What if walking away wasn’t as simple as Hawk made it seem? He’d always been good at burning himself out for others.
I put my badge away on the counter, tugged my jacket off, and dropped onto the couch.
Then I heard something.
A soft knock.
Three sharp raps.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
No one knocked on my door. Not like that.
I stood slowly, and opened the door.
And nearly collapsed.
Hawk.
Standing in the doorway.
Dressed in fatigues, sleeves pushed up, hair mussed from travel, duffel slung over his shoulder.
He looked exhausted.
He looked bruised.
He looked like everything I’d been trying not to want too much.
I yanked the door open.
He didn’t even get a word out before I launched into him, arms around his neck, face pressed into the warm column of his throat. He caught me automatically, his duffel thudding to the floor, arms locking tight around my waist.
His breath hitched against my hair.
“I missed you,” I whispered.
“I know,” he whispered back. “I missed you too.”
I pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were tired, rimmed with shadows, but alive in a way I hadn’t seen since before this all started.
“You came back,” I said, voice shaking.
His thumb brushed my cheek. “Of course I did.”
“But what about your briefing? And the position? And—”
“I said no,” he murmured. “I told them I had something more important waiting for me.”
My throat closed.
“What’s more important?” I whispered.
“You,” he said simply.
I kissed him—slow, deliberate, hands cupping the sides of his face as if I let go, he might fade into smoke.
He kissed me back like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth.
