Page 59 of Oliver

He pulled back just enough to look at me, voice rough. “Never again. I hated being away from you.”

“I’m okay,” I promised.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m better when I canseeyou’re okay.”

We didn’t make it inside before his mouth found mine.

It started gently. Then it wasn’t.

He pressed me against the porch column, his hands tangled in my hair, like he needed to feel every inch of me just to believe I was still here.

“You came home,” I whispered.

“I always will.”

He lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me inside like it was instinct. The door shut behind us. His mouth trailed kisses down my neck as I tugged at his shirt. Boots were kicked off. Buttons undone. Clothes dropped in a messy trail across the hardwood.

The heat between us was molten. Urgent. But threaded with something deeper—relief.

When he sank into me, it wasn’t just passion.

It was a promise.

That no matter what the world threw at us—traitors, shadows, secrets—we’d face it together.

His hands gripped my hips, guiding our rhythm. My body arched beneath him, caught between the ache and the bliss. I moaned his name, fingers dragging across his back.

“I love you,” he said again and again, like a vow between each breath, each kiss.

And when we came undone, tangled in each other, the world felt still again.

Safe.

Ours.

Later,curled up in his arms, I told him what I’d done.

About the memoir.

The email to the journalist.

The truth I was ready to share.

He didn’t flinch.

He just kissed my temple and said, “Then we do this your way. You speak. I protect. They’ll never touch you again.”

And that’s when I knew—

I wasn’t just married to a soldier.

I was married tomy match.

43

Emery

Four Days Later – National Broadcast Studio, Los Angeles

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