Laughter bubbles up, mixing with tears and relief and love so intense it almost hurts. I kiss him, tasting salt and joy and future. "I love you."
"I love you too." He pulls the blanket over us both. "Sleep. We'll figure out the details tomorrow."
Tomorrow. A future I didn't think I'd have when Bruce was stalking me and then someone was sabotaging my work and fear governed every decision. Tomorrow with Holden, planning a life together instead of just surviving day to day.
The windows face the ocean and I can hear waves from here, constant and soothing. He pulls me close, all warm skin and steady heartbeat, protected in ways I've never felt before.
Morning will bring debriefs and statements and processing everything that happened. Bruce will transfer away, finally out of my life for good. Rexford will face justice for espionage and attempted murder. The data will be recovered, the conspiracy unraveled, Tidewater secured.
But tonight, wrapped in Holden's arms with the ocean singing beyond the windows, I let myself just feel this. Trust this. Believe that when he says always, he means it.
I fall asleep to the sound of waves and his heartbeat, two rhythms that finally match. Morning will bring questions and paperwork and all the messy details of building a life together. But tonight, this is enough.
14
HOLDEN
Six months later, she still makes me forget to breathe.
Dawn light filters through the windows facing the ocean, painting everything in shades of gold and rose. Fallon sleeps beside me, auburn hair spilling across my pillow, one hand curled against my chest like she needs to confirm I'm real even in sleep. Her freckles are darker now after months of fieldwork in the sun, dusting patterns across her shoulders that I've traced with my tongue enough times to have them memorized.
I could watch her for hours. Have watched her for hours over the past months, learning things like the way she scrunches her nose when working through a problem, how she talks to herself when analyzing data, the specific sound of her laugh when something genuinely surprises her. Yesterday I caught her having a full argument with a particularly stubborn piece of equipment, complete with hand gestures and creative profanity that would make my team blush.
She stirs, green eyes blinking open, and finds me watching. A slow smile curves her lips. "Morning, stalker."
"Morning, beautiful." I brush hair from her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "Sleep okay?"
"Always do when you're here." She stretches like a cat, unselfconscious in her nakedness, at ease in ways that still amaze me after everything Bruce put her through. "What time is it?"
"Early. We've got time before you need to be at the site."
Her research has expanded since Rexford's arrest and the recovery of the stolen data. The base finally recognized what they had in Dr. Fallon McKay—expertise that protects rather than threatens. Now she's consulting for multiple military installations, her work classified and crucial. What Rexford tried to weaponize became the shield that guards against future attacks.
"Coffee first," she murmurs, already moving toward the edge of the bed. "Then shower. Then maybe another round of what we did last night if you're feeling ambitious."
"Baby, I'm always ambitious when it comes to you."
She laughs, the sound filling the bedroom, and disappears into the bathroom. Water runs. Her voice hums something off-key. I lie there soaking in the domesticity of it all. Fallon lives here now. Officially, completely, with sediment samples in my garage and research papers scattered across the dining table and her presence woven into every corner of my life.
The cottage has changed since she moved in. Books on marine biology sit next to my maritime history. Her running shoes by the door next to my boots. Coffee mugs with terrible ocean puns that she finds hilarious cluttering the cabinet. Her laptop on the dining table surrounded by half-empty water bottles and protein bar wrappers because she forgets to clean up when she's working.
I make coffee while she showers, the ritual familiar now. Two mugs, hers with extra cream, mine black. Toast with the fancy jam she likes from the farmer's market. Fruit cut upand arranged on a plate because she forgets to eat when she's working and I've made it my mission to make sure she does.
She emerges from the shower wrapped in my towel, skin still damp and smelling like her shampoo mixed with the salt air coming through the open window. Before I can hand her the coffee, she steals mine and takes a long drink.
"Thanks for making breakfast."
"That was my coffee."
"Was being the operative word." She grins, unrepentant, and kisses me. Her lips taste like my coffee and I pull her closer, breathing her in.
"I love you," I say, because I can, because she's here and real and mine.
"Love you too." She sets the mug down, arms wrapping around my waist. "Even when you're hovering and making sure I eat."
"Someone has to look out for you."
"I'm perfectly capable of looking out for myself." But she says it with affection, acknowledging the care without resenting it.
