He stilled. The name sat between them, sharp, solid. A shadow unit. Unseen. His legacy. A slow grin pulled at his mouth. "Yeah," he said. "Ghost Division."
She grinned back. "It fits."
Then he was pulling her closer. One hand stayed firm at her hip; the other slid up, cupping the side of her neck, his thumb brushing gently along her jaw. His forehead rested against hers.
"And you're in it, Parker. Whether you like it or not."
She was part of this. Part of him.
"I don't just want you in on the business, Rachel."
The look in his eyes wasn't tactical anymore. It was personal.
"I want you," he said. "With me. Always."
Her pulse hammered against her ribs. "Are you saying—?"
"Move in with me." The words came out calm, absolute. "Here. With me."
For a moment, she couldn't speak. Logan Hayes didn't ask for things. But this wasn't a request. It was a promise. A future. A home.
Rachel nodded, her eyes stinging. "Yes."
The breath he let out was deep, relieved, then he pulled her in and kissed her, slow, deep, final. Like she was his beginning and end, and everything in between.
She leaned into him, arms curling around his neck, fingers digging into his skin.
This was it. The next chapter. It wouldn't be easy. It wouldn't be quiet. But it would be theirs.
As the sun dipped low behind the horizon, casting gold over the waves and shadows along the sand, Logan cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. "I love you."
Rachel's fingers curled into the front of his shirt. "I love you too, Logan."
Then she kissed him, fierce, desperate, completely his. Like she never wanted to let go.
62
The scent of mesquite smoke drifted down the bluff, mingling with the salt air off the Pacific. Laughter rose above the low thrum of music playing through the outdoor speakers. Someone had cracked open the cooler again, more bottles clinking, more ice shifting.
The grill sizzled in the background, loaded with steaks, burgers, and skewers half-charred on one side. Three weeks since the warehouse. Three weeks since Hale had been caught. Three weeks of headlines finally starting to fade.
It was the first time the team had gathered like this since coming home. No briefings, no body armor, no one watching their six. Just good beer, good food, and the breeze rolling up from the Pacific.
Rachel stepped out from the kitchen barefoot, a cold bottle of lemonade in one hand. Her sundress caught the breeze, brushingher legs as she moved. She paused, letting the warmth of the late-afternoon sun settle on her skin as her eyes swept the scene.
Predator was locked in an argument with Rogue over the best way to rub a steak, voices rising with every exaggerated claim. Reaper stood off to the side near the cornhole boards, silently landing shot after shot. Torch stood at the grill, focused on grilling the steaks.
Rachel's eyes found Ghost as he moved through the group, barefoot, T-shirt clinging to his shoulders, a beer in one hand and a towel slung over his shoulder.
Her smile lingered as Falcon strolled up the back path. He carried himself with easy confidence, but the dark circles beneath his eyes caught her attention.
"Smells like freedom back here," he said, stopping just short of the patio.
Ghost stepped forward and clapped him on the back. "Welcome home, pilot."
Falcon gave him a look. "Don't make me regret showing up."
Reaper handed him a cold beer without a word. Falcon cracked it open and nodded his thanks, his shoulders dropping slightly.
