You know how people always wish they were different or how they wish they’d acted differently in certain circumstances?

Well, that’s not me. I don’t wish I was different. I used to, but I don’t anymore. If I was different, he probably wouldn’t have loved me and we most certainly wouldn’t have gotten together. If I was different, I definitely wouldn’t love him.

But in the past year I have found myself wishing that I’d done things differently. Many things, really, like walking away from that last case, being there for my dad more, for my friends...But most of all, I wish I’d have said yes that first night he was home, when he asked me to marry him.

If I’d said yes, we’d have been married sooner, maybe we’d have even been on our honeymoon when all the other shit happened. When Penn happened.

Maybe he would still be with me.

If I’d just said yes, maybe he’d still be here.

Maybe he’d be sitting beside me in the back of the taxi from the Malta airport to Valletta, checking off yet another item on our itinerary. We’d started making the list during his second, no, third leave, each of us updating it when we thought of a spot we wanted to see together.

I’ve been visiting these spots, checking them off the list, for the last year. First in the continental U.S. (Carmel, Lake Tahoe, New Orleans, Savannah, Boston, Maine...) and now, having left Neptune (for good, I suspected, and hoped Dad understood) I was in Europe, having been to Ireland, Scotland, France, Italy...I was leaving the Northern Lights for last. It was cold up there.

One would claim one needed money to travel and that I had none, which is true, save for the reward money from the bombing case, which I refused to touch except for an emergency, but resourcefulness and ingenuity are ingrained. Coupled with tenacity, stubbornness and a freaky sixth sense, I’d made enough to get by and get to the next place on my list.

Why would I do that? Why torture myself with visiting places we’d wanted to see together? Why torture myself wishing my husband was there beside me?

I don’t have an answer to that, not really.

I think I’m just waiting for something. Some semblance of peace, closure, maybe.

And maybe it’s that freaky sixth sense screaming at me to go, to wait, to continue hoping that he might be there, that I might see him again.

That and the fact there were no charred remains in or near the car after the explosion. No bones, no clothes, no teeth...No wedding ring. No sign of anyone dying in the explosion meant for me.

So here I am, in Malta, another place on our list, pretty sure I’m being followed. Again.

It’s no surprise with the many cages I’d rattled at the DOD and the Navy with my raging demands to know what had really happened to my husband.

Because he’s not dead. He’s not dead until I see the body, damn it! Maybe I had gone insane with my refusal to believing the love of my life (God, I still get the shakes thinking in those terms, but not as much as in the beginning) is dead.

And then I start thinking just what’s preventing him from coming back to me, when he’d promised he always would, and it makes me ill. It’s not that he won’t, it’s that he can’t. And that scares me. Thinking about all the possible reasons he cannot come home to me scares me more than I’ve ever been scared in my life.

But before the much repeated movie can play out in my head, the taxi comes to a stop on a narrow street and a woman, standing in front of a dark blue door of a double story house, crammed between others just like it, but with different colored doors and windows, on this sloped, cobbled street, smiles at me, her hand already extended as she opens the door for me with the other.

“Veronica Echolls?” she asks in a charming British accent.

I feel the blush (a blush, for cuss sake!) spread on my cheeks as my heart flutters at the name. We might’ve joked about it before, but I officially changed it two weeks after the bomb, hands shaking as I presented the marriage certificate, my eyes flooding with tears. For someone who seldom cried, I’d cried a lot that first month, before the determination set in. I never got to see the sand formations in Sedona, but I got to see lots of government buildings and even more government officials’ offices in the months following the sudden ending of my marriage. Honeymoon Veronica Mars style.

While this, I look at the charming townhouse with the traditional roofed balcony painted the same color as the front door, is more of an Echolls style honeymoon.

How I wish you were here. Where are you? Are you okay?

“That’s me,” I say, shaking off the oft-repeated thoughts. “You have a lovely home, ma’am.”

The woman’s smile brightens even more. “Why, thank you. Come,” she motions for me to precede her after I pay the driver and grab my bag, “let me show you your home for the next ten days.”



The house is lovely. The front door opens into a spacious living room with bare stone walls, decorated with paintings and iron wall sconces, while plush rugs protect bare feet from the cold stone floor. The couch is large, soft and invitingly comfortable, turned toward the fireplace set between the two windows overlooking the street. At first glance, there is no modern technology in the house, but that can be remedied by a push of a button that reveals the stereo, cleverly hidden behind a wooden panel at the left of the couch, or the large TV that rises from a wooden chest in the corner.

Thick stone walls keep the inside cool, despite the baking summer heat outside; there’s no need for an AC (and coming from an American, that says a lot). The kitchen is the coolest place in the house, situated in the cellar, featuring 450 year old arches in the ceiling. There are no windows down there, but I don’t mind, since claustrophobia, surprisingly, never kicks in.

But my favorite parts of this new temporary home are on the upper floors.

The baroque staircase, each step hand chiseled, leads from the living room to the bedroom with its four poster king sized bed, so soft I could drown in it. The traditional roofed balcony overlooking the street offers a wonderful little nook