Because every second she’s exposed feels like another chance for me to lose her.
“Hannah,” I bark as she moves toward another injured civilian near the overturned crates.
“I see him,” she shoots back without even looking at me.
Of course she does.
A burst of automatic fire tears through the loading entrance.
I grab her instinctively and yank her backward just as bullets rip through the space where she’d been standing.
She slams hard against my chest.
The impact sends pain slicing through my ribs, but I barely feel it.
Because for one brutal second—
All I can think about is how close that was.
Too close.
Way too damn close.
Hannah looks up at me, startled.
My hand is still locked around her waist.
Her heartbeat pounds against my chest almost as hard as mine.
“You cannot keep doing that,” I snap.
Her eyebrows shoot upward instantly.
“Doing what? Saving people?”
“Trying to get yourself killed!”
“I had cover!”
“You had luck.”
The argument dies abruptly when another explosion rocks the warehouse hard enough to shake the floor beneath us.
Children scream nearby.
Dust and smoke billow through the rafters overhead.
And still—
Neither of us lets go right away.
Jesus Christ.
Eight months.
Eight months without seeing her, and somehow standing here with her in my arms feels terrifyingly natural.
Like my body already knows exactly where she belongs.
