Chapter 9 Maggie #2
Give us both this moment where Emma Richardson doesn't exist and the cartel is a distant threat and Guardian HRS protocols don't matter. Where it's just Maggie and Colt and six months of missing each other finally ending.
His hands find my face first, cupping it with a tremor that betrays the six months of pent-up longing, fingers shaking as they trace my jaw, my lips, like he's afraid I'll vanish if he doesn't hold on tight enough.
I lean into him, our mouths crashing together in a kiss that's anything but gentle—teeth clashing, nipping at lower lips, his biting down on mine just hard enough to draw a gasp from me, tasting the salt of sweat and the faint copper edge of desperation.
It's messy, frantic, tongues tangling as if we could devour the distance that's kept us apart.
"God, Maggie," he growls against my mouth, voice raw, broken with need, and his hands drop to my shirt, yanking at the hem with urgent tugs that bunch the fabric before I help him rip it over my head, my bra following in a tangle of straps.
His shirt's gone in the next heartbeat—buttons straining as we pull in opposite directions, the sound of seams giving way swallowed by our ragged breaths—and then we're skin to skin, chest to chest, the first shock of contact electric after so long without.
His body is furnace-hot against mine, scars rough under my palms as I trace them greedily, mapping the hard planes of muscle that's tensed from months of restraint, the places where old wounds and new tension knot together.
The relief hits like a wave: no more longing through barriers, just this—his heartbeat thundering against my breasts, the faint scratch of his dog tags dragging cool across my ribs, sending shivers racing over my heated skin.
I press closer, nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him down onto me as we stumble toward the bed, clothes shedding in a trail of denim and lace—my jeans kicked off with a hiss of zippers, his belt clattering to the floor.
We're starved, ravenous, hands everywhere at once: mine fisting in his hair to angle his head for deeper kisses that bruise my lips, his sliding down my sides with that lingering shake, gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks, thumbs pressing into the soft give of my thighs as he spreads them, settling between like he belongs there.
Emotional and raw, this isn't just bodies—it's us reclaiming what the separation stole, the trust forged in bullets and betrayal now blooming into something fiercer, his eyes locking on mine between bites and breaths, whispering, "Magnolia," like a vow, then "Maggie," like the truth we've both been chasing.
We move together like we've done this a thousand times instead of just once in an abandoned ranch with violence closing in—slower now amid the frenzy, hips grinding in a rhythm that builds deliberate and deep, but laced with that desperate edge, every thrust a gasp of reconnection.
This is different. No perimeter alarms or incoming threats. Just the rain against the window and the sound of our breathing and the way he says my name—both names, Magnolia and Maggie, like they're equally real, like after all the waiting, we're finally whole.
"I missed you," I hear myself say.
"I know." His mouth finds mine again. "I know because I missed you. Every day. Every call I couldn't make. Every time I wanted to track you down and show up anyway."
"But you waited six months."
"Tried to wait two years. Failed spectacularly." He pulls back enough to look at me. "Does that scare you? That I couldn't stay away?"
"No." I trace his jawline, feel the stubble, the realness of him. "It makes me feel less crazy. Because I've been counting days like a sentence, and it's only been six months, and I already—"
"Already what?"
"Already can't remember why I thought I could wait."
His smile is small but real. "So we're both bad at following rules."
"Apparently."
"Good." He kisses me again, and this time it's not desperate. It's a promise. "I'm done with rules that cost me people I—" He stops.
"People you what?"
"People I care about. People who matter. People who—" He's struggling with the words, and I realize this is hard for him. Admitting feeling. Admitting attachment. "People like you."
It's not a love confession. Too soon for that. Too complicated with witness protection and cartel threats and lives that don't quite fit together yet.
But it's real.
And real is enough.
We stay like that for hours. Talking and kissing and falling asleep tangled together on Emma Richardson's couch. He tells me about the psych eval (passed, barely), about CJ's conditions (annoying but fair), and about the past six months of trying to convince himself he could wait.
I tell him about Portland. About Emma Richardson. About working at a coffee shop and living a life that doesn't fit. About wearing Sophia’s dog tags every single day like a countdown.
When I wake up, it's dark outside, and Colt is still here, still solid, still real. His arms are around me, and I can feel his breath against my hair, and for the first time in six months, I feel like I can breathe properly.
"You're still here," I whisper.
"Told you. As long as you'll let me stay."
