Chapter 7 Ethan
Ethan
The first shooter drops.
Ava takes him clean—one shot, center mass.
No hesitation.
I pivot and take the second before he can adjust his aim.
Two left.
“Right side!” she calls.
“I see it.”
We move at the same time.
No signal.
No hesitation.
Just instinct.
Gunfire cracks again—closer this time.
A round slams into the crate inches from Ava’s head.
I grab her—pull her down hard against me.
Her body hits mine.
Solid. warm. real.
For a split second—
everything else disappears.
Then I force it back.
“Focus,” I mutter.
Her breath brushes my jaw.
“I am focused.”
Yeah.
That wasn’t the problem.
“Move,” I say.
We break cover fast.
Aggressive. controlled.
I take the third shooter mid-step.
Ava turns and drops the fourth before he gets a second shot off.
Silence crashes over the airstrip.
Sudden.
Heavy.
Gone as fast as it came.
I scan the perimeter.
Clear.
For now.
“We need to move,” I say.
“No argument here.”
Good.
The pilot is already at the plane, wide-eyed but ready.
He’s been paid enough not to ask questions.
Smart man.
“Get us up. Now,” I tell him.
He nods fast.
No delays.
There better not be.
I turn back—
Ava’s already moving toward the plane.
Of course she is.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Just forward.
Always forward.
We board.
The door slams shut behind us.
The engines roar to life.
And finally—we have a second.
Just one.
To breathe.
The cabin is small.
Too small.
Two seats facing each other.
Close enough that our knees almost touch.
No space.
No distance.
No escape.
Of course.
Ava drops into one seat.
I take the one across from her.
My jaw tightens.
This is going to be a problem.
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks.
Just the sound of the engines building as the plane begins to taxi.
Everything else—everything between us—sits there.
Unspoken.
Waiting.
“You hesitated,” she says.
I look at her.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did,” she replies. “Back there.”
I hold her gaze.
“I was adjusting.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“No. You were watching me.”
She’s not wrong.
I was.
I shouldn’t have been.
“You handled yourself,” I say instead.
Her lips twitch.
“That’s your version of a compliment?”
“It’s accurate.”
She leans back slightly—
and winces.
Barely.
But I see it.
Of course I do.
“You’re hurt worse than you’re letting on.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I’ve been worse.”
“That’s not the standard.”
Her eyes flash.
“It is when you don’t have a choice.”
That lands.
Hard.
The plane lifts.
The ground drops away beneath us.
No turning back now.
The tension doesn’t ease.
If anything—
it sharpens.
Because now we’re trapped in it.
Together.
Nowhere to go.
Nowhere to hide.
“You still carry everything on you,” I say, nodding toward her bag.
“Always.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now.”
I study her.
The way she sits.
Alert. ready.
Even here.
Even with me.
“You don’t trust anyone,” I say.
Her gaze meets mine.
Honest.
“No.”
A beat.
Then—
“Except you,” she adds quietly.
That hits harder than anything else she’s said.
“Bad call,” I mutter.
“Probably.”
But she doesn’t take it back.
The plane shifts slightly.
Turbulence.
Nothing major.
But enough.
Ava’s hand tightens on the edge of her seat.
White-knuckled.
I notice.
Of course I do.
“You always hated flying,” I say.
Her eyes flick to mine.
“I didn’t hate it.”
“You dug your nails into my arm so hard I couldn’t feel it for an hour.”
Her lips part slightly.
“You remember that?”
Yeah.
I remember everything.
“That was a long time ago,” I say.
The second the words leave my mouth—
the air changes.
Her expression softens.
Just a fraction.
“For me, it wasn’t,” she says quietly.
I look at her.
Really look at her.
Not the mission.
Not the risk.
Just her.
The woman I lost.
Sitting across from me like no time passed at all.
“That doesn’t make this easier,” I say.
“It does for me.”
Of course it does.
She didn’t live with the loss.
She didn’t bury it.
She didn’t—
No.
Stop.
The plane jolts again.
Stronger this time.
Ava grips the seat harder.
Her breathing shifts.
Controlled—but tighter now.
Without thinking—
I move.
My hand closes around hers.
Everything stills.
Her breath.
Mine.
The space between us.
Her fingers go rigid for half a second.
Then slowly—
they tighten around mine.
Holding on.
Not questioning it.
Not pulling away.
Just—
there.
My thumb shifts slightly.
Barely.
Just enough to feel her.
Warm.
Real.
Alive.
After eight years—
she’s right here.
Her eyes lift to mine.
And for a second—
there’s no anger.
No distance.
No past.
Just this.
Just us.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she whispers.
But she doesn’t let go.
“Then tell me to stop.”
Her breath catches.
Her gaze drops—to our hands—then back to me.
For a second—
I think she might.
Then—
the plane steadies.
The moment fractures.
Just enough.
She pulls her hand back.
Slow.
Careful.
Like it costs her something.
Good.
Because it costs me too.
“We have a target to save,” she says.
Her voice is steady again.
Controlled.
I lean back.
Force distance.
“Less than twenty hours,” I say.
Her eyes sharpen instantly.
“Then we don’t miss.”
“No,” I agree.
“We don’t.”
But something’s changed.
Something neither of us can ignore now.
Because no matter how much time passed…
no matter how much we’ve buried…
no matter how much we pretend this is just a mission—
one thing is becoming very clear.
We never stopped wanting each other.
And that?
Might be the most dangerous thing of all.