A/N: I want to thank everyone who's left comments—I appreciate them more than you know. They keep me motivated and pushing forward, so please keep them coming! Whether it's good or critical, I truly value the feedback.
This chapter? Let's just say I really enjoyed writing it.
Hope you enjoy! :)
Chapter 8
Sunlight filtered gently through the delicate canopy of greenery overhead, dappling the guests gathered beneath with golden warmth. Victorian Springs, a sprawling twenty-acre estate in Alexandria, Virginia, had never looked more enchanting, blossoms spilling from every vine, weaving through the wrought-iron trellises like nature's own cathedral. The air was thick with the scent of fresh-cut roses and ginger blossoms, mingling with the crisp effervescence of champagne, its bubbles waiting—simmering just beneath their corks— poised to burst into celebration.
Sturgis and Varese's wedding was already in full bloom.
Captain Harmon Rabb stood just a pace behind the groom, his polished black tuxedo impeccably tailored to his tall, broad frame— a striking alternative to the dress whites Varese had firmly vetoed.
Harm stood among friends and colleagues, his presence easy, practiced, his body here but his mind already somewhere else.
Because she was somewhere here, too.
Somewhere in this crowd. Watching. Existing. Living a life he wasn't a part of anymore.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
As Harm stood lost in his quiet longing, reality gently pulled him back into focus.
Chaplain Turner—Sturgis's father—guided the ceremony forward, his voice rich with quiet authority, the kind that had comforted sailors in times of war and peace alike. There was pride in his voice, a father not only presiding over the sacred vows but witnessing his son's next mission: love.
Then, it was Harm's turn.
"Captain Rabb," the Chaplain said, turning with an expectant nod, "the rings."
Harm dipped his hand into his coat pocket, fingers searching for the small velvet box that had been placed there just before the ceremony.
Empty.
His stomach tightened.
His fingers moved with a surgeon's precision, searching, sweeping, double-checking the silk lining. Nothing. Keeping his face composed, he moved to his right pants pocket—only to pull out a handful of air.
A whisper of tension rippled through the guests.
He resisted the urge to clear his throat. Instead, he forced a slow exhale and reached for his left pocket.
Still nothing.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze. Varese's soft smile had frozen at the edges, her perfectly composed features betraying the creeping worry that this—her wedding—was about to unravel.
Sturgis, ever the composed officer, fixed him with a look so sharp it could cut through hull plating. The kind of look that said, I trusted you with one job, Rabb.
The Chaplain discreetly dabbed the sweat gathering at his brow, shifting on his feet as the murmurs among the crowd grew.
Harm's pulse drummed against his ribs. He had executed high-stakes maneuvers at top speed, landed on aircraft carriers in storm-force winds—hell, he had argued against military tribunals and won. And yet, standing here, empty-handed in front of a hundred witnesses, he suddenly felt very, very human.
Sturgis leaned in, voice low and clipped. "Harm—"
But Harm lifted a hand, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Hold on, Sturgis. There's one more place I haven't checked."
And then, in one swift motion, he reached around his neck, fingers brushing against the cool metal of his dog tags.
And there they were.
The missing wedding bands.
Threaded onto the very chain that had rested against his chest through thousands of flight hours, deployments, and late nights in the courtroom.
A slow smile spread across his face as he unhooked the chain, letting the rings catch the light, twinkling like glinting sunlight on open water.
A collective exhale rippled through the garden. Relief. Laughter.
Sturgis muttered something under his breath— likely a mix of gratitude and a very specific list of insults meant just for Harm —while Varese visibly relaxed, shaking her head with a breathless chuckle.
Harm placed the rings into Chaplain Turner's waiting hands before turning to Varese with a perfectly timed smirk.
"I had to find a way to sneak a small piece of the Navy into the ceremony," he quipped, his voice smooth, teasing. "You are marrying a sailor, after all."
Laughter spilled through the gathered guests, the warm kind, the kind that smooths over frayed edges and turns tension into memory.
Sturgis shook his head, but a reluctant grin betrayed his amusement.
Varese's laugh was light, full of affection. "You, Captain Rabb, are impossible."
"And yet," Sturgis sighed, "we keep him around."
The Chaplain cleared his throat, lips twitching as he reclaimed the moment. "Shall we continue?"
With a nod, the couple turned back to one another.
And just like that, the ceremony moved forward.
But Harm didn't.
The resonant vows, the applause, the murmurs of love and devotion all faded.
Because his eyes were moving—searching.
He had spent more than a decade searching for her in places she wasn't. In courtrooms— after she left to join Dalton's law firm, Lowell, Hanson, and Lowne. In the cockpit—when he had returned to a squadron room, hoping the sky could quiet what he left behind. In London—where he tried to numb her absence in his life with a woman whose first and last names spelled agenda. And in the spaces between his own ribs, where something had always been missing.
Her love.
And yet, she was here.
And then—he found her.
The world stilled.
It hit like turbulence—the kind that sent your gut straight to your throat.
She sat among the guests, bathed in the same golden sunlight that had no right to touch her like that, her profile carved in perfect contrast against the soft blur of florals behind her.
She was breathtaking.
Like the first time— and every time.
Drawn by instinct, by something that had never once let him go, her gaze lifted—locking onto his.
The rest of the world fell away.
Varese recited, "To have and to hold."
Mac held his gaze.
Sturgis offered, "To love and to cherish."
Harm's jaw tightened.
The space between them wasn't just physical—it was weighted. Heavy. Full of a thousand truths.
She didn't smile.
She didn't frown.
She just looked at him.
And for one fleeting, breathless second, it was all there.
The love. The history. The ache.
The mistake.
Her throat bobbed. Just barely.
But he caught it.
And then—Mac blinked.
The mask returned.
She tore her gaze away too quickly, as if she'd touched a flame.
As if he had burned her.
As if she was afraid of how much she still felt.
But he had seen it.
The way her breath caught.
The way her fingers tightened against the silk of her dress.
