Chapter 1: The One Who Never Left
The first time I saw him, he wasn’t an FBI agent. He wasn’t anything, really—not yet. Just a six-foot-four Midwest boy
with ginger hair, sharp blue eyes, and a presence that made it impossible to look away.
I met him on a dating app, of all places. Though, to be fair, it wasn’t even my idea.
It was Lara’s.
Lara was my best friend, the closest thing I had to family in this floating existence I had built for myself. She was a
free-spirited Swede who had ditched corporate life for a boat and never looked back. If I was the one who ran away from
things, Lara was the one who ran toward them—headfirst, arms wide open, consequences be damned.
And right now, Lara’s latest mission was me.
“You have to get out there,” she had said, perched on the deck of her boat, barefoot, wearing a tank top that showed off
tanned skin and an impressive collection of tattoos. “Your isolation era is officially over.”
I groaned, stretching out on the worn cushion of my deck. “I’m not isolated. I see you.”
Lara rolled her eyes. “Sweetheart, you talk to me and the guy who sells you coffee at the marina. That’s not a social
life. That’s a hostage situation.”
I huffed. “I don’t need a social life. I’m fine.”
She raised a perfectly arched brow. “You live alone on a boat, drink whiskey like it’s water, and talk about your ex
like he personally invented heartbreak.”
I sat up, glaring at her. “I do not talk about my ex.”
Lara gave me a pointed look. “Oh, you don’t?” She put on an exaggerated version of my voice. “‘Lara, do you think he
ever really loved me?’ ‘Lara, do you think I should have left sooner?’ ‘Lara, maybe I’ll just die alone and let the sea
reclaim me—’”
“Okay, okay! I get it.” I groaned, rubbing my hands over my face. “What’s your point?”
“My point,” she said, tossing her phone onto my lap, “is that you need to start living again.”
I looked down at the screen and groaned louder. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Too late,” she sang. “I already made you a profile.”
---
I joined the app mostly out of exhaustion, agreeing to it just to get Lara off my back. A few swipes here and there, a
handful of bad first dates that reminded me exactly why I didn’t do this sort of thing, and then—
Him.
His profile was short, almost frustratingly vague. One photo—him standing in the middle of an open road, hands in his
pockets, staring off at something I couldn’t see.
The bio? Barely anything.
“Midwest-born. Looking forward, not back.”
That was it. No jokes, no clichés, no over-the-top attempts to impress. Just a man who didn’t seem to care if anyone
swiped on him or not.
But the photo told me more than the bio did.
He was tall—really tall, probably 6’4—with ginger hair that looked just slightly too long, like he was still adjusting
to civilian life. The kind of strong, broad-shouldered build that came from discipline, not vanity. And even though he
wasn’t facing the camera directly, I could tell his eyes were sharp. Probably blue.
Everything about him said former military—or at least someone who had spent years learning how to stand like he
belonged somewhere.
I stared at his profile longer than I should have.
And then, before I could overthink it, I sent the first message.
---
We walked the docks for hours.
The sun disappeared behind the horizon, and the water turned dark, reflecting the scattered marina lights in rippling,
liquid gold.
Then he turned to me, his hands slipping to my waist, pulling me in close enough to feel the heat of his body against
mine.
His voice was low, rough. “I want to take you inside.”
I should have hesitated. I didn’t.
He moved fast, and I let him. One moment, I was standing on the dock, my feet planted firmly on the wooden planks. The
next, he had lifted me effortlessly, wrapping my legs around his waist as he carried me toward my home.
The door banged shut behind us, but I barely noticed.
His mouth was on mine before I could take a breath, his hands gripping my hips, pinning me against the wall like he had
every intention of ruining me.
And I wanted him to.
I tilted my head back, gasping as his lips trailed along the curve of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. His hands
slid under my shirt, rough fingertips skimming over my stomach, higher, teasing.
The air between us was thick, electric, charged with something I hadn’t felt in years.
He made a low sound in his throat, something between a growl and a curse, his grip tightening as if he was trying to
hold himself back.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against my skin.
I dragged my fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Not a chance.”
That was all he needed.
By the time he set me down on the bed, I was breathless, already half lost in the feeling of him.
The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and then—
The world blurred.
The only thing I could focus on was the weight of him, the warmth of his skin against mine, the slow, deliberate way his
hands explored like he was trying to memorize every inch of me.
His mouth met mine again, softer this time, deeper, like he had just realized he had all night.
And when he finally pulled me under him completely, I wasn’t thinking about anything except the way he made me feel like
I was something worth keeping.
---
The cabin was quiet.
Then, out of nowhere, he spoke.
“My mom went on one of those court TV shows once.”
I blinked, turning my head slightly to look at him. “What?”
“A very loud goat,” he confirmed, deadpan.
I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. “And she won?”
“Oh, hell no,” he said. “Judge completely ripped her apart. Said something about ‘goats having rights too’ and dismissed
the whole case. My mom was pissed.”
That did it—I lost it, laughing so hard I had to press my face into the pillow.
Then, the moment shifted.
He exhaled softly and rolled away, reaching for his shirt.
I followed him to the door.
I expected him to kiss me.
I wanted him to.
But instead, he cupped my face, his thumb ghosting over my cheek, and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to my forehead.
Like he never wanted to let me go.
And then—just like that—he was gone.