Chapter 64 Harper
Harper
The cabin was too quiet.
I sat curled on the bed, Carter’s flannel wrapped tight around me, listening to the groan of the wind through the trees. Every creak, every snap of a branch outside made my pulse race. I told myself it was just the forest, just the night—but the silence between those sounds was worse.
Because silence meant I didn’t know if Carter was still breathing.
I paced the length of the small room, then back again, wearing a path in the wooden floor. River had left one of their radios behind, silent and cold on the dresser. I wanted to pick it up, demand an update, scream into it until someone answered—but I knew better. I’d only get static.
So I did the only thing left to me. I prayed. Not with words I’d memorized as a child, but with the rawest pieces of myself. Please let him come back. Please don’t let this be the night I lose him.
When headlights finally cut across the shutters, I froze. My heart leapt so fast it hurt. The crunch of tires over gravel, the slam of doors, boots pounding against the porch—each sound crashed into me like thunder.
I ran to the hall, flannel wrapped tightly around me, breath lodged tight in my chest.
The door burst open.
Carter filled the frame, broad shoulders, rifle slung, eyes blazing even in exhaustion. His chest heaved, his jaw was set hard—but the moment his gaze found mine, the storm broke.
“Harper.”
My name on his lips. Rough. Shaken. Alive.
I didn’t think. I didn’t breathe. I just launched myself at him. His arms caught me instantly, lifting me clean off the floor, his body solid and shaking under mine. His face pressed to my hair, his breath ragged like he couldn’t believe I was real.
The tears came hot and fast, soaking into his shirt. “You came back.”
His arms tightened, crushing me to him. “Always,” he rasped. “You hear me? Always.”
And in that moment, I didn’t care about the war outside these walls. Didn’t care about contracts or networks or shadows in the night.
Because Carter was here. And for one heartbeat, that was enough.