lucas's testimony worked. He's not valuable enough to justify what it costs to eliminate him."
Relief breaks across her face, followed immediately by suspicion. "But?"
"Reeve might still be out there. Hawthorne's tracking him to confirm status." I reach for her hand. "We're not completely clear, but we're safer than we've been since Tucson."
She processes this with the same practical assessment she's shown since the beginning. Rachel doesn't deal in false comfort or easy answers. She deals in reality, and reality says her son is safer today than yesterday.
"Where's Lucas?" I ask.
"Sleepover in Khalid's room. Odin's with them." A tired smile touches her mouth. "Lucas has been asking for days. Figured tonight was as good as any."
"Good." I stand, pulling her up with me. "Come with me."
She doesn't ask where. Just follows me through corridors toward my quarters. The door closes behind us with a solid click that feels like the last bit of armor coming off.
Rachel turns to face me, and for a moment we just stand there in the dim light. No more running. No more hiding.
"Hawthorne's leaving soon," I say. "Tracking Reeve."
"And you?"
"I stay."
Her eyes hold mine. She understands what I'm choosing. What we're both choosing.
"I need you to know something," I say, closing the distance between us. "The last time I left, I thought I was protecting you by staying away. Thought you'd be safer without me in your life."
"You were wrong."
"Yeah. I was wrong." My hands find her waist, pulling her closer. "I'm not leaving again. Not you. Not Lucas. This is where I belong."
Rachel's hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. "Good. Because I'm done running too."
I kiss her then, slow and deep and deliberate. Not the frantic desperation of previous nights when survival felt uncertainand tomorrow wasn't guaranteed. This is different. This is the beginning of something built to last.
She responds with the same intensity, her body pressing against mine with trust that still amazes me. After everything she's survived, everything Mateo put her through, she trusts me with this. Trusts me with her body, her heart, her son.
I need her to understand what that means.
My hands slide under her shirt, palms flat against warm skin. She shivers at the contact, her breath catching. I take my time, mapping every curve, every line, learning her body the way I learned terrain during reconnaissance. Thorough. Deliberate. Committed to memory.
I strip her shirt over her head, then my own, needing skin against skin. She's beautiful in the low light, all lean muscle and soft curves and strength that runs deeper than physical. Her hands explore my chest, fingertips tracing old scars with careful attention.
"So many," she whispers.
"Occupational hazard."
"They're part of you." She leans in, pressing her lips to a puckered scar near my collarbone. "All of you."
I turn us, backing her toward the bed with controlled urgency. We strip the rest of our clothes with the efficiency of people who've done this before but the reverence of people discovering new ground.
When we're finally bare, I ease her down onto the bed and just look at her for a moment. Rachel Donovan. The woman who survived hell and came out stronger. The mother who protected her son through impossible odds. The partner who chose to stay even knowing what loving an operator means.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, my body aligned with hers in ways that feel inevitable. Right. Necessary. She arches intome, seeking friction, seeking connection, seeking everything I want to give her.
My hand slides between us, finding her wet and ready. She gasps when I touch her, hips lifting into my palm. I work her slowly, thoroughly, learning what makes her breath catch and her fingers dig into my shoulders.
"Colton, please."