The way her eyes darkened— a tell she couldn't hide.
She felt it too.
And yet, sitting beside her, was Senator Gray Hudson.
Harm's jaw flexed.
Mac shifted, her body tilting toward Gray in the smallest, most natural way. Muscle memory.
She smiled.
Harm swallowed. His throat dry.
The applause swelled.
The ceremony was over.
And Mac had looked away. Away from him.
Long after the vows had been exchanged and the cheers faded, twilight settled softly over the wedding grounds, guiding guests along a graceful, bridal-bow-shaped path toward the reception—a beautiful and carefully curated conclusion to the day's promise.
An elegant white tent stretched across the west side of the gardens, its billowing fabric catching the soft evening breeze like sails on a gilded ship. Crystal chandeliers hung from the peaked ceiling, their golden glow forming patterns against polished wood floors that gleamed beneath the soft sway of dancing feet.
Piano chords—Stevie Wonder, rich and timeless— cascaded through the air, wrapping around the guests like an old love story made new. The melody wove through laughter, crystal flutes, and the soft clink of toasts exchanged between bites of decadence.
The floral centerpieces bloomed in wild, deliberate abundance. Crimson roses blushed against ivory peonies, eucalyptus and trailing jasmine curling from vases spilling over the tabletops in artful profusion—perfuming the space with their delicate sweetness. Beyond the gathered walls of the tent, the manicured lawn stretched toward the horizon, kissed by the last remnants of twilight.
Everything about the reception was a dream, curated to perfection.
And yet—perfection had never been the thing that made hearts race, that stole breath, that left an ache in its wake.
No, it was something else entirely. The kind of beauty found in the way a single glance could change the course of a night.
Harm stood on the edge of the room, nursing a lowball glass of bourbon and keeping silent company with the polished mahogany bar. His stance was casual—too casual. A lean that tried too hard to look relaxed. His eyes swept across the crowd, dancing from one guest to another, searching for a pair of molten brown eyes that refused to find his.
He'd caught a glimpse of her earlier—red dress, flowing hair, that spine-straight posture he could recognize in a crowd of hundreds. And for a few suspended heartbeats, her eyes had met his.
That was it. Just long enough to remember everything. Just short enough to leave him aching.
Now, she wouldn't look his way.
And he hated how badly he wanted her to.
It was torture, the kind that came dressed in silk and memory—watching her laugh at someone else's joke when he still remembered how she sounded when she laughed against his mouth.
She was seated near the dance floor, a vision of poise and polished elegance, the kind that could wreck a man without lifting a finger. And Gray Hudson, ever the statesman, was draped at her side like he belonged there.
Harm swirled the bourbon, the ice tapping the sides of the glass in slow, deliberate rhythms. It should've been him. God, it should've been him.
But he was standing alone, while someone else leaned in with a kind of intimacy that Harm hadn't felt in years.
He could still remember the way she had melted against him the last time they'd touched. The way she'd looked at him in the silence afterward, like the truth of what they were had finally surfaced.
And now she couldn't even meet his eyes.
But Harm's private torment was interrupted by a welcome distraction, familiar faces emerging from the joyful crowd.
"Captain Rabb."
He turned instantly, greeted by the familiar faces of Bud and Harriet Roberts, both beaming like he'd just walked in from a tour of sea duty.
"Bud," Harm said, clasping his hand in a firm, conversant shake.
"Harriet, you look stunning," he said, kissing her cheek with warmth he hadn't felt in months.
She gave his arm a warm squeeze. "It's so good to see you, sir. The kids miss you terribly."
Harm chuckled, the sound low and tired. "I miss them too. But tonight, how about we leave the formalities at the door?" He leaned toward her, a teasing glint in his eye. "My friends call me Harm."
Tentatively, she tried it on. "Okay, Harm." It landed like a pair of new shoes—stiff, but promising.
"Maybe next time I'm stateside longer than a weekend, I'll swing by. Tell little AJ I'm sending something special—a model F-35 Lightning. Right out of the RAF fleet."
Harriet's face lit up. "He'll love that... Harm. It'll go right next to the Blue Angels model you gave him last time."
"How's London treating you?" Bud asked, tone even—but his eyes were too sharp. Too focused.
Harm recognized that look. Hell, he'd taught it to Bud—how to pin a suspect down with a single glance, how to carve through lies with just a stare. It had taken years to perfect, and now Bud was using it on him.
He rolled the bourbon in his glass, watching the amber swirl. Fine. That's what he should say. That's what he nearly did.
Instead, he dodged. "Could really use a Chief of Staff with your skills, Bud. But I'm glad to see you thriving. Heard you and Turner are quite the tandem now. Looks like we left JAG in good hands."
Bud shrugged, modest. "Well, no one can really rival what you and Colonel Mackenzie built. But we're doing our best to hold the line."
"I'd say you're doing more than holding it. You're building your own. I couldn't be more proud," Harm said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Bud nodded appreciatively. "Thanks, Harm." Then, with a slight pivot: "Heard about your last case. Tough break."
Harm's jaw flexed, a muscle ticking in his temple.
Lieutenant Jaxon Calloway.
Convicted. Treason. Leavenworth.
A case that never sat right. From the first day, everything had felt off—redacted intel, ghosted files, surveillance footage with inexplicable gaps. Calloway refused to cooperate, hostile from the start, and evidence had been engineered to fold in on itself. Witnesses disappeared. Mission logs arrived incomplete. It wasn't a case—it was a setup.
And when the guilty verdict hit, the black SUV that had shadowed him for months vanished. Doors in high places quietly closed. Hallways filled with knowing looks. Harm knew he hadn't lost the case—he'd been played.
But they didn't know he was still working it.
He called it Lindbergh now. A code name, a cloak. A tribute to the Navy pilot who never followed the rules. Fitting. And every file, every whisper, every conversation was buried under that name, as he began unraveling the web thread by thread.
Yet, before Harm could comfortably settle into the warmth of old friendships, the evening delivered an unwelcome complication, drifting on a cloud of dangerous sophistication.
