It was here that she missed him most: out on the balcony, the one place where no one could complain if he sprawled out with a beer and a cigar. It was here that she’d first told him she loved him, when she turned eighteen and he’d given her a beer for the first time. It was here that he’d finally admitted he felt the same way, three years later.
It was here they’d made love for the first time, not three months before.
And it was here, this very spot, where he’d been taken.
Since that day, two months ago, she’d felt it, tugging at her, dragging her down, waiting to pull her out to the sea of her grief and despair. The only thing that was saving her was the voice in her head; the gruff, loving, compassionate voice that had comforted her so many times before. Without that voice, she would give in to the undertow and let the tide carry her away.
“It’s time, Rogue.” She nodded to let Hank know that she’d heard him and smoothed her hands down over the leather of her bodysuit one final time. She was going to get him.