Page 57

“How long has it been now?” Malia asks, her voice deliberately casual as she steams milk for a lavender latte. Her eyes flick to me, gauging my reaction.

“Thirteen days.” The number is precise because I’ve been counting every hour. I wipe down the counter at Guardian Grind, avoiding her gaze.

The café is quiet this morning, just a few tech specialists from Mitzy’s department huddled over laptops in the corner. The smell of coffee and fresh-baked scones fills the air, almost—but not quite—enough to distract me from the hollow ache that’s been my constant companion since Charlie team left on their mission.

“Longest one yet,” Malia comments, restocking pastries in the glass case. Her movements are quick and efficient, betraying none of the concern she feels for Walt.

My hands find a rhythm in the mindless task of polishing already-clean mugs. Guardian HQ feels different without them—emptier.

“Ally?” Malia’s voice pulls me back to the present. “You’re doing that thousand-yard stare again.”

“Sorry.” I shake my head, setting down the mug before I drop it. “ Just thinking about the defense prep with Malikai this afternoon. We’ve made progress, but three weeks isn’t much time.”

It’s not entirely a lie. The impending thesis defense is a welcome distraction when my mind wants to spiral into the worst-case scenarios involving Hank and Gabe.

“Liar,” Malia says, but her smile is kind. “It’s okay to admit you miss them. We all do. But that’s normal during high-security operations.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I nearly drop the next mug to check it. The disappointed exhale is automatic when I see it’s just Malikai confirming our afternoon session.

“Still nothing?” Rebel asks as she emerges from the back room carrying fresh coffee beans.

I shake my head. “Just Malikai.”

She nods, understanding in her eyes. “Radio silence is protocol. Means they’re deep in it.”

“I know.” I’ve heard it all before—how no news is good news, how they’re the best at what they do, how they always come home. It doesn’t stop me from checking my phone every five minutes.

“Look,” Sophia says, joining our impromptu gathering behind the counter. “We’ve got a great movie lined up for Jenna’s tonight. No more brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” I protest weakly.

All five women stare at me with identical expressions of disbelief.

“Fine. Maybe a little brooding.”

Jenna snorts. “You’ve been walking around like someone canceled Christmas for two weeks.”

The bell above the door chimes and a group of Delta team operatives enters, ending our conversation as we snap back into barista mode. I plaster on a smile and take orders, grateful for the distraction.

Later that afternoon, I trade in my apron for my laptop and sit with Malikai in the quietest corner of The Guardian Grind.

For a few hours, I lose myself in the work. The elegant dance of subatomic particles, the clean precision of the mathematics—it’s almost enough to make me forget Hank and Gabe are gone.

Almost.

“You should eat,” Malikai says eventually, pointing to the untouched sandwich I brought hours ago. “Skipping meals won’t bring them back faster.”

“That obvious, huh?”

He offers a tight smile. “I remember how Malia looked when Walt was away those first few times. Same expression you’ve been wearing. Like you’re only half here.”

“I’ve never done this before,” I admit, pushing away from the desk to stretch my tight shoulders. “Had someone to wait for. Someone who might not come back.”

“They’ll come back.” His certainty is almost contagious. “For you? They’d crawl through hell.”

My phone buzzes, and this time it’s not Malikai. My heart leaps, then plummets when I see it’s Harrison—my father’s security chief.

Just checking in. All quiet on my end. Remember the protocols if you need me.

I text back a quick acknowledgment, appreciating his diligence but wishing it was someone else.

“Thanks for understanding,” I tell Malikai, gathering my things. “Same time tomorrow?”

He nods, already deep in another calculation. “Bring your defense notes. We’ll start prepping your responses to potential questions.”

Later that night, Jenna’s apartment is warm and crowded when I arrive. Sophia and Rebel argue good-naturedly about movie choices while Mia arranges an impressive spread of snacks on the coffee table. Max immediately pads over to greet me, his tail wagging slowly.

“Hey, big guy,” I murmur, scratching behind his ears. “Still on guard duty, I see.”