Before he could reply to Bud, a voice dripped around him like poisoned honey.
"Harm, you make a dashing best man. Probably the closest anyone will get you to being a groom."
He turned, spine straightening, smile vanishing.
Connie Beasley.
She stood in a black satin dress that clung like a second skin, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.
Harm gave a quick, polite nod and excused himself from Bud and Harriet, steering Connie into a shadowed corner.
"How the hell did you get in? Why the hell are you even here? I canceled my plus-one months ago."
She smirked, swirling her martini like it held secrets. "I have my ways."
She stepped closer, a manicured finger dragging along the edge of his sleeve. "I'm here for you, actually. Dance with me."
He took a step back. "I'll pass. I thought I made myself clear—we're done."
She clicked her tongue. "Don't flatter yourself. I've moved on. Two stars, in fact. But if you won't dance, I might just make a scene. Your call."
Harm clenched his jaw and, against every instinct, led her onto the dance floor.
She folded into him with practiced ease, her body sliding against his like memory. Her arms curled around his neck, fingers brushing the edge of his collar.
"You should be thanking me," she whispered.
"For what?"
"Calloway's guilty verdict. Probably saved your life. And his."
Harm stilled. Ice slid down his spine.
She smiled, triumphant. "I know you're still digging. Lindbergh? Really? Walk away. Let it go."
He didn't blink. Didn't smile. But inside, something coiled—tight and precise. She'd just walked straight into it. She'd said the name. Only one other person knew. Now he knew where the leak was coming from.
"I have," he said, casual.
"Good. I won't make another courtesy call."
"I didn't invite the first one."
"I invited myself," she said, reaching up to adjust his tie—knowing it drove him crazy.
It was then that Harm looked up. Across the floor, wrapped in candlelight and red satin, Mac swayed in the arms of her date.
Their movements were intimate, easy. But Harm knew better. He knew that look in her eyes. He knew that breath she held.
Connie followed his gaze and smirked.
"Cute couple," she said. "I told you to let her go. Unfortunately, I'm no longer around to help you forget."
"You never helped me forget."
"Oh, darling. The way you used to respond? Could've fooled me."
"I was a fool. And now? Forget you ever knew me."
He released her like a page from a story he never should've opened—and didn't look back.
Breaking away from the suffocating encounter, Harm's gaze returned instinctively across the room— pulled again toward the woman he couldn't stop watching, and the man he couldn't stop envying.
The crystal in his glass caught the light, amber liquid shifting as he rolled his wrist—slow, deliberate, the kind of control he was known for. The kind he was barely holding onto.
Because across the room, Mac was laughing.
She was stunning, wrapped in a red dress that fit like a whispered dare—one she had no idea she was making. Satin hugged every graceful line of her body, the slit teasing with each step, the neckline just shy of scandal. The candlelight kissed her skin like it had missed her, turning her into something half-forbidden and wholly unforgettable.
And the Senator was standing too damn close.
He leaned in with that effortless, practiced charm—the kind that won elections and made people forget their instincts. His hand ghosted the small of her back again, fingers brushing bare skin like it was his right.
Mac smiled.
Slow. Knowing.
The bourbon burned on the way down.
Harm's jaw ticked as he rolled his shoulders beneath the perfectly cut tuxedo—tailored to command, to conceal tension beneath structure. But it felt too tight. Too hot. He was boiling in silence, and the worst part was—he knew exactly what this was.
Jealousy. Sharp. Unapologetic. Unforgiving.
Red. Her dress.
Red. The flush that had colored her cheeks during the vows.
Red. The fire currently building beneath his ribs, low and lethal.
He'd once had it all. That body, that laugh, that gaze—it had once been his sanctuary, his war zone, his everything. And now it was standing beside a man who had no idea how dangerous she could be when she was yours.
Consumed by jealousy's slow burn, Harm was too preoccupied to notice someone approaching— someone who had seen through him more clearly than he ever saw himself.
A sharp clap to his shoulder snapped him out of it.
"I wouldn't do it, son."
He turned, unsurprised.
Admiral Chegwidden stood beside him, drink in hand, expression half-gruff, half-understanding. The old man had worn every rank in the book—and seen through every defense Harm ever tried to put up.
"Do what?" Harm muttered, voice low, detached.
AJ raised a brow. "Spontaneously combust."
A bitter chuckle slipped out. "I'm fine."
"You're staring like you're one heartbeat away from flipping the damn table."
"What do you know about him?" Harm asked, jaw tight.
"Doesn't matter," AJ said. "She spent half the ceremony watching you. Don't be blind just because it hurts."
Harm's grip on his glass tightened. "I messed it up."
AJ's gaze softened. "No surprise there."
He took a slow sip, then glanced back at the dance floor. "But lucky for you, she hasn't moved on. Not really. And neither have you."
Harm nodded toward Mac and the Senator. "Looks like she has."
"It's a bluff. You two have been bluffing each other for over a decade."
"How are you so sure?"
"Son, I sat across from you two for eight years. Assigned cases. Broke up arguments. Watched you try not to fall in love—and fail spectacularly. What I didn't see coming was how long it'd take you to do something about it."
Harm gave a tight smile. "Can't argue with that."
"Good," AJ said. "You'd lose."
He sipped again, then turned serious. "Let me ask you something. Your last case—did you win or lose?"
"Lost."
"You filing an appeal?"
Harm looked at him. "Every fiber of my being says my client's innocent."
AJ nodded. "Then why the hell are you treating your love life like it doesn't deserve the same fight?"
Harm blinked.
"You're a damn fine officer. One of the best lawyers. But when it comes to her—you navigate like you've lost your compass. Pick it up, Rabb. Find your heading."
"So what, just… go for it?"
"Appeal the verdict. Fight for the truth. And don't stop until you get it. You've never backed down from a fight—why start now?"
Harm opened his mouth—but froze.
He heard her laugh again—softer now. Closer.
