Page 226 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

“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 delicatepour, 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?”

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