“Always,” Jenna confirms, emerging from the kitchen with wine glasses. “He knows when the men are away. Gets extra vigilant. ”

I settle onto the couch, accepting the glass Malia offers me. “Any word?”

“Nothing new,” she says, curling up beside me. “But Ethan sent Rebel a one-word text an hour ago. ‘Tomorrow.’ That’s all we know.”

Relief floods through me, almost dizzying in its intensity. Tomorrow. Just one more night.

“To our men,” Sophia raises her glass, “who better come home in one piece, or we’ll kill them ourselves.”

“Here’s to that,” I echo, the wine warming me from the inside out.

Rebel settles on my other side, her usual reserve softening. “The first long mission is the worst. The onesie and twosie ops are easier to deal with, but when they stretch like this, it’s hard on everyone.”

I nod. “Longest they’ve been gone since I moved in.”

“The first one’s the worst,” she says matter-of-factly. “You imagine every possible horrible scenario. But it gets… not easier, exactly. More familiar. You learn to trust their training.”

“And you learn to lean on us,” Malia adds, squeezing my hand. “That’s what Charlie’s Angels is about.”

The night unfolds in a haze of wine, laughter, and occasional serious conversations. At some point, I find myself confiding in them about my upcoming defense, about the nightmares that still wake me sometimes, about the strange empty feeling in my chest that won’t go away until Hank and Gabe are home.

They understand in a way no one else could—these women who love dangerous men, who wait and worry and still live their lives with fierce independence.

The fourteenth day dawns clear and crisp. I drag myself to Guardian Grind for the opening shift, moving on autopilot as I prep the machines and set out fresh pastries. The café slowly fills with the morning regulars—admin staff, tech specialists, a few Delta team members back from their own mission.

I’m in the middle of making a complicated order—triple shot, oat milk, half-sweet caramel latte—when the door chimes. I don’t look up immediately, focused on the delicate pour, but I feel it.

The shift in the air.

The subtle change in energy that makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand up.

The absolute certainty that they’re back.

When I finally raise my eyes, they’re standing just inside the door—Hank and Gabe, flanked by the rest of Charlie team. They look exhausted, stubble darkening their jaws, but whole.

Alive.

Here.

The latte slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, splashing across the counter.

“Shit, sorry,” I mutter to the customer, grabbing a towel, but my eyes never leave the men.

Hank spots me first, his expression shifting from bone-deep weariness to something softer, warmer. Gabe follows his gaze, and the tension visibly drains from his shoulders when our eyes meet.

Malia is already abandoning her post, rushing toward Walt, who catches her with a tired laugh. Sophia and Rebel do the same, propriety forgotten in the relief of reunion.

But I’m frozen, rooted behind the counter, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.

Fourteen days of fear and longing and trying to be strong crystallize into this moment.

Hank moves first, crossing the café in long strides, Gabe right behind him. They don’t stop at the counter—Hank simply reaches across, his hand circling my wrist, and tugs. Not roughly, but with unmistakable intent.

“Come here,” he says, his voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper.

I round the counter, discarding the towel, and then I’m between them, Hank’s arms wrapping around me from the front, Gabe’s solid heat at my back. The familiar scent of them—gunpowder, sweat, and that soap they both use, envelopes me, and my knees nearly buckle with relief.

“You’re back,” I whisper, the words muffled against Hank’s chest, my fingers clutching at his shirt. “You’re okay. ”

“We’re back,” Gabe confirms, his lips brushing my ear, his arms tightening around my waist. “Missed you, sweetheart.”

“You good, luv?” Hank pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine. Whatever he sees makes his expression soften further.

I nod, not trusting my voice, suddenly aware that we’re in the middle of Guardian Grind with an audience of curious onlookers.

“I should—” I gesture vaguely toward the counter, where Jenna is now handling the spilled latte situation.

“You should come home with us,” Hank corrects, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Jenna can handle the shop.”

It’s not really a question.

“Yeah,” I manage, looking between them. “Yes. Please.”

