After I Died, He Regretted

My first encounter with Nathan was a matter of life and death.

I was still on the police force at the time. Sent to rescue a kidnapped business magnate from a transnational crime syndicate during a mission, I found my target: Nathan.

He was tied to a chair in an abandoned factory, battered and bruised, yet his eyes held an unsettling calm.

The bomb’s countdown showed less than thirty seconds.

No time for defusal.

I asked him just one question: “Do you trust me?”

He met my gaze and nodded.

Hoisting him onto my back, I leapt from the third-story window. The factory erupted into a fireball the moment we hit the ground.

My back was shredded by the blast, a dozen gashes weeping freely.

He got me to the hospital and stayed by my side for three days and three nights.

When I woke, his first words were, “Kimberly, be my girlfriend.”

He told me he’d never met a woman who carried such light within her—fearless, unstoppable.

He said he wanted to protect that light for a lifetime.

So we became a couple.

Those five years were the happiest of my life.

Whenever I was on a mission and out of contact for days, he would pace with worry. He dressed my wounds gently when I was hurt. He even learned to cook for me, clumsy but determined. Proudly, he told everyone I was Nathan’s woman.

He knew the dangers of my job and urged me again and again to retire.

I explained that my mother had been a narcotics officer. She gave her life on duty. This work was my calling, my destiny.

After a long silence, he finally held me and said, “Alright. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you to finish your calling, and then I’ll marry you.”

I believed him.