Page 116 of Rescuing Aria
“But then I look at you.” Her fingers trace my jaw, my cheekbone, the scar above my eyebrow. “And I know it’s real. All of it. The kidnapping, the revelations, Marcus’s death.”
The admission settles in my chest, heavy with responsibility and something warmer, deeper. To be someone’s anchor requires strength, stability, and presence. All things my training provides, but for different reasons, in different contexts.
“I’m here.” I turn my face to press a kiss into her palm. “As long as you want me.”
“What if that’s forever?” The question emerges barely above a whisper, vulnerability she shows to no one else.
The word—forever—should trigger warning bells. Instead, it settles like certainty. Like permission to want something I’ve denied myself since joining Guardian HRS.
“Then I’m yours forever.” The promise comes easily, truth replacing tactical assessment.
Her smile blooms slowly, warming places inside me that have long gone cold. She rises on tiptoes, lips finding mine with familiar heat. I gather her closer, one hand at the small of her back, the other cradling her head.
The kiss deepens, muscle memory guiding us toward the bed. No urgency drives us tonight—just connection, affirmation, presence. Her fingers work at buttons, mine at zippers, layers falling away until nothing separates us.
I’ve memorized her body through nights like this—the curve of her waist, the sensitive spot at the base of her throat, the way her breath catches when I trace patterns along her spine.Tonight, I relearn every detail, committing it to memory as something I’m ready to name.
She arches beneath me, golden in the low light, eyes holding mine with complete trust. Her hands map my scars—souvenirs from missions across continents, each one a story of survival. She knows them all now, having traced them with fingers and lips, whispering questions in the dark.
When we join, there’s no awkwardness or uncertainty—just the perfect alignment of two people who have found home in each other.
Afterward, she curls against my side, her breathing slowing toward sleep, my fingers trace idle patterns along her shoulder, memorizing this moment of peace amid chaos.
“Jon?” Her voice drifts up, already blurring with approaching dreams.
“Hmm?”
“I love you.” Three words, simple and devastating. “I didn’t want to say it during a crisis or because of adrenaline or trauma bonding or whatever psychological term applies. But I do. I love you.”
The admission stops my breath, my heart, my world. Not because it’s unexpected—we’ve been moving toward this since the first kidnapping, perhaps since the moment I saw her, the fire reflecting in her blue eyes.
Not in crisis. Not in fear. In peace, in certainty, in choice.
“I love you too.” The words come easily, truth replacing tactical language. “More than I thought possible.”
She smiles against my skin, the curve of her lips felt rather than seen. Her breathing deepens, slow and steady, her body growing heavier with sleep.
I hold her throughout the night.
Outside her window, the city hums—traffic lights blinking through exhaust haze, strangers going about their lives unaware of what played out in marble foyers and bloodstained stairwells.
But in here? Everything stills.
Time bends around the woman in my arms. Around the truth we spoke. Around the possibility I spent a lifetime avoiding.
For the first time in years, I allow myself to imagine a future beyond the next mission. A life that isn’t measured in op reports or threat levels. A life with her in it.
And with that vision comes clarity.
This is what Charlie and Brett wanted for me. What they whispered about when they thought I wasn’t listening. Not just survival. Not just duty.
Love.
The kind that doesn’t fade in the dark or fracture under pressure. The kind that roots itself deep and stays.
We never had that, the three of us. We shared fire and purpose. Pain and loyalty. But not this.
Not peace.
