Chapter 22
The Aegis office didn’t look any different than it had the week before—same tired paint, same humming window units, same stubborn patch of mildew near the back corner—but the air felt different. Lighter somehow. Or maybe that was just Buddy finally breathing again.
He eased into the old rolling chair behind the desk he’d brought from the Jacksonville office, because he liked stability, and he liked having roots, which was odd, considering he’d been single for a long time.
Not anymore.
He stretched his leg, and it protested the movement. A dull throb radiated up his thigh, but he ignored it. The stitches would hold. The doctor had warned him about “overexertion,” which Buddy translated to “don’t be an idiot,” and then promptly went back to work, anyway.
He set aside a stack of reports—Flagler’s preliminary statements, DHS logs, Miami PD confirmations—and was halfway through signing the last incident form when a shadow crossed the doorway.
Trent stood there.
Still too pale. Still too thin. Still moving like every stitch in his body had been pulled in the wrong direction. But upright, breathing, and wearing a lopsided grin.
“Got a minute?” Trent asked.
Buddy leaned back. “For you? Depends. You planning to pass out again? Because I’m not lifting you.”
Trent snorted and stepped inside. “No promises.” He lowered himself into one of the chairs with a wince he tried to hide. “I, uh… wanted to say thank you.”
“For what? You’re the one who got shot.”
“So did you.” Trent waved his hand toward Buddy’s leg. “I wanted to thank you for saving my mom.” Trent’s voice cracked the tiniest bit—just enough to betray how close he’d come to losing her. “For saving Fallon. For—hell—everything. You didn’t have to do any of it, but you did.”
Buddy swallowed, looked away for half a beat. Accepting compliments wasn’t his strong suit. “She’s family,” he said simply. “Both of you are. That’s the job.”
Trent huffed a laugh. “Funny. Thought it was your former job.”
“Doesn’t change anything.”
A beat of silence stretched between them—comfortable, honest. Then Trent cleared his throat and sat forward, bracing his hands on his knees like a man about to deliver news no one asked for.
“One more thing,” Trent said. “If you ever hurt Fallon—emotionally, physically, accidentally, intentionally, spiritually, telepathically, in a dream or otherwise—I’ll kick your ass.”
Buddy blinked. “Telepathically?”
“Don’t test me, man. I’m creative when I’m pissed.”
A genuine laugh escaped Buddy—deep, unexpected, cutting through the last of the tension lodged under his ribs. “Duly noted.”
Trent stood, nodded , then gripped the doorframe for balance before limping out into the hall.
Buddy watched him go, a quiet swell of relief settling under his sternum.
Linda was still recovering, but she was safe.
Still dying of cancer, but safe. And she would have those last moments with her son—on her terms. No one else's. That was something.
Trent was mending, and even though he could be a pain in the ass, he was one hell of a good man—the best. Buddy would hire him in a nanosecond.
Fallon… God, Fallon had survived the kind of night that carved scars into bone.
And she was still smiling.
He’d take the stitches, the bruises, the nightmares—every last piece of it.
A knock tapped twice against the door.
Buddy sighed. “If this is someone else threatening bodily harm, take a number.”
“It’s worse,” a familiar voice drawled. “It’s the federal government.”
Flagler stepped inside like the office owed him dinner—suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie crooked, and an expression like he hadn’t slept in ten years.
Buddy gestured toward a chair. “If you’re here to write me up, get in line. Dawson already tried.”
“I’m not here to write you up.” Flagler dropped a thick folder on the desk. “I’m here to tell you what the last seven days of federal chaos looks like on paper.”
“Right. Because I’ve never done that before.”
Flagler flipped open the folder. “The tanker was locked down. Miami PD, DHS, Harbor Patrol, and two pissed-off Coast Guard captains converged on the port. We recovered all thirty girls. Alive.” His voice softened for half a second. “Some are in rough shape, but alive.”
Buddy exhaled, tension loosening from his muscles.
“We also raided three warehouses owned by Quinn Porter,” Flagler continued.
“Found evidence of long-term trafficking routes, international buyers, and encrypted manifests. The works. The entire pipeline collapsed in under two days.” He leaned back.
“Biggest takedown I’ve seen in a decade. Bigger than yours.”
Buddy rubbed his jaw. “Good.”
“Good?” Flagler repeated, incredulous. “Ballard, this should be the part where you ask about commendations or promotions or at least enjoy the fact you took down one of the largest trafficking networks on the eastern seaboard.”
Buddy shrugged. “I’m not a fed anymore. And I didn’t do it alone.”
Flagler pointed at him with a pen. “See, that right there? That’s why they’re recommending me for the damn commendation instead of you.”
Buddy barked a laugh. “Figures.”
“I also wanted you to know, and please tell Fallon, we’re doing everything we can to find out what happened to Tessa,” Flager said.
“I’ve spoken to her parents, and we’ve updated the files with all the new information.
I’ll keep an eye out, and if anything at all comes across my desk, you’ll be the first to know. ”
“I really appreciate that.”
Flagler slipped the file shut and stood. “Two more things. One. If you ever pull a stunt like that again, call me five minutes earlier. I had exactly zero prep time to brief Washington.”
Buddy smirked. “Didn’t have five minutes.”