The Admiral's tone dropped a shade. "Too late to run," he said before stepping back towards the bar, and away from the inevitable.
Harm didn't turn. He didn't need to. He felt her before he saw her.
The subtle shift in the air. The quiet static that always followed her, like lightning about to strike.
Before Harm could fully digest AJ's stark advice, the moment he both dreaded and craved was upon him, carried forward by footsteps that quickened his pulse.
"Captain Rabb," Gray said, stepping forward first, extending his hand. His tone was civil, confident, maybe even friendly—but there was a layer beneath it. "Senator Gray Hudson."
Harm took his time returning the handshake, grip steady, gaze unreadable. "Senator."
Mac opened her mouth as if to cut through the tension, but neither man gave her the space.
"I've heard a lot about you," Gray continued, holding Harm's eye a second too long. "Mac speaks highly of her old partner."
Harm's jaw shifted. "That right?"
Mac's eyes flicked between them. "Gray—"
"She said you two worked well together," Gray added smoothly, "had a certain… rhythm. That must've been hard to walk away from."
"It was," Harm said evenly, "Some things aren't easy to leave behind."
The air snapped taut between them.
"We were colleagues," Mac said carefully, trying to defuse. "You know that."
"Sure," Gray replied. "But you never said how things ended."
She paused. Just for a breath. But long enough.
And Harm caught it—the flicker, the guilt, the ache.
"I imagine she didn't," Harm said softly, eyes never leaving hers. "Some endings never really end." He let the silence linger, then added, "I've been meaning to give Mac a ring."
Mac's breath hitched, as if his words—and the weight behind them—had stolen the air from her lungs.
Gray's smile faltered for half a second before it settled again. "Well. Sounds like unfinished business."
Mac slowly recovered, her hand drifting to Gray's arm—gently, warningly. "Can we not do this here?"
Harm didn't move. "We're just catching up."
But his eyes were locked on her, not Gray.
And she couldn't look away.
"You look beautiful tonight, Mac." The words were low. Not meant for the room. Only for her.
She blinked. Tucked a curl behind her ear, slowly.
"Thank you."
The weight of the silence between them said everything else.
Then—deliberate—Harm turned to Gray.
"If you don't mind…"
Gray arched a brow, his head tilting slightly, the motion subtle—but sharp.
"Mind if I borrow her for one dance?"
Mac's eyes widened, just a breath—enough for both men to notice.
Gray's jaw twitched, but he stepped back, masking it with a practiced nod. "Of course."
Harm extended his arm.
Mac hesitated.
She didn't look at Gray.
Then, finally, she reached for Harm. And the moment her hand touched his, something in her settled… and unraveled.
Stepping onto the dance floor, Harm knew this single moment could redefine every silent conversation, every implicit truth between them.
Harm leaned in, his voice low and just for her.
"I wasn't sure you'd say yes."
"I almost didn't," she whispered.
The world faded around them.
The noise, the crowd, the ache of waiting.
His hand slid to her waist, the other curling around hers.
Their bodies fit too easily. Too naturally. Her perfume curled around him like memory and sin.
Their eyes locked.
Their history pressed between them, silent but suffocating.
Harm turned them subtly, angling his frame to block Gray's view.
Then, his fingers traced along the open line of her back—the same way he had that one night neither of them ever talked about.
"You're playing with fire," she breathed.
"I always did like the burn," he murmured, his voice like velvet and danger, the heat of his touch drawing a shiver from her spine.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"Remember—I know what you like."
He pulled her closer.
And she didn't resist.
Because the truth was, they moved like gravity had been waiting for this moment all along.
The music slowed—a velvet piano, a sultry saxophone. A rhythm made for confession.
Harm's hand rested at the small of her back, fingertips brushing bare skin just above the curve of her hips. Mac's breath hitched—barely—but enough for him to feel it. Her other hand hovered lightly against his chest, the thin cotton of his shirt no match for the heat between them.
They moved in sync. Too easily. Like they'd done this for a hundred lifetimes.
"London suits you," she said, voice carefully neutral.
"So I've been told." His hand flexed subtly at her waist. "Though it's colder than I expected."
"You should've packed a better coat."
"I did," he murmured. "Didn't realize I'd be leaving the real warmth behind."
Her gaze flicked upward—sharp, but not dismissive.
"I heard about the Calloway case," she said after a beat.
"Did you?"
"I also heard it was sealed faster than anything out of Langley."
His jaw tightened. "Funny how justice disappears when someone in the shadows decides the outcome."
"You're still chasing ghosts."
"You're still avoiding them."
They turned through a slow pivot. The hem of her red dress brushed against his shins. Her perfume hit him again—jasmine and something darker. Something dangerous.
"Gray's good for you," he said, lying.
She stiffened—just for a moment. "He is."
"He knows how to work a room. Knows what to say. Knows how to touch you… in all the right places."
Her eyes darkened. "Don't do this."
"I'm just making conversation," he replied smoothly, though his grip had tightened at her waist.
"You're provoking."
"Maybe."
They moved again. Closer now. Not quite touching, but the space between them vibrated with everything unsaid.
"Why did you ask me to dance, Harm?"
He met her gaze, unwavering. "Because I needed to know."
"Know what?"
"If you still feel it."
She didn't answer. Her silence said more than any confession could.
His thumb brushed the small of her back.
"Tell me you don't remember," he whispered, "how you looked at me our last night here."
Her breath caught.
"Tell me you don't remember the way I kissed you—slow, like I had all the time in the world. Like I never wanted to stop."
Her eyes flicked away.
"Tell me," he said, softer now, more dangerous, "you haven't thought about it since."
She swallowed. "This isn't fair."
"Neither is standing in a room full of our closest friends, watching another man put his hands on you."
"Harm—"
He leaned in, his voice low at her ear. "I still feel it, Mac."
A shiver rolled down her spine.
"I feel it every time I close my eyes. Every time I hear your voice in my head when I'm oceans away. Every time I wake up and wish I'd fought harder."
She said nothing.
