"Don't give me a reason to."
I pull back just enough to look at her face. She's been crying, or was — her cheeks are still damp — and there's something in her eyes that is different from when she left. Something that has come through the fire and held.
I grab her carry-on from wherever it landed and keep my arm around her like she might disappear if I let go.
"Let's go home," I say.
She leans into my side and nods, and I walk her toward the exit and make her a silent promise.
Whatever it takes. Whatever the cost.
I will never lose her again.
CHAPTER 20-JADE
I see him before he sees me.
He's standing near the security exit, head and shoulders above most of the crowd, scanning every face that emerges with an intensity that makes my breath catch. He's wearing dark jeans and a gray sweater I remember running my hands over once, telling him it made his eyes look softer. His face is shadowed with stubble, and there are faint circles under his eyes that suggest he hasn't been sleeping any better than I have.
He looks like a man who's been waiting for something important.
He looks like home.
Our eyes meet across the crowded terminal, and everything else falls away. The announcements echoing overhead. The travelers streaming past me with their rolling suitcases and their hurried footsteps. The exhaustion that's been weighing on me since I boarded the plane in Boston this morning. All of it disappears, leaving nothing but him and me and the electric current that's been pulling us toward each other since the moment we met.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then I'm running.
I abandon my carry-on somewhere behind me, my sneakers slapping against the polished floor as I close the distance between us. He catches me when I launch myself into his arms, lifting me off my feet and crushing me against his chest so tightly I can barely breathe.
I don't care. I don't need to breathe. I just need him.
His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is nothing like the tender reunion you see in movies. This is desperate and hungry and raw, all teeth and tongue and the salt of tears I didn't realize I was crying. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and I fist the soft fabric of his sweater like I'm trying to climb inside him.
People are probably staring. Let them stare.
"Don't ever leave again," he murmurs against my lips, the words vibrating through me.
"Don't give me a reason to."
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching my face like he's memorizing every detail. His thumbs brush the tears from my cheeks with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
"Never," he says. "I promise."
I kiss him again because I can't not kiss him, because being this close to him after five days apart feels like finally surfacing after nearly drowning. He tastes like coffee and mint and something that's just Phoenix, something I've been craving since the moment I walked out his door.
Eventually, we have to come up for air. He sets me down gently, keeping one arm wrapped around my waist like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go. Someone has retrieved my abandoned carry-on and left it a few feet away, and Phoenix grabs it with his free hand.
"Let's go home," he says.
Home. The word settles into my chest and takes root there.
The drive from LAX should take an hour, maybe more depending on traffic. Phoenix guides me to his car in the parking structure, a sleek black thing that probably costs more than most people's houses, and opens the passenger door for me before sliding behind the wheel.
He reaches for my hand the moment we're both seated. Our fingers intertwine on the center console, and I feel something unknot in my chest that's been tight since Boston.
We don't talk. We don't need to. His thumb traces slow circles on the back of my hand, and I watch his profile as he navigates out of the parking structure and onto the freeway.
