Page 125 of Boomer
She cupped his face, fingers threading into his hair, nails dragging gently along his scalp. “So do you.”
He drove into her like he meant it.
The garden shifted around them, flowers brushing bare shoulders, soil caking skin. There was no gentleness here, no restraint. Just bodies and breath and the feral sound of love, the kind that had conquered grief, shame, and broken hearts
They moved like people who'd bled for this moment. Like two halves of a soul reunited beneath the sky. When she came, crying out his name, he caught her, arms tight, heart wide open, no defenses left.
He followed with a gasp and a growl, her name the only thing on his lips.
They stayed like that, twined together on the ground, dirt on their skin, the earth cradling them like it understood.
Boomer kissed her temple, and Taylor smiled against his chest. “Is everyone safe?” she whispered.
Boomer nodded, brushing a thumb over the curve of her cheek. “Yes.”
“Let’s get dressed and go get a cup of tea, and you can tell me all about it.”
He smiled. “You just want to hear about my breaching.”
She laughed. “Well, won’t that be part of the story?”
His voice dropped into the kind of range that made her want him all over again. “Yeah, but fuck the tea. Let’s just go to the bedroom, and you show me how you breach a breacher.”
“Mind, body, and soul, Carter, and all the love I have to give. Let’s see how much you can handle before you detonate.”
“As long as you're the fuse, this breacher will become the blast.”
She took his hand and pulled him up. Half-dressed, she pulled him into the house.
The low humof voices and laughter floated from the kitchen, mixing with the clatter of dishes and the smell of cinnamon and firewood. Skull’s dry sarcasm pinged off the walls. Breakneck was arm-wrestling Kodiak with a toothpick in his mouth like it gave him extra leverage. Preacher stood at the window, a bourbon in hand, watching the way light filtered through the trees like falling gold.
Rose Snow, Luna Carmichael, Celeste Nash, Kaiya Lyta, Leigh Booth, and Walker Sullivan. All the wives had met Taylor a while ago, but they were so helpful to her when it came to Ansel and the deployments of their husbands. They had a standing meet-up every week.
But Boomer didn’t move. This was his birthday present.
He stood in the archway of the living room, one hand resting on the edge of the long wooden table where Ansel’s sculpture now sat.
The whole team had gathered around it when the velvet cover was pulled away. But now, most had drifted off, too moved to say anything more. The space had changed, like the sculpture had done something to the room. Hushed it. Blessed it.
Boomer stared at it, silent.
The bronze gleamed in the firelight, coated in a patina of ocean blue and salt-washed green. It was abstract, but the lines were unmistakable. A figure rising. Shoulders squared. A breacher’s charge clutched to his chest, helmet under one arm, his other hand reaching, not for a weapon, but for a child. Small fingers touching his palm. Two lives connected.
The nameplate at the bottom read: SEAL – Guardian. Brother. Father.By Ansel Emil Hoffman.
Boomer’s heart thudded once, painfully. Then again.
He hadn’t realized everyone else had left the room. But the quiet held. Taylor leaned against the doorway, arms folded softly across her chest, her eyes shining. Ansel peeked in from behind her, chewing his lip, watching Boomer like the world was on the line.
Boomer’s voice came out low. Rough.
“It’s me.”
Taylor nodded. “Of course it is.”
He turned slowly, looked at Ansel, and knelt, one knee down, the same way he had that first night when he asked to see the boy’s work.
“You did this?”
