EPILOGUE
The wind kicked up dust as the Jeep rolled to a stop just outside a sprawling hangar tucked at the edge of a private airstrip north of San Diego. The sun sat high over the desert hills, glinting off the corrugated metal siding and casting long shadows across the cracked pavement.
One week since the BBQ. One week since Ghost had told the team about Ghost Division. One week since he'd asked her to move in.
And now this, their future, taking shape in steel and concrete.
Ghost climbed out first, his boots crunching against the gravel. Rachel followed, squinting up at the massive hangar doors and the wide lot that surrounded them. Beyond the fencing, a single other hangar stood off to the west, marked only by a weathered nameplate for a rare aircraft parts company.
"You vet the neighbor?" Rachel asked, her tone light, teasing.
Ghost smirked as he circled to her side, his hand sliding to the small of her back. "Former military. Keeps to himself. Company's legit. I ran a full background."
Rachel arched a brow. "Of course you did."
"Can't be too careful," he murmured, guiding her toward the entrance. His thumb traced slow circles against her hipbone, the warmth of his touch spreading through the thin fabric of her sundress.
Inside, the space stretched wide, vaulted ceilings, reinforced steel beams, and enough square footage to land a C-130.
The air was thick with the smell of engine grease and dust, but Rachel could already picture it finished.
Offices with glass walls. A ready room with tactical gear lining the walls.
A war room where missions would be planned.
"Still needs work," he said, walking her through the layout. "But the bones are solid."
He pointed to the far left side of the hangar, where heavy doors marked the beginning of what was already being transformed.
"Offices go there. Two corner rooms and a shared bullpen. Ready room beside it for the team, gear storage, briefing space. Down that hall, we've got the war room. Hardwired, secure. Lead-lined walls. We'll do full surveillance integration once I'm out."
"And when is that again?" she asked, following him as his hand slid from her waist to the back of her neck, fingers brushing the base of her skull.
"Few more months," he said quietly. She smiled. God, she loved hearing that.
They passed through the bare-bones hallway, light streaming through the cracked windowpanes.
"Team locker room's already roughed in. Medical bay next to it.
We'll build out the triage setup once I bring in a full-time medic.
" He paused, turning to face her, his hand trailing down her arm.
"Reception area up front, with a clean entry point for ops.
And a few bunks off the main hallway. Can't predict when you'll need to crash, and I don't want my guys sleeping in vehicles anymore. "
Rachel leaned into him, bumping her hip against his. "You thought of everything."
"I had the right motivation." His eyes darkened.
She tilted her head, smirking. "And what kind of motivation are we talking about?"
He stepped closer, pulling her back against him, mouth at her ear. "The one who looks damn good in a sundress and can't keep her mouth clean when I'm inside her."
Rachel laughed, her breath catching as his arms tightened around her waist. "You're such a savage."
"You love it," he growled, and then he spun her, pressing her back to the cool cinderblock wall.
Her gasp caught between a laugh and a moan, legs parting as his palms slid down to the back of her thighs. He lifted her, pinning her to the wall as her arms wrapped around his neck.
"Logan—"
"I was thinking," he murmured, his mouth brushing hers, "we could christen the place."
"You're not even finished building it," she said, grinning against his lips.
"Exactly. Gotta set the tone."
She kissed him hard, her fingers tangling in his hair as he ground against her. The strength in his hold made her ache.
His mouth dragged down her jaw, his breath hot against her throat. "Tell me you want this."
She didn't hesitate. "I want everything," she whispered, her nails scraping across his shoulders. "The company. This. You."
He growled, hips pushing against her. "Then it's yours."
Ghost's hands slid up the back of her thighs, gathering her sundress slowly, deliberately, until the hem rose over her hips.
He inhaled sharply. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. A low growl rumbled from his chest, his eyes going dark. "You keep surprising me, baby."
Rachel smirked, her arms locked around his neck. "Thought you liked surprises."
His lips brushed hers, then trailed to her jaw, his voice rough against her skin. "I fucking love them."