Their eyes locked. The room faded. All that remained was history, hunger, heartache.
And heat.
God, what I want to do to you right now, he thought.
He didn't say it aloud—not all of it. But it pulsed between them.
I want to take this tie off and bind your wrists above your head. Because we both know what you do with your hands when I have my way with you.
I want to pour that glass of sparkling cider over you and taste every inch of your skin until my name is the only one you remember.
I want to feed you a piece of wedding cake, then kiss you, touch you, devour you until every man you've looked at in the last two years is erased by the feel of my mouth, my hands, my body.
The final note of the song lingered, then faded.
They didn't move.
They stood in silence, suspended in the moment, breath held like a secret.
And then, finally—she stepped back.
Just one step.
But it felt like a cliff.
"Harm…"
He didn't reach for her. Didn't plead. Just watched her go, every inch of distance a reminder that the fire between them hadn't died.
It had just been waiting.
Gray was waiting, too. Mac returned to his side like nothing had happened.
But she didn't look back.
She didn't have to.
Harm was still watching.
And she knew it.
As the celebration began to ebb, leaving only the echoes of laughter behind, Harm made a quiet irrevocable decision— one he knew could change everything.
The reception had begun to thin, laughter drifting into the night air like candle smoke. Mac and Gray moved through the last of the crowd, her hand resting lightly on his arm, his polished charm still in full effect as he thanked well-wishers, posed for photos, and exchanged parting handshakes.
But Harm never stopped watching.
He lingered near the edge of the tent, no longer tasting the last sip of his drink, his tie loose around his collar, jaw tight. The dance still clung to him—her scent, her warmth, the silent way her body had melted against his. That hadn't been imagination.
It had been them. Rediscovered in motion.
And he wasn't about to let her walk away again.
As the final farewells faded, Harm slipped quietly from the reception tent into the garden beyond.
Victorian Springs stretched beneath a canopy of starlight and flowering trees. Harm took his place beneath the largest oak—its limbs sprawling, its shadow thick, its roots deeper than the secrets they kept.
When he saw them emerge—Mac and Gray, arm in arm, heading toward the gravel path where a sleek car idled—he stepped out just far enough for the lantern light to catch his silhouette.
"Mac."
Her name was a whisper. A tether.
She paused mid-step. Turned slowly, eyes scanning the darkness. And then they found him.
Gray followed her gaze. "Everything okay?"
She hesitated—just a breath. "Give me a second?"
Gray glanced at Harm. Then nodded, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I'll wait by the car."
When she turned back, Harm was already retreating, deeper beneath the shelter of the tree. Into the hush of shadows and fractured moonlight. She followed—her heels crunching lightly on the path, the lanterns casting her in a soft, golden haze.
He stood a few paces in, still. Waiting.
She stopped at the edge of the dark.
"What is this, Harm?"
He didn't move. "I watched you dance tonight," he said, voice low. "I didn't have to touch you to know you remembered."
"I can't—"
"Why not?" he asked gently. "Because you're with Gray?"
She nodded, slow. "He's a good man."
"I'm sure he is." Harm didn't flinch. "But he's not the one you remember when it's quiet. Not the one who knows what song you hum when you think no one's listening. Or how your breath changes when you're falling asleep."
She looked away. He stepped closer.
"He's not the one who kissed you that night before we left."
Mac's eyes snapped to his.
"He's not the one you touched like you didn't want morning to come."
"That night… was complicated."
"No," Harm said softly. "That night was real. For once, we didn't talk ourselves out of it. We let go."
She swallowed.
"I saw the way you looked at me. During the ceremony. During the dance. You haven't forgotten."
"How can I forget?" she whispered—like a wound.
He stepped close enough for her to feel him.
"Then don't pretend this is something it's not."
She opened her mouth, but he cut her off—gently.
"Gray is just another version of what's come before. Clay. Mic. Dalton. John. They orbit. But they never stay. Because they're not me."
"What about Connie?"
"She isn't you. Neither was Diane, Annie, Jordan, or Renee."
Mac drew a sharp breath.
"I know how your fingers trembled when I touched your back. I know the way your breath hitched when I whispered your name. I know the way you looked at me—like everything else disappeared."
"It's not that simple."
"It is," he said, pulling a slip of folded paper from inside his coat. "You asked me for one night, back then. That's all I'm asking now."
He placed the note in her hand—deliberate. Fingers lingering.
"It's the address to where I'm staying."
She looked down.
"I heard Gray say his flight leaves tonight."
She looked up again.
"See him off," Harm said, voice low, quiet thunder. "And then come to me."
He stepped back into the shadows.
And this time, I won't let anything—or anyone—stand between us."
The dark swallowed him whole.
Standing on the delicate boundary between past and present, Mac felt every heartbeat pulling her toward a choice she'd spent years trying not to make.
Mac stood at the edge of light and dark. Gray waited behind her, golden in the glow of the lanterns.
Before her, the shadows whispered everything she hadn't dared to want.
Everything she still did.
1125
That was the number on the condo door. Gleaming brass, freshly polished, set into the dark wood like it had something to prove.
Mac stared at it.
It reflected her face, fragmented and faint. Taunting. Daring her to knock.
She didn't. She hadn't. Not yet.
Her internal clock was painfully aware—it had been exactly eleven minutes and twenty-five seconds since she stepped off the elevator and onto his floor. The hallway had long gone still. Her bag sat beside her, untouched. In her hand, the scrap of paper he had pressed into her palm—creased, damp, ink smudged. Like it had absorbed her indecision and turned it into something messier. Something harder to read.
Like fate rewriting itself.
She dropped the bag.
Turned around.
Leaning her back against the door, she let her head fall back against the wood with a soft, dull thud. Her breath left her in a single, shaky exhale.
Tonight would change everything.
It would change her relationship with Gray—a man she had tried, earnestly, to build something with, what she had thrown herself into, convinced that consistency was better than passion. That a clean slate was safer than an old scar.
But she had lied. To him. To herself.
