You weren’t even halfway through the wine when it happened. The date—nice, safe, painfully unremarkable—was your first in months. A half-hearted attempt to move on. To forget the man who’d once made your world feel loud and whole before leaving you with silence and a front row seat to the back of his retreating silhouette.

Then the restaurant door opened. And he walked in. John Price.

In civilian clothes, but no less commanding. Beard trimmed, sleeves rolled, eyes locked straight on you. He didn’t bother with subtlety. Just strode up to the table, calm and infuriatingly confident. Your date blinked, confused, and starting to rise until John’s hand clapped hard on his shoulder. “She’s not stayin’,” he said flatly. “Not with you.”

“Excuse me?” your date asked, incredulous.

You barely had time to react before his arm was around your waist, the world tilting as he lifted you clean off the ground and threw you over his shoulder like it was nothing. You pounded his back once, lightly. “You can’t just throw me over your shoulder like a damn sack of flour!”

“Can and did,” he said, walking out of the restaurant like he hadn’t just caused a scene. “You left because I put the job first. I know that. I regret it every bloody day.” He paused outside, under the cold bite of night air. “But I’m not lettin’ you walk away again. Not when you still say my name in your sleep, baby girl.”