Still holding her against the wall, one hand steady at her waist, he reached into his back pocket with the other. The shift in his weight pressed her harder against the plaster, and she felt the change in his breathing.
"Logan?" Her voice came out uncertain, questioning.
Then he pulled out a small velvet box.
Rachel's heart stuttered. The box was navy blue, worn at the edges like he'd been carrying it for days, maybe weeks. Her throat went tight.
Ghost opened it with one hand, the other still holding her against him.
The ring wasn't delicate. It was bold, designed to be seen.
A single-cut diamond, set low in brushed platinum, flanked by dark metal edges that caught the light from the window.
The design was sleek, clean, unmistakably modern.
A statement: she was taken, protected, and his.
Rachel's eyes stung. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, anchoring herself.
Ghost looked at her, and she'd never seen his eyes like this, raw, unguarded, stripped of every defense. "I know this has moved fast. And I'm not saying we have to get married tomorrow. But you're it for me, Rachel. You've been it since the moment you slammed into my life."
Her breath hitched. The cool air from the window touched her bare skin, but she was burning everywhere he held her.
"I want you. All of you." His thumb brushed over her hip. "Not just in this fight. Not just in the business. I want you in my bed. In my home. In my name." His forehead pressed to hers, his breath warm against her lips. "Marry me."
The words hung between them. Rachel stared at him, her pulse hammering in her throat. The ring caught the afternoon light, throwing tiny prisms across the wall behind them.
She thought about every moment that had led here, Afghanistan, her apartment, his house, the warehouse. The way he'd looked at her after he rescued her, like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
"Yes." Her voice cracked, barely audible. "Yes, Logan. Yes."
The grin that broke across his face was nothing like his usual smirk, it was open, boyish, completely unguarded. His hands trembled as he pulled the ring from the box and slid it onto her finger. The metal was cool against her heated skin, solid and real and permanent.
She kissed him before the ring was even fully seated, her mouth crashing into his with everything she couldn't put into words.
He made a sound low in his throat, his hands sliding up to frame her face, kissing her back like he was trying to memorize the taste of this moment.
When she pulled back, her eyes were swimming.
She blinked hard, trying to clear them, and realized her cheeks were wet. "I'm crying."
"I can see that." His thumb swept across her cheekbone, catching the tears.
"Happy crying," she clarified, laughing through it, her hands sliding into his hair.
"I know." He kissed her again, softer this time, and she tasted salt on his lips, couldn't tell if it was from her tears or his.
Her newly-ringed hand stayed in his hair while the other drifted down, palm flat against his chest. She could feel his heart slamming against his ribs, could feel the heat radiating through his shirt. When she kissed him again, deeper, she felt the shift, the way the tenderness bled into hunger.
Rachel's fingers found the buttons of his shirt, working them open one by one. His hands tightened on her waist, then slid higher, thumbs grazing the underside of her breasts through the thin cotton of her dress.
Instead of answering, she reached between them, her fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans. The metal was warm from his body heat, and when she finally got it open and slid the zipper down, the sound that tore from his throat was pure need.
She pushed the denim just low enough to free him, and his hips jerked forward. The movement pressed them together, and Rachel gasped at the contact, the heat of him, the solid weight.
"Rachel." Her name came out ragged. His hands gripped her thighs, hitching her higher against the wall, and the ring on her finger caught the light as she tightened her hold on his shoulders.
The plaster was cool and rough against her shoulder blades.
Then, with one deep, smooth stroke, he filled her completely.
They gasped together, sharp and broken, the air punched from both their lungs. Forehead to forehead, hips grinding, Rachel felt the tremor that ran through his body, or maybe it was hers. Maybe it was both of them.
She was soaked and trembling, her inner walls clenching around him.
His rhythm was rough, every stroke driven home with intent, the angle perfect.
Each time he withdrew and drove forward again, her spine scraped lightly against the textured wall, the friction adding another layer she felt everywhere.
"God," he said against her temple, his breath hot and ragged. "You feel so fucking perfect."
Her nails bit into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks, and she didn't care. "Don't stop."
"Not a chance, baby." Then he slammed into her harder.