And perhaps it was why they were both so quick to let it all fade away, as if what they felt for each other wasn’t as important as everything else in their life.
He understood her in ways no one else did. He knew she needed to tuck the emotion rustling beneath the surface deep inside. To push it to the furthest part of her where no one could find it. He did the same thing. Those feelings were useless to her in the field. They might serve a purpose to the victims. To the people she sought justice for.
But for her? The trained CIA operative?
They were meaningless.
And to Patch, the medic who stitched up military personnel who were half-dead in the field? Well, those emotions onlyserved to bring him down and make his job impossible. He couldn’t look at those people as anything but machines who needed to be rebuilt. If he’d looked at them as humans who were flesh and blood with lives back home—he’d crumble simply because for as many lives as he saved… the same number, or more, died.
But she’d known the second he was alone after dealing with a bloody battlefield, he’d curl up in a dark corner and weep like a baby for all the souls he couldn’t save… and all the souls that would be forever broken.
“I knew you couldn’t,” he whispered. “I got your note, and the flower arrangement was beautiful. Hannah would have loved them.”
“You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone,” she said, even softer.
He turned then, slowly, and their eyes met.
His were the same warm hazel they’d always been but dulled somehow. Burned out at the edges. Like whatever had lit them before had been swallowed by something darker.
“No one could’ve changed the outcome,” he said quietly. “Not even me, and I tried like fucking hell.”
“Doesn’t mean you should’ve carried it by yourself.” She paused momentarily, wondering if she should tell him what she’d done. Perhaps he knew. Or suspected. If the tables were turned, she figured he’d do the same. They didn’t end things because of a fight or because they didn’t care.
Things ended because they didn’t know how to be anything other than their jobs.
“I’ve been trying to get a line on the shooter,” she said. “It’s like he’s a ghost. But I put some resources on it.”
Patch nodded. “I’ve called in a few favors, but we’ve come up empty. Whoever came in and shot up that store disappeared.Makes me believe it wasn’t random. That there was a reason, and maybe that reason was me.”
“I pulled your record and ran enemies. Couldn’t find a connection, but I haven’t stopped looking.”
He tapped his finger in the center of his chest and took a step closer.
She didn’t move.
Not when his gaze dropped to her mouth. Not when the space between them thinned to inches. Not when her heart started beating so hard she could feel it in her throat.
Five years.
Five years of silence. Of unresolved what-ifs. Of nights she’d pretended not to think about him.
He reached out—slowly—and brushed a damp strand of hair off her cheek. His fingers were warm, calloused, careful.
Their breath mingled as he took the coffee mug from her fingers and set it aside. He tilted her chin with his thumb and forefinger. Her lips parted as if to welcome him home.
He leaned closer. His mouth so close she could taste the coffee on his breath.
“Really?” a familiar voice scoffed. The word cracked through the air like a whip.
Savvy jerked back a step. Patch’s hand dropped. Both turned to find McGuire standing in the front doorway, arms crossed, expression somewhere between irritation, disappointment, and amusement.
McGuire stepped inside, boots thudding heavily across the floor. He took in the scene with a slow scan. “I told you to bring her home,” McGuire said, glaring at Patch. “Not to your place… to do…” He waved his hand. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
Patch didn’t flinch. He met the accusation head-on, voice level. “She’s safe here.”
“That’s not the point,” McGuire shot back.
“Actually,” Savvy cut in, tone icy as she turned toward her brother, “that’s exactly the point.”
