Page 67 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

GABE

I watch her sleeping in the early morning light, her body curved protectively around the small bump that holds Hank’s son.

Our son. Her breathing comes deep and even, face relaxed in sleep like it rarely is in waking hours anymore.

Dawn paints her skin gold, catching in her hair and turning ordinary brown to burnished copper.

Some mornings, I just watch her breathe. Count the inhales and exhales like they’re miracles. Because they are.

Telling her about the baby was the right call. Watching her process that revelation—that Hank’s legacy will continue in flesh and blood—broke something loose in both of us. A tension we’d been carrying without realizing it.

Now our grief and our hope tangle together in this messy, beautiful aftermath of loving a man who isn’t here anymore.

I ease out of bed, careful not to wake her. Morning sickness has finally started to ease, but she needs every minute of rest she can get. The hardwood is cool against my bare feet as I pad into the kitchen, the familiar ritual of making coffee giving my hands something to do while my mind wanders.

It’s been five months since we lost him.

Five months of relearning how to exist in a world where Hank’s laugh doesn’t fill our home, where his steady presence doesn’t anchor us in moments of chaos.

Five months of Ally and me circling each other like survivors of a shipwreck, both desperate to keep the other afloat.

And now a baby. Hank’s son growing stronger every day.

The doorbell rings, jarring me from thoughts that have turned melancholy despite the good news we’re still processing. It’s early—barely 6 a.m. Nobody visits at this hour unless something’s wrong.

I check the security feed before opening the door. Forest stands on our porch, looking uncomfortable. His face is grim, the expression of a man carrying weight he’d rather set down.

“Forest.” I open the door, anxiety spiking despite his nod of reassurance. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, not quite concealing his obvious discomfort. “Can I come in?”

I step aside, letting him enter our home. He looks around, taking in the changes since his last visit. The walls Ally painted pale blue last weekend. The crib parts stacked in the corner, waiting for assembly. The ultrasound photos magnetized to the refrigerator.

“Heard the news,” he says, nodding toward the evidence of impending fatherhood. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” The word comes out rough, emotion still raw when people acknowledge what’s happening. What’s real.

“Coffee?”

“No.” He shifts his weight, hand going to the pocket of his jacket. “I’m not staying. Just needed to deliver something.”

An envelope appears from his pocket, thick cream-colored paper with my name written in familiar handwriting. The sight of it stops my breath, punches a hole straight through my chest.

Hank’s handwriting.

“What the hell is this?” My voice comes out strangled, barely audible over the sudden roaring in my ears.

“He asked me to give it to you. If he didn’t make it back.” Forest holds the envelope like it might detonate. Maybe it will. “Said to wait until you’d had time to grieve properly. Until things were…” he gestures vaguely at the ultrasound photos, “settled.”

My hand shakes as I take it from him. The paper feels heavy, weighted with words Hank wrote before he died. Words meant for me to read in exactly this moment, when life has found its new shape around the hole he left behind.

“He knew, didn’t he?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “He knew he wasn’t coming back from that island.”

Forest’s silence is confirmation enough.

“Not for certain,” he says finally. “But he felt it. The way we sometimes do before a mission goes sideways.”

The coffee machine beeps, announcing the completion of its cycle. The ordinary sound feels obscene next to the letter in my hand.

“Thanks for bringing this,” I manage, throat tight with emotion I can’t afford to release. Not yet. Not until Forest leaves and I can fall apart in private.

He nods, understanding passing between us. Then his hand lands on my shoulder, heavy and solid. “He was proud to serve with you. Proud to call you brother.”

“Yeah.” It’s all I can say without breaking.

Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with Hank’s final words burning a hole in my palm.

I stand frozen in the kitchen, caught between wanting to tear the envelope open and wanting to burn it unread.

Part of me can’t bear the thought of hearing Hank’s voice again, even through paper and ink.

The other part is desperate for it, for one last connection to the man who was my other half for so long.

“Gabe?” Ally’s voice comes from the bedroom doorway. She stands there in one of Hank’s old T-shirts, fabric stretched slightly over her growing bump. “Who was at the door?”

I hold up the envelope, unable to find words to explain what it is. She moves closer, squinting in the early morning light, then freezes as recognition hits.

“Is that?—”

“Yeah.” I swallow hard, emotions threatening to overflow. “Forest just delivered it. From Hank.”

Her eyes widen, one hand going instinctively to her stomach, the other reaching for the envelope like she can’t help herself. “What does it say?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t opened it yet.”

We stand there, both staring at Hank’s handwriting like it might spring to life, might somehow bring him back to us if we just look at it long enough.

“Do you want to be alone?” she asks, understanding even in this moment how complicated my relationship with Hank was, how some things between us were just ours.

“No.” I reach for her hand, needing her solid presence beside me. “Whatever he wrote, it’s for both of us now.”

