“With you?” she asked.
“Always.”
She stepped into me, grabbed my vest, and rose onto her toes. The kiss hit like a car crash and a lifeline at once—desperate, messy, a little salty from tears. Her fingers curled into the fabric as if she could anchor me there.
When she pulled back, her voice was barely audible.
“Don’t make me watch the news to find out if you’re alive.”
“You won’t have to,” I said.
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes searched mine. Looking for cracks. Looking for lies.
She seemed to find neither.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
The crew chief called again, louder. “Jensen, let’s go!”
I forced my hand to unclench from hers.
She let go a fraction of a second later, like she was daring me to be the one to break contact first.
I took a step back.
Her face blurred for a second.
I blinked it clear.
“One week,” I said. I didn’t know where the number came from. Hope, maybe. Stubbornness. “Give me one week. If I’m not back or you don’t hear from me by then—you call Aaron. You call Miles. You come drag me out.”
“I’ll bring a warrant,” she said, voice shaking. “And a battering ram.”
The corner of my mouth twitched. “I’d pay to see that.”
“I’ll make sure you do.”
I turned before I could change my mind.
Walked up the ramp.
At the top, I stopped and looked back.
She stood alone on the tarmac, wind tugging at her hair and jacket, one hand wrapped around her opposite wrist like she had to hold herself together or she’d fly apart.
I raised my hand.
She raised hers.
Then the ramp closed, and she disappeared behind thick gray metal.
It felt too much like the night I left home the first time.
Except it was my parents waving goodbye back then.