Because this—this pull, this ache—had never gone away.
Tonight would change what she could no longer deny Harm. Because the last time she walked away, after just one night, it took every last shred of discipline she had to board a flight to San Diego with his touch still burned into her skin.
And most of all, tonight would change her.
Because the Marine Colonel she'd spent years becoming—sharp, contained, resolute—had nothing on the woman trembling outside this door, wanting the only man who had ever unraveled her completely.
It was the only ripple in the sea of her life that remained unchanged—no matter the winds, the waves, or the illusion of calm shores.
She wanted him.
She wanted him badly.
No distance, no duty, no decorum had ever dimmed that.
She glanced back at the elevator doors, catching her reflection in the mirrored steel. Her gaze mapped the path of his fingers—along the dip of her spine, the slope of her shoulder, the inside of her wrist where he'd pressed his thumb during the dance. Every place he'd touched her felt like a question she was finally ready to answer.
She turned.
Picked up the bag.
Faced the door.
And knocked.
A pause. Long enough for second thoughts to swirl.
Then—soft footsteps. The click of a lock.
The door opened.
Harm stood there.
The coat was gone. His dress shirt was half unbuttoned, untucked, clinging to the ridges of his torso. His tie hung loose around his neck like an afterthought. Barefoot. Disheveled. Beautiful.
Like he'd been pacing. Like he hadn't expected her. Like he had.
His eyes locked on hers.
And whatever restraint they'd both clung to unraveled in an instant.
He stepped toward her—no words, no hesitation—and cupped her face in his hands. His mouth found hers like he'd waited years for the moment. Because he had. They both had.
There was no audience now. No politics. No uniforms. No one to pretend for.
Just this.
Them.
And when he finally pulled back, breathing hard, his thumb lingered on her jaw like he couldn't let go.
Still, he said nothing.
He reached for her bag.
She didn't stop him.
He stepped aside, holding the door open, waiting.
She walked through.
And as the door clicked shut behind her, Mac glanced at the clock on the entryway table.
11:25 p.m.
Of course it was.
Just like the number on the door.
Just like the minutes and seconds it took to decide everything.
The shallow steps stretched before them like an unspoken invitation, each one climbing toward the inevitable. The hallway behind them had quieted, swallowed by the hush of midnight and decisions already made.
Panoramic windows framed the eastern skyline, but the city lights did little to touch the darkness inside the bedroom. Only the color red glowed—her dress, now a memory, had become his compass. His tether. The only thing anchoring him to restraint… and the very thing unraveling it.
Harm's arms enveloped her, pulling her into an embrace so intense the universe seemed to contract until only they remained. He nestled his head into the curve of her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.
"What took you so long?" he murmured, his voice a fervent whisper, etched with longing.
She shivered at the sound. "I tried to talk myself out of it," Mac confessed, the words soft, stripped bare—stolen from the part of her she usually kept locked away.
He stilled, tension thrumming in the silence.
"And?"
Her lips trembled. "And…" Her voice faltered. Then she reached for him—fingers threading into his hair, her mouth claiming his with the urgency of everything left unsaid.
The kiss wasn't polite. It was fierce. Consuming. It was every stolen moment, every goodbye, every night she'd lain awake wondering what it would feel like if she hadn't walked away.
He groaned against her mouth as their bodies collided—years of distance collapsing beneath the weight of longing—and in that moment, restraint became memory.
She hadn't needed a sign. The night had declared itself long before she reached his door. Gray's call had filled the entire drive to the airport. His goodbye kiss had been perfunctory, a mere brush of lips from a man already gone. Every light on the ride back to her hotel turned green.
There was no hesitation. No interference.
Nothing left to hide behind.
And Harm had made that clear the moment the door closed behind her. He hadn't said a word. Just dropped her bag, lifted her off her feet, and set her on the narrow foyer table like she was the only thing he'd ever needed to hold again. His mouth found hers like a man relearning his first language—hungry, fluent, and sure.
Behind him, a framed photo hung on the wall—a sailboat cutting through still waters. In the sheen of the glass, Mac caught a glimpse of herself: eyes dark, lips parted, dress half-off, one strap slipping down her shoulder. She saw his hands, broad and reverent, gliding down her body. His head tucked against her chest like a man worshipping something holy.
She was drowning—and not even the painted lifeboat could save her now.
His voice pulled her back. A whisper against her lips, rough with want. "Do you know what you in red does to me?"
She could hardly speak. But memory answered first. The same as you in dress whites, she had once told him. A confession that lived in the center of who they were.
"I've been a jealous bastard all night," Harm confessed, dragging his fingers down her arms, slowly sliding the straps of her dress free. "It took Chegwidden to talk me off the ledge."
Her dress slipped to the floor in a hush of satin. She stepped over it like shedding an old version of herself.
"Good," she said, voice drier than her throat. "I'd rather be here doing this… than posting bail."
She reached for his belt.
He stopped her—fingers steady, eyes smoldering. Then he pulled the black tie from around his neck and wound it slowly around her wrists.
"Aht, aht," he said with a crooked smile. "I told you… I have plans."
Her breath hitched as he lifted her again, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Her bound hands rose over his shoulders, fingers lacing at the nape of his neck.
He laid her gently in the center of the bed—lush, dark sheets whispering secrets under her bare skin. She watched as he stepped back to undress, each motion deliberate. The way he shrugged off his shirt. The way the soft lamplight skated over the ridges of his chest, the taut muscle of his arms. He was still carved like the man she remembered, built to outpace men half his age. And he was all hers tonight.
She licked her lips without meaning to.
Beautiful.
When he returned, his hands moved to her tied wrists, guiding them to the headboard.
"You know the rules," he murmured. The challenge hanging in the air: don't let go. See how long she could resist touching him. The game they played in whispers and sighs. She gripped the top rail without a word, her arms stretched above her head in quiet surrender.
He began slowly. Reverently. Lips on her throat, hands cradling her breasts. He worshipped her skin like it was memory turned flesh—each kiss a benediction, each stroke a promise not yet spoken.
