Chapter 41 Hawk
Hawk
The door clicked shut behind us, and everything in my chest exhaled at once.
Julia didn’t let go.
Not when I dropped my duffel.
Not when I pulled her back into my arms.
Not when she buried her face in my neck and breathed me in like she’d been holding her breath for three days.
“You’re here,” she whispered.
“I’m here.”
Her fingers curled into my shirt, pulling me down into a kiss that was nothing like the frantic, desperate ones we’d shared under fire. This one was slow. Sure. A claiming and a homecoming at the same time.
The kind of kiss you give someone when you're sure you want a lifetime with them.
Her lips were soft and warm, tasting faintly of mint and cinnamon. I cupped her jaw with both hands, tilting her face up, deepening the kiss until she sighed into me—a sound that undid every knot inside me.
When she finally pulled back, her breath brushed my lips.
“I thought you’d stay away,” she whispered. “That the service would pull you back into that world, and I’d lose you.”
I slid my hands down her arms, slow, deliberate, feeling the tremor there.
“No,” I murmured. “Not this time.”
“Promise?”
“I already did.”
I brushed my nose against hers.
“And I meant it.”
She swallowed hard, eyes shining in the dim light of the hallway.
“Show me,” she said softly.
Something inside me broke wide open.
I kissed her again — deeper, slower, my hands sliding to her hips. She melted into me, and when her fingers traced the lines of muscle under my shirt, a groan escaped me.
“Julia…” My voice was already low, strained. “Tell me to stop if—”
“I won’t,” she whispered. “I need you.”
I lifted her — her legs wrapping around my waist like we’d done it a thousand times — and carried her down the short hallway to her bedroom. The world shrank to the sound of her breath, the soft rasp of her nails on my shoulders, the warmth of her pressed to me.
When I set her down on the edge of the bed, she looked up at me with this expression that punched straight through my ribs:
Like she was letting herself fall.
And trusting me to catch her.
“Hawk,” she said softly, reaching for the hem of my shirt. “We’re home.”
I stripped the shirt over my head and tossed it aside. Her hands skimmed over the bruises on my ribs, the taped cut above my eyebrow, and something in her eyes burned — a mixture of anger for what I’d endured and relief that I was here.
Her shirt joined mine.
Then her hands slid up my chest again.
And everything after that was slow, tender, and hungry — the kind of intimacy born from almost losing each other one too many times.
There was no rush.
No panic.
Just two people relearning how to breathe in the same rhythm.
When I finally lowered myself above her, she cupped my face with both hands.
“Let’s stay in bed for a week,” she whispered.
“I’m not going anywhere.”