“You okay?” he said.
She almost laughed or cried, landed somewhere in the middle, and reached for him instead.
His splinted hand rested in his lap, useless and swollen, and she covered it gently with hers because she wanted to hold all of him, even the broken parts.
Especially the broken parts.
Wyatt leaned forward until his forehead rested against hers. The same way he’d held her thirty feet underwater and in the lifeboat. But this time there was nothing between them and nothing chasing them.
His eyes closed, and his arms came around her—carefully, as if she might shatter. His shoulders dropped, and his breath left him in a long, unsteady exhale that carried the last of whatever he’d been holding since he closed the bathroom door.
This time there was no snow.
No moonlight or blood on the ground. No sirens coming.
Just warmth. The scratch of hospital sheets. The hum of fluorescent lights.
His heartbeat against her chest, steady and sure.
Tomorrow they would figure the rest out.
Together.
47
One month later.
Wyatt was twenty minutes early.
Benji’s diner smelled like cinnamon and the faint sweetness of pie cooling behind the counter. He sat in the corner booth with his back to the wall and a clear sightline to the door. Old habits. He’d clocked the exits when he walked in, and then caught himself doing it and almost laughed.
No one was coming for them.
Akilov was in a federal facility awaiting trial with enough charges to keep him locked away for the rest of his natural life and then some. What was left of his team was in custody. Sarah had texted him yesterday:The FBI wrapped up the interviews. It’s done.
Done.
And here he was, sitting in a coffee shop, folding a paper napkin, waiting for Jen.
And he was nervous.
Not the clean focus of a breach. This was different. A low hum in his chest, a dryness in his mouth. The persistent, irrational fear he was about to screw this up.
He’d never been on a date.
Not once.
Not a real one—not the kind where you sat across from someone you wanted to keep and tried to act like a normal human being in a public place.
He’d had women. Nights. Passing things. He’d never hadthis. The deliberate, unhurried act of choosing someone. Coffee. Ordinary moments he’d always assumed were meant for other people.
He hadn’t seen her in three weeks.
Three weeks since she’d flown back to San Diego to deal with her apartment, the company, and the federal interviews. Three weeks of texts and phone calls that always ended too soon.
Today she was back in Aurora Cove. And the butterflies in his stomach had been in full flight since dawn.
Maybe he was losing his edge.