"God, I missed you," he breathed as he closed his mouth around her nipple. She arched, and the sound she made was raw and unguarded.
His mouth moved to the other breast, tongue circling, teasing, the graze of his teeth pulling a gasp from deep in her lungs. Still, her hands held. White-knuckled. Determined.
He kissed his way down her stomach. Lifted her hips. Slid her thong off with aching slowness.
And then he looked up—his eyes molten, wicked. "You think you'll last?" he asked, breath teasing across the heat of her.
She opened her mouth—but only a moan came out.
He smiled.
And then he lowered his head.
The first contact of his tongue nearly undid her. He licked. Sucked. Drew slow, torturous circles that made her body quake against the sheets. His fingers held her steady, his tongue relentless. She writhed beneath him, her moans climbing higher, sharper.
And then—
"Harm," she gasped, hips lifting to meet his mouth. "Oh my God."
Her hands tangled in his hair before she realized what she'd done.
He smiled against her, victorious.
She came undone in a shiver of sound and heat, crying out as he drew every last tremble from her.
He kissed his way up her body, untying her wrists as he went. When he reached her lips, he looked down at her—cheeks flushed, chest rising fast.
"How is it possible," he whispered, "for you to be even more beautiful than I remembered?"
She couldn't answer. She was still catching her breath.
He stood and stripped the rest of the way, and when he returned, his body covered hers again. He guided her leg around his waist and slid into her in one slow, perfect stroke.
Her eyes closed. Her mouth opened on a breathless moan.
"I've dreamed of this," he whispered into her ear.
He moved inside her like he knew her—every rhythm, every gasp, every place that unmade her.
And she knew him. Her hips met his, her moans tangled with his breath.
"Does he know?" Harm growled into her throat. "Does he know what you sound like when you beg?"
He slowed his thrusts to a cruel crawl.
Mac's eyes fluttered open. He was staring down at her with an intensity that made her shiver.
But she didn't answer.
He waited.
She shifted beneath him, angling her hips to force his hand, to make him give in. But he held steady. And then—he withdrew completely, leaving her empty and aching.
A beat. Then two.
"Please," she whispered, breath catching.
"Please what?"
He returned to her with shallow, torturous strokes—his restraint unraveling, but still intact. He needed to hear it.
"Please, Harm," she said, voice trembling. "Harder. Deeper."
That was all it took.
His mouth crashed to hers. His hips snapped forward, hard, deep, perfect.
And this time, there were no games.
Only truth.
Only the fire they'd never put out.
Only the way she screamed his name like it still belonged to her.
And when they finally came—together, breathless, burning—he buried his face in her neck and whispered a vow that would outlast any uniform he'd ever worn.
"I'm never letting you go again."
Mac's only response was to thread her fingers through his, anchoring herself to the moment.
Then she closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest, letting the quiet settle in around them.
The sky had shifted from velvet black to a smoky indigo, the faintest edges of morning curling at the horizon like breath beneath skin. Mac stood alone on the balcony, wrapped in thick white terry cloth, her hair falling in loose waves down her back. The city yawned beneath her, still slumbering, unaware of the storm that had raged inside the condo behind her.
There were no mirrors out here. No reflections to catch the flush of her cheeks, the dazed swell of her lips, the bite marks she hadn't even felt him leave. And thank God for that. Every surface inside that place had turned into a witness.
She'd seen herself in all of them.
Bent over the piano in the den, Harm's hands gripping her hips, the mirror along the wall catching every surge, every gasp as he drove into her with something between worship and hunger.
In the kitchen, the chrome backsplash glinting with the flicker of candlelight as he licked wedding cake icing from her thighs, sparkling cider from the hollow of her stomach, heat rising off her skin as quickly as the sweat on his back.
In the panoramic windows—the skyline a mosaic around them—she had watched herself rise and fall, his hands at her waist, his mouth open in a silent groan, her body reflected a dozen times, legs trembling as he made her come apart again. And again.
Even the fogged glass of the bathroom hadn't spared her. She'd watched, breathless, as he pressed her into the shower tile, lifting her like she weighed nothing, grinding into her with a slow, delicious fury that left her shivering even now.
Out here, there was only the chill air and the slow settling of her pulse.
Until she felt his arms wrap around her waist from behind.
Harm's low, warm murmur drifted into her ear, as if the night itself conspired with his voice. "I was wondering where you'd gone," he said, his chin gently resting on her shoulder. The intimacy of that touch made her pulse quicken as he added teasingly, "Not hiding from me, are you?"
A delicate smile curved her lips as she tilted her head just enough, allowing her hair to slip softly against his cheek. "I needed some air," she replied, her voice carrying the quiet honesty of a whispered confession.
"Me too," he murmured, drawing her closer so that the space between them melted into the night.
"This is a nice place," Mac said, her gaze drifting over the sweeping view.
Harm's tone turned playful as he recounted the story behind the venue. "It's Frank's. He uses it when he's in town for business. Heard I'd be here this weekend and handed me the keys. Left his signature, too—fully stocked fridge, fresh linens, and a post-it that said, 'Behave.'"
He paused, lips brushing her temple.
"Maybe he knew exactly what I'd be doing when a certain brunette strolled in, draped in red silk, stealing the spotlight at the wedding."
A soft chuckle escaped her, mingling with the night's gentle sounds.
With a tender kiss just below her ear, he added, "Congratulations, by the way. Colonel Mackenzie. A silver eagle now."
She turned slightly, eyes wide with surprise at the sudden shift in conversation. "Thank you, Harm," she managed, her voice laced with both gratitude and vulnerability.
He nuzzled into the curve of her neck, his tone carrying a trace of regret. "I would've called," he confessed, "but I figured I was the last person you wanted to hear from."
Shaking her head, her words came soft and sincere, "Honestly, it didn't feel the same without you."
Pulling back just enough so that his eyes could search hers, he teased, "Does a few hours of spectacular sex make up for me not calling?"
