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Mount Fitz Roy, on the border between Argentina and Chile

Britt sat on a rough slab of stone, his mountaineering boots—with their metal crampons—dangling over the edge of a cliff.

The horizon stretched endlessly, waves of jagged peaks rolling into the distance, their snow-capped summits glistening like shards of glass as the sun rose over Patagonia. The air was crisp and biting, tinged with the scent of ice and stone. And it was quiet at this elevation. No cries of eagles. No rustle of trees. Only the sound of distant glaciers cracking and the gentle shush of rivers rushing far below.

Usually, the sheer majesty of the place would have filled him with exhilaration. Usually, he would have been grinning like a kid, thrilled to test his limits against Mother Nature and her cruel, uncaring creations.

But not today.

Not today. Not yesterday. And not the three days before that.

He shifted uncomfortably, the coarse fabric of his hiking pants scratching against his legs. He stretched his neck from side to side, but the tension remained. He concentrated hard on the beauty around him, but his mind’s eye kept focusing elsewhere.

The itch under his skin wasn’t from the dry air or the lingering chill of dawn. It was something deeper, more persistent. It gnawed at him from the inside like a rat stuck in a gunny sack.

He missed Julia.

For three months, he’d tried to convince himself otherwise.

The mission in the Middle East had been a godsend, a welcome distraction that demanded every ounce of his focus. Staying alive and keeping his teammates alive had left no room for wandering thoughts. But she’d been all he could think about the second he’d stepped off the plane back in Chicago.

He’d thought restoring Haint would help. He’d hoped throwing himself into the work of repairing and repainting his beloved bike would chase her from his mind.

It hadn’t. If anything, it had only made things worse.

She'd been there every quiet moment as he’d popped out dents, every dull hour as he’d sanded and prepped. In his head, in his heart, in the very fabric of his being…there she was.

The sound of her laughter haunted him. Her wide, sunny smile projected itself onto the backs of his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes. And his dreams? Oh, they were filled with her. Filled with the scent of her, the softness of her, the warmth of her.

When the temptation to see her had become too much, when he’d found himself hovering on the edge of doing something stupid, he’d run for the hills. Literally.

Patagonia had seemed like the perfect escape. As far from Chicago and Agent Julia O’Toole as he could get.

But 5,500 miles and some of the most breathtaking scenery on earth hadn’t done a damn thing to quiet the longing inside him.

The sun crept higher, bathing the landscape in warmth, but he felt no comfort in it. He didn’t just want to see Julia again. He needed to. Pretending otherwise was pointless. And lying to himself had become exhausting.

He exhaled slowly and watched his breath turn to mist in the cold air.

Time to go home.