"How is this going to work? You're in California. I'm here. The program says eighteen more months—"
"We'll figure it out." His arms tighten. "I'm very good at solving problems. And this? This is a problem worth solving."
I turn in his arms to face him. "CJ is going to kill you if he finds out."
"CJ knows."
I blink. "What?"
"He gave me your location. After the psych eval. After I passed all his tests." Colt stops and takes in a deep breath, looks at me like I’m his entire world. "He said some people are worth breaking the rules for. That I should stop punishing myself and go get what I want."
Tears blur my vision. "CJ is a romantic."
"CJ is a strategic pain in the ass who wants his best operator back in fighting shape."
"So he told you where I was."
"Something like that."
I touch the dog tags around my neck. "You're really here. For me. Even though it's complicated and messy and—"
"Yeah, Magnolia. I'm really here." He pulls me closer. "Because six months ago, I made you a promise. Two years, I said. But I'm realizing now that was bullshit. I was always going to come. Whether it was six months or six days. I was always going to find you."
"Why?"
"Because you made me feel something real. First time in five years. Because you're strong, fierce. Because—" He stops, swallows. "Because choosing you feels like choosing right for once. And I'm done choosing wrong."
The tears come again, but this time they're good tears. Relief tears. Six months of holding myself together finally allowed to crack apart because someone's here to catch the pieces.
"Stay," I tell him. "However long you can. Just—stay."
"Okay."
"And then come back. When you have to leave. Come back."
"Okay."
"And in eighteen months when this is over—"
"I'll be right here. Waiting. Ready." His hand cups my face. "Whatever comes next, we figure it out together. No more counting down days alone. No more pretending we can wait when we can't. We do this together."
Together.
The word settles into my chest like a promise.
Like a choice.
Like the beginning of something that started in violence and fear, but might turn into something good.
Something real.
Something worth fighting for.
"Together," I agree.
And when he kisses me this time, it feels like a beginning.
Not an ending.
Not a pause.
A beginning.
Of Colt and Maggie. Frost and Magnolia. Two people who chose each other when choosing was dangerous and maybe a little bit crazy.
But some choices are worth making anyway.
Some promises are worth keeping even when they break the rules.
And some people—some people — are worth crossing state lines, violating witness protection protocols, and showing up six months early because waiting feels impossible.
Colt Harrison is one of those people.
And I'm going to choose him right back.
Again and again and again.
For however long this lasts.
For whatever comes next.
Together.
My phone buzzes with CJ's name flashing on the screen. I show it to Colt.
"Fuck." He pulls at his chin. "Shouldn’t be surprised."
"Do I answer?"
"If you don’t, he’ll just hound you."
I answer on the sixth ring. "Hello?"
"Maggie," CJ says, voice gravelly but warm, the kind of tone that brooks no bullshit but carries respect.
"I've got a job if you're interested. Guardian HRS is thinking about standing up a new team.
Guardian Angels. All-female unit. We need someone with your.
.. unique experience to help stand it up. "
"Excuse me?"
"It will take a minimum of eighteen months to reach full operational capacity. You'll relocate to Guardian HQ, live on base the whole time. Probably won’t be able to leave until the unit’s operational."
I laugh, a real one, sharp and relieved, seeing right through the offer. He's not recruiting; he's engineering this—tying my future to Colt's orbit without forcing it, giving us space to build while locking down the threats that still whisper in the dark.
"You're a meddler, CJ."
"Strategic planner," he corrects, but I hear the smile in his voice. "Frost’s been useless for six months. Figured I’d solve two problems at once. You in?"
I look at Colt, who’s watching me with an expression I’m starting to recognize. Not love—not yet. But the foundation of it. The possibility of it.
"Yeah," I say, grinning into the empty room, the weight lifting like dawn breaking. "I'm in."
The call ends and I stare at my phone.
"Guardian Angels," Colt says. "CJ’s been planning that for years. All-female tactical unit for ops where male operators would compromise the mission."
"Hostage rescue in conservative countries?" I see it.
"Undercover work in trafficking rings."
"Close protection for female VIPs."
"Yeah." He pulls me back down beside him. "CJ’s smart. He saw what you did at that ranch. Former Army medic who can shoot, move, and communicate under fire. You’re exactly what he needs."
"What about what I need."
His arm tightens around me. "Eighteen months on base. With me. Building something good. That work for you?"
"Yeah, that works." I touch the dog tags. Sofia’s ghost is finally released.