Dante was on his side facing her, one arm under the pillow, the other resting at her waist. His hair was a mess, the faintest stubble on his jaw, lips slack with sleep. For once, his face was smooth. There were no lines between his brows, none of that quiet, constant scan he wore around other people. He looked… younger.
She lay there and just watched him breathe. Little things started to come back in fragments —his hands on her, the wayhe’d watched her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered, the way he’d saidI’ve been in love with youlike it hurt him to hold it in.
Her throat tightened. She realized distantly she wasn’t wearing anything under the sheet. His skin was warm against her bare legs. The old version of her might’ve flushed with some self-consciousness; this one just felt… present.
It hit her then. She wasn’t thinking about the crash first. Not the drop. Not Mara. Not Krueger. She was thinking about now. Her body. His body. Them. Alive.
That realization stole her breath more than pain ever had.
Dante stirred, like he felt her watching him. His fingers flexed against her side, then slid higher, his palm spreading flat over her ribs. He blinked his eyes open, heavy and slow. “Hey,” he rasped.
“Hey,” she whispered back.
His mouth curved into a sleepy half smile. “You okay?”
She considered the question, then nodded. “Yeah, I am, actually.”
He searched her face like he was checking for any sign this might be regret in disguise. “How’s the hip? And be honest. Don’t give me the ‘I could run a marathon’ line.”
She snorted. “I couldn’t run a marathon.”
His brow arched. “But?”
“But I don’t feel like glass. I’m sore and tired, and my hip’s pissed at me… but it’s the first time since the crash I’ve felt like my body was mine again. Not a crime scene. Not a project.” She swallowed. “Just… me.”
Relief and heartbreak braided together in his expression. “Good. You deserve that.”
They were silent for a while. Her fingers traced small, meaningless patterns on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under her hand, the warmth and weight of him. Everysecond felt numbered in a way it hadn’t before last night. Because now they’d crossed a line there was no walking back from.
“Dante,” she said finally.
He hummed.
“You got the call last night.” It wasn’t a question.
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. “Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Plane out of DC in less than twenty-four,” he said. “Then staging. Then wheels down in the Sahel.”
“They’re really doing it,” she said. “They’re really sending you into the middle of his mess.”
“Bravo needs operators who know how he thinks.”
“And I’m not one of them?” she asked, but there was no heat in it. Just a tired kind of irony.
“You are,” he said. “But you’re active-duty Air Force. You belong to them.”
She studied his face again and saw the new tension around his eyes, the way his hand hadn’t left her, his thumb unconsciously stroking the curve of her side like he was anchoring himself.
“You’re going,” she said quietly. “Even if I asked you not to.”
He didn’t answer right away. “Yeah. I am.”
She nodded. It hurt, but not in a way she resented. “Then don’t lie to me. Sean asked for you. Don’t do the ‘I’ll be fine, nothing will happen; it’s just another deployment’ speech.”
He huffed softly. “Those speeches are bullshit anyway.”