“Jenna?” Gabe calls over, not taking his eyes off me. “We’re stealing Ally. That okay?”

Jenna waves us off, already working the espresso machine. “Go. She’s been useless anyway. All sad eyes and checking her phone every five minutes.”

My cheeks heat. “I have not been?—”

“You absolutely have,” Malia interjects from where she’s wrapped around Walt. “Now, get out of here before we all drown in sexual tension.”

Laughter ripples through the café, breaking the last of the tension. Hank’s arm settles around my shoulders as we head for the door, Gabe’s hand at the small of my back.

Exhaustion radiates from both men, but there’s something else, too, a restless energy that makes my skin tingle where they touch me.

Once inside the vehicle, the facade cracks. Gabe’s hand finds my thigh, gripping tight enough to leave marks through my jeans. Hank starts the engine but pauses before putting it in drive, his gaze intense as it locks with mine in the rearview mirror.

“Fourteen days,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “Too fucking long.”

“I was worried,” I admit, letting the fear I’ ve been tamping down finally surface. “You couldn’t text or call, and no one would tell me anything.”

“High-security op,” Gabe explains, his thumb tracing circles on my leg. “Comms blackout. But we’re back now. In one piece.”

There’s tension in Hank’s jaw, in the way his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. When we reach their— our —oceanside condo, he parks with more force than necessary, killing the engine with a sharp twist.

“Inside,” he says, the single word weighted with intent.

The door has barely closed behind us when it happens—Hank’s hands on my waist, lifting me bodily, spinning me until my back hits the wall. His mouth claims mine with bruising intensity, all the fear and longing of fourteen days channeled into this kiss.

Gabe doesn’t wait his turn. His hands are already under my shirt, stripping it up and over my head the moment Hank gives me space to breathe. Their movements are synchronized and practiced—Hank holding me in place while Gabe removes clothing, piece by piece, until I’m naked and trembling between them.

“Fourteen days,” Gabe growls against my neck, his teeth sharp against my pulse. “Do you have any idea what that does to a man? What we’ve been thinking about doing to you?”

I shake my head, breathless, overwhelmed by their intensity.

“We’re going to show you,” Hank promises, his voice dropping into that register that makes my stomach flip. “But first—” His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. “Are you okay, luv? Really okay?”

The question—so caring in the midst of such raw need—makes my chest tight with emotion.

“I am now,” I whisper, meaning it. “Now that you’re home.”

Something shifts in his expression, softening for just a moment before the hunger returns. “Good. Because we need you. Right now.”

Hank’s already lifting me, my legs wrapping around his waist on instinct as he carries me to the bedroom—their bedroom, the one we share when it’s all three of us together. Gabe follows, removing his clothing, never taking his eyes off us .

A blur of sensations follows—hands, mouths, and bodies moving in perfect harmony. They take turns with me, then take me together, my body stretched and filled in ways that should be impossible, but somehow, with them, just works.

It’s rougher than usual, more desperate—the need to reaffirm life after two weeks of facing death evident in every touch, every thrust. Hank holds me down while Gabe takes me, and then they switch, a dance they’ve perfected in our time together.

When it’s finally over, when we’re all spent and tangled in sweat-dampened sheets, the room silent except for our gradually slowing breaths, I find myself sandwiched between them—Hank’s chest warm against my back, Gabe’s heartbeat steady beneath my cheek.

“I missed this,” I murmur, tracing idle patterns on Gabe’s skin. “Missed you both.”

“We missed you too, luv.” Hank’s arm tightens around my waist, his lips pressing a lazy kiss to my shoulder. “More than we could say.”

“Next time—” I hesitate, not wanting to sour the moment with future worries.

“Next time will be the same,” Gabe says, his voice gentler now that the initial hunger has been sated. “The job is what it is. But we’ll always come back to you.”

“Always,” Hank echoes, the word a promise against my skin.

I let myself believe them, let myself sink into the safety they provide, the storm of fear and longing finally quieted.

They’re home. They’re safe. We’re together.

For now, that’s enough.