We move to the couch, settling into the same spot we’ve spent countless evenings since moving in. Ally curls against my side, her head on my shoulder, both of us bracing for whatever comes next.

My finger breaks the seal, careful not to tear what feels sacred. The letter inside is several pages, folded precisely the way Hank always folded important documents. Methodical to the end.

I unfold the paper, and his voice fills my head with the first words:

Gabe,

If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it home.

The sob comes without warning, ripping from my chest with enough force to shake Ally where she presses against me. Her hand tightens on mine, anchoring me as Hank’s words swim before my eyes.

Don’t waste a second blaming yourself. This was always how I was meant to go—first in, last out, heart wide open. You know me. You knew this was coming long before I did.

He’s right. I did know. Had always known on some level that Hank would die this way—protecting others, putting himself between danger and the people he loved. It was written into his DNA, this selfless courage that made him both magnificent and doomed.

But she’s still breathing. And so are you.

So now I need you to do something for me.

Carry her home.

Ally’s tears soak through my T-shirt, her body trembling against mine. I read the next lines aloud, voice breaking on words that pierce straight through every defense I’ve built.

Hold her when she breaks, like I would’ve. Wipe her tears with those rough hands of yours. Make her feel safe again, even when the world’s burning down around you. She doesn’t need a hero—she needs you. Solid. Steady. There.

Ally’s breath catches, a sound between a laugh and a sob escaping her. “He knew you so well,” she whispers.

She cried the night I left. Tried to hide it, but I saw. You did too. She bends, but she never breaks. Not really. She still believes in us—in you. So don’t make her go the rest of the way alone.

I remember the night he died. The way she cried, shoulders shaking, sobbing with endless tears.

You know her better than most. That laughter like sunrise. The way she bites her lip when she’s trying to lie. She gave us both more than we deserved—fire and fury, softness and steel. She wasn’t mine. She wasn’t yours. She was ours. In a way that never fit inside clean lines.

My voice gives out completely on “ours.” Because he’s right. She was never just his or just mine. She belonged to both of us in a way that defied conventional relationships, that created something whole from three separate people.

Ally takes the letter from my trembling hands, continues reading where I left off, her voice steady despite the tears streaming down her face.

So don’t you dare carry guilt. Carry her.

Breathe her in. Love her fully, recklessly, tenderly. Love her loud. Love her soft. Love her like you do, in all the ways I won’t get to anymore.

Guard her.

Trace her scars like they’re battle maps. Let her sleep safely in your arms. Make her coffee just right. Leave the light on when she needs it. Keep her warm. Keep her laughing. Let her cry into your chest when she needs to fall apart. Then hold her tighter than the fear.

Her voice breaks on “fear,” the word dissolving into a sob that seems to come from somewhere deeper than her lungs. I pull her closer, one hand moving to rest on the small swell of her stomach, where Hank’s son grows stronger every day.

When she can’t continue, I take the letter back and read the final lines that Hank left for me. For us.

Tell her I didn’t leave—not really. I’m still here. In your blood. In her breath.

I loved her to the end.

You’re my brother. My best. My last. My always.

Now you lead.

Carry her home for me.

She’s yours now.

– Hank

The final words hang in the air between us, Hank’s voice so clear I can almost hear him speaking them. The grief I’ve been carrying these past months shifts, transforming into something different. Not lighter, exactly, but more purposeful.

Grief with direction.

Ally’s hand covers mine where it rests on her stomach. “He knew,” she whispers. “Somehow, he knew about the baby.”

“No.” I shake my head, certain on this point. “He couldn’t have known. But he knew us. Knew what we’d need to hear exactly when we’d need to hear it.”

That was Hank—always three steps ahead, planning for contingencies none of us wanted to face.

“He’s right,” I continue, voice steadier now. “He’s still here. In the way we love each other. In the family we’re building. In his son.”

Ally’s eyes meet mine, wet with tears but bright with something that looks like peace. “His son,” she repeats, wonder in her voice. “Our son.”

“Our son,” I agree, the truth of it settling into my bones.

We sit in silence as dawn breaks fully outside our windows, painting the room in golden light that feels like benediction. Like Hank’s approval washing over us as we find our way forward without him.

The grief doesn’t disappear. It never will. But beside it now grows something else—a future taking shape from the ashes of what we’ve lost. A family built from love that transcends death, that continues in the child growing beneath my palm.

Hank’s final mission for me—carry her home for me—is one I’ll spend the rest of my life fulfilling. Not because he asked, but because it’s who we are now. Who we’ve always been. Three souls so intertwined that even death couldn’t fully separate us.

I press a kiss to Ally’s temple, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling the solid warmth of her against me. In this moment, I make a silent promise to Hank, to Ally, to the son we’ll raise together:

We’ll carry each other home. Every day. For all the days we have left.

And somewhere, Hank is watching.

Approving. At peace.

First in, last out, heart wide open.

Just like he taught us.

My dear reader…Just breathe,

Thank you for walking this journey with me.