"The case closed because you built it right. The Marshals won't lose him because Hernandez is the best they have. And Vance is done." Jake tightened his arms around her. "It's over, Em. You can stop waiting."
"I don't know if I know how to do that." Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. "Waiting for the other shoe is kind of my thing."
"I know. You're good at it." He pressed his lips to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, the smell of Emily that had become as familiar as his own pulse. "But you don't have to be good at everything. Some things you can let happen."
She tipped her head back to look at him, and even in the dim light from the string lights, he could see her expression had changed. Not the guardedness that had defined her when they met. Not the assessment of risks and angles. Just openness. Trust. The face of a woman who had decided to stop waiting.
"This is going to be our spot," she said. "I've decided."
"This alley behind The Anchor."
"This patio behind The Anchor. It's not an alley. It has chairs." She was almost smiling. "When it gets too loud in there, or too much, or when I just need five minutes with you and nobody else, we come out here. This is where we go."
Jake looked around. The rusting patio set. The concrete pad with weeds growing through the cracks. The tree line that was darkness and the sound of crickets.
"It's perfect," he said, and meant it.
"It's ours."
She kissed him then, soft and unhurried, her hands sliding up to frame his face. Jake let himself sink into it, the taste of her, the feel of her pressed against him, the rightness of it, in this place with this woman.
When she pulled back, her eyes were bright.
"Okay," she said. "I'm ready to go back in now."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure." She took his hand. "Let's go celebrate."
The booth had rearrangeditself in their absence. Tommy had migrated to the bar, where he was holding court with two women Jake didn't recognize. Ray had claimed the corner spot and was nursing a fresh bourbon with the contentment of a man who had nowhere to be tomorrow. Claire was back at the table, and she raised an eyebrow at Emily as they approached.
"Needed some air?"
"Needed some Jake," Emily said, and slid in next to her. "Same thing."
Jake took the spot across from them, next to Ray, and Gator appeared again with another round before anyone had asked. The man had a sixth sense for empty glasses.
"Speech," Tommy called from the bar. "Walsh needs to make a speech."
"No."
"Callahan, then. Callahan makes a speech."
"Absolutely not."
"Someone has to make a speech." Tommy abandoned his companions and made his way back to the booth, bourbon in hand. "It's tradition. Big case closes, someone says something profound, we all drink to it."
"That has never been a tradition," Ray said.
"It's a tradition now. I'm establishing it." Tommy looked around the table. "Fine. I'll do it."
"God help us," Claire murmured.
"Oh ye of little faith." Tommy straightened, and Jake saw the shift happen. The goofball falling away. The performer exiting stage left. What was left was just Tommy. The kid who'd followed him to basic training because he didn't want Jake to go alone. The man who'd built a good life doing work that mattered without ever complaining that Jake's path had been more glamorous. His oldest friend. His brother in everything but blood.
Ray must have seen it too, because he sat back in his seat with an expression Jake recognized. The look of a man about to witness what he'd been waiting for.
Tommy raised his glass, and the table went still.