Her smile turned sly, filled with unspoken promises. "Considering the effort… yeah. You more than made up for it."
Together, they slipped into a comfortable silence, their quiet rhythm underscored by the tender press of his arms around her, as the silver moonlight traced gentle, glowing lines across their intertwined skin.
After a moment of hushed reflection, she spoke, "I saw your mom a while ago." Her tone held the comforting warmth of shared memory as she continued, "I ran into her at dinner one night. We've met a couple of times for coffee."
He paused, his body momentarily still as the news sank in. "You have?"
"She… misses you," Mac said softly, her gaze drifting over the city below. "She talks about you like you're still seventeen. It's sweet. You're lucky, Harm—to have someone who loves you that much."
Harm's grip tightened in a silent acknowledgment before he replied in a low tone, "I am lucky, but not because of that."
A lingering glance passed between them before he pressed a series of gentle kisses along her shoulder. "I'm lucky because I get to stand here, with you, bathed in this moonlight. So many nights in London, I found myself wondering what you were doing, who you were with, and if you missed me."
For a long moment, she said nothing, merely sinking into the comfort of his arms. Finally, in a soft whisper, her truth emerged: "I did. And tonight should have proven that."
A teasing tone returned to his voice as he added, "Sturgis told me that Cresswell's still losing sleep over how you keep outshooting him. Word is, you two draw an eager crowd during requal."
Mac rolled her eyes in amused exasperation. "He keeps trying to tell me what makes a good Marine, as if he's not looking at one. I light him up every single time."
"And Vukovic's under you?" Harm's voice sharpened just a bit, laced with curiosity.
A smirk danced on her lips as she replied confidently, "Barely. I told him he had one shot. He hasn't crossed me yet—but believe me, I'm watching."
He nodded with an affectionate grin, then brushed a lingering kiss across her temple as silence settled once more between them—a silence that felt deeply comfortable and achingly close.
But then his voice cut through it— soft, serious.
"Why did you send it back?"
She knew exactly what he meant.
The question hung in the cool night air, charged with memories—the ring, their last night in D.C. Each word was a reminder of unfulfilled promise and paths not taken.
She didn't answer right away. And before she could try, his lips found her neck again, slower now. His hands slipped under the robe, fingers splayed over her ribs like he was reminding himself she was here, real.
"You mean everything to me," he whispered, tongue flicking just behind her earlobe. "You know that, don't you?"
Her breath caught. Her grip tightened on the balcony railing.
He nudged the robe down her arms. "Say you know."
But she didn't say anything.
She moaned instead when he slid his length inside her from behind, slow and deep, his hands bracing her at the hips as her palms met the cold iron rail. The robe puddled at her feet.
"I've waited so long for this," he said, voice low and shaking against her spine. "You're mine, Mac. I'm yours. That's the truth. And I'm not going anywhere until you believe it."
Still, she didn't answer. She didn't have to. Her silence said it all—and none of it was simple.
But her body did—rocking back, meeting him thrust for thrust, gasping as he filled her completely. When they came, it was like surrendering to a tide too strong to fight.
Her cry broke open across the skyline, wild and unguarded.
They kissed, slow and reverent, and he wrapped her back in the robe like he was sealing a promise.
He gently led her inside, and in the quiet intimacy of the room, they collapsed into bed—bodies still entangled in the residual warmth of passion and the deep, unspoken bond that needed no further words.
Hours later, the phone buzzed once on the nightstand.
She stirred, the weight of the night still clinging to her, the scent of him on her skin. She reached for it.
A single text.
I heard you've been looking for me. Meet in an hour. Come alone.
She blinked, heart catching.
"Who is this?" she typed, still foggy with sleep.
The reply came instantly.
Someone who has the information you need.
She sat up.
Slipped out from under Harm's arm as gently as she could.
Dressed quickly.
Grabbed her phone.
Mac moved swiftly through the apartment, careful not to stir the quiet too much. Harm shifted once in his sleep, an arm reaching for her, but she was already out of reach. She hesitated at the front door, fingers hovering over the handle. The message echoed in her head.
Meet me in one hour. Come alone.
She slipped out silently, pulling the door shut behind her with a soft click.
The corridor was hushed. Cool. Her footsteps were nearly soundless on the plush carpet as she made her way toward the elevator. The hallway's sconces cast long, moody shadows across the walls. She exhaled and pressed the floor button.
Behind her, a door creaked open.
"Mac?"
Harm's voice—rough with sleep, edged with confusion.
She turned halfway. He stood barefoot in the doorway, a pair of boxers clinging to his frame like an afterthought. Hair tousled. Bare-chested. Eyes narrowing as they locked with hers.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
She opened her mouth—but the elevator dinged.
They both turned.
The doors slid open with a soft chime.
No passengers.
Just a manila folder, placed neatly at the center of the elevator floor.
Mac stepped forward instinctively, a chill coiling at the base of her spine. She bent to pick it up, hands suddenly not as steady as before.
She peeled the flap open—and froze.
Inside was a surveillance photo.
Of Harm.
Grainy, high-angle. Taken in London. Labeled with date and coordinates.
And across the top, stamped in red:
Calloway – CLASSIFIED.
Her gaze dropped to the line beneath the photo.
TARGET: RABB.
Her heart lurched.
Behind her, Harm took another step forward, voice low now. "Mac—what the hell is that?"
She looked at him—but her expression was unreadable. Calculating. Torn.
The elevator chimed again—its doors beginning to close.
Harm surged forward.
"Mac—wait!"
But it was too late.
The doors slid shut between them with a final, metallic snap.
He reached out, slamming a palm to the cold steel—but the elevator had already begun to descend. He cursed, backing away in frustration, running a hand through his hair.
Inside the elevator, Mac stared down at the folder clutched in her hands, her reflection staring back in the brushed metal walls— haunted.
The taste of him should've lingered on her lips. But now, all she could taste was fear—as she made her way to the mysterious caller, alone.
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