“Second thing,” Flagler said, tone shifting one notch toward sincerity. “No more favors. I mean it. You’ve used up a decade’s worth. And next time you need help, someone better be actively dying.”
“That’s a high bar,” Buddy said.
Flagler patted his shoulder on the way out. “Good thing you’re creative.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Buddy sat back, the room settling around him in a way that finally felt like an ending—not the kind that closed doors, but the kind that left the horizon open and waiting.
Fallon.
He needed to see her.
Not because she was fragile—hell no—but because she was his. Because somewhere between the chaos and the sirens and the kiss that tasted like survival, he’d realized he didn’t want a life that didn’t have her in it.
He reached for the cane he hated to use and pushed himself to his feet.
He had somewhere to be.
Someone to be.
And she was waiting for him.
Fallon sat at the kitchen counter with an open scrapbook in front of her, pages warped at the edges from years of humidity and poor storage.
Tessa’s handwriting curled in bright blue ink across one of the captions—Spring Fling, 2009!
!—so earnest and obnoxious she could almost hear her friend laughing while they glued down the pictures.
A half inch of whiskey glowed amber in Fallon’s glass. It wasn’t doing the job. Not numbing, not smoothing, not settling. Just sitting there like a companion she didn’t ask for.
Her forearm ached with that familiar post-stitch throb. Her ribs felt too tight. And in the soft spill of the kitchen lights, Tessa’s smile—alive and seventeen and untouched by monsters—was too much and not enough all at once.
The front door opened.
She didn’t turn. Only one person walked into her house like he belonged there.
Buddy’s steps were slow, measured, the soft tap of his cane announcing each one. He wasn’t supposed to ditch it yet—stubborn fool—but he was using it just enough to keep her from lecturing him into bed rest.
He stopped beside her, leaned down, and kissed her cheek—warm, familiar, grounding in a way nothing else in the last week had been.
“Hey,” he murmured.
Fallon slid the whiskey bottle toward him. “Want some?”
“Yeah,” he said, “but I’ll get it.”
He reached for a glass himself—slow, careful, refusing the help she offered even as he winced, sitting down beside her. He poured two fingers, took a quiet sip, then set the glass between them.
His hand drifted to the scrapbook. He flipped to the next page, thumb brushing over a photo of Fallon and Tessa splashing each other from a half-sunken rope swing.
“Found a couple of new leads this morning,” he said softly. “Nothing solid yet. But I’m not stopping.”
She swallowed hard. “I know. I love that you’re trying. I do. But…” Her throat tightened. “I also know I might never get answers. Not the ones that matter. Not whether she’s alive. Or if she suffered. Or if—” She pressed her lips together. “Some things just… stay missing.”
Buddy’s hand covered hers, warm and steady. “Maybe. But as long as I’ve got breath, I won’t stop looking for her. Not for you. Not for her family. Not for what she deserves.”
Fallon blinked against the sting in her eyes. “I know.”
His thumb traced slow circles over her knuckles. “But that’s not the only thing bothering you.”
She tensed. “It’s nothing.”
“I know you better than that.” His voice softened, deepened, that low rumble that always found the truth she tried to bury.
She looked down at their joined hands, at the way his larger fingers wrapped around hers like they belonged there. Permanently. “You moved here to be closer to me,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” he said, no hesitation. “Because this—” his thumb brushed her hand once more “—is permanent.”
She believed him. She really did. But the words still lodged in her throat like a stone.
He tilted his head, brushing her temple with his nose. “Talk to me.”
She inhaled, slow and shaky. “Kids.”
Buddy blinked. “Kids?”
“Yeah.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “Do you want them?”
For a beat, he just stared at her—then a slow, warm smile appeared, softening every edge he’d spent years sharpening.
“I want everything with you.”
Her breath trembled out.
“And speaking of everything,” he added, clearing his throat like he was trying for casual and failing adorably, “we’ve been basically living here anyway.
So, I talked to my landlord this morning.
He’s got someone who wants my place. And since most of my stuff is still in boxes, I was thinking…
why don’t I officially move in here? With you. ”
She blinked. “You’re asking me to live together?”
“I’m asking that we stop paying rent on two houses when we only sleep in one.” He smirked. “Also—this place is nicer.”
She laughed—really laughed—for the first time all day. “It is nicer. And you’re still an invalid.”
He tapped the cane against the floor. “Temporary. Give it three weeks, and Trent and I will be wrangling gators behind the Crab Shack.”
“God, don’t even joke about that.”
He leaned in. “Not joking. Just preparing you for the reality of being with me.”
Her laughter faded into something softer when he cupped her cheek and brushed his lips over hers.
A slow kiss. Warm. Certain. Sealing something that had been growing for months.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead gently against hers. “Fallon Reeves… I’m all in. Whatever future you see—kids, sooner rather than later, because this old man ain’t getting any younger, chaos, maybe even that picket fence you pretend you don’t want—I’m there.”
Her eyes flooded.
She didn’t look away this time.
She didn’t have to.
Her heart cracked open—quietly, beautifully, fully.
And for the first time since Tessa vanished, since her world collapsed at seventeen, since she learned monsters were real, Fallon Reeves felt hope that didn’t hurt.
Thank you so much for reading Hunted in Calusa Cove.