Five months. Five long, torturous months where she slipped further from his grasp, and he believed she was lost to him forever. Five months where she began a new life, far from him and everyone they once knew. Five months they could have spent together.

At first, he was furious. Furious that she thought so little of him as to believe he could move on so easily. Hurt that she hadn't cared enough to say goodbye in person. A letter, anonymously delivered, felt like such a cold farewell for the depth of what they had shared.

But five months gave him time to think. Time to reflect on the crushing emotional and physical toll she'd endured. To imagine her waking up alone, in a sterile hospital room, believing she had no one—no one who loved her, no one waiting for her. In time, he forgave her. Forgave her for something that was never really her fault, something she had no control over.

He used those five months to prepare. To say his goodbyes, to the few friends he had left. He packed up the things they once shared, her belongings and his, from the homes they both abandoned after her "death." He prepared their animals for the long journey, and saw his children, extracting promises that they would visit him when he found Ruth, when he had settled into what he hoped would be their life together.

He had needed those months to gather information, to understand the depths of the deception that had been played on him. For so long, he had believed that she had died in his arms, that he had kissed her as she took her final breath in that field. He could still feel the phantom sensation of her blood on his hands, the agony of watching her slip away. But it had been a lie.

Had he known she was still alive, nothing on Earth would have made him leave her side. Too painful? Too difficult? None of that mattered. He would have been there, holding her hand, reading to her, stroking her hair. He would have loved her, ensured that she didn't wake up alone. Instead, they both had been left to mourn a life they could have had together.

When he uncovered the truth, his anger was tempered by understanding—but forgiveness? No, that wasn't so easy. How could anyone have made such a decision for them, thinking they knew what was best? The Home Secretary might have believed he was sparing Ruth from the constant danger that haunted her since their first fateful date, but in doing so, he only deepened their pain. Ruth had been led to believe that Harry had moved on, that his love had faded. And Harry? He had been left to grieve, to believe he was the reason she was gone.

It had been eleven months since he last saw her, held her, kissed her goodbye. But even now, from a distance, she was exactly the same.

He had found her. After months of searching, using all his skill and resources, he had tracked her down to a small town outside Portland, Maine. Safe. Alone. But alive.

Now, he stood across the park, watching as her hair danced in the wind, the way it always had. She was pushing a child on a swing, her face lit with the smile he had missed more than anything in the world. Thirty steps. That's all it would take to reach her. To stand beside her again. Thirty steps, and they could finally have their chance.

But he stood still. Watched as a man approached, as the little girl leaped off the swing and ran into her father's arms. Watched as Ruth tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, hands retreating into her pockets as she walked with them.

Harry felt no jealousy. He knew who the man was—a friend, a co-worker's husband, not a threat. Ruth hadn't moved on. She was still the quiet, solitary woman who had left her heart in England. She was still his.

But there was pain. The sight of the little girl brought a sharp ache to his chest, a reminder of what time had stolen from them. They would likely never have a child of their own now. No child to push on the swings, no little Ruth to read bedtime stories to, no little Harry to take to football practice. Time had stolen that from them, but it would take no more.

As the man and girl left, Ruth turned toward him, her steps unhurried. It was only as she crossed the grass that she finally saw him, and her face shifted—shock, joy, sorrow, all flickering through her expression as her pace faltered. But then she squared her shoulders and walked on, until she stood right in front of him.

Close enough to touch.

He could smell the familiar hint of her perfume, feel the warmth of her presence in the cool autumn air. Emotions warred behind her cerulean eyes, but he held himself back. His heart raced, breath faltered, and every word he had rehearsed in his mind dissolved. All that remained was the truth.

"God, how I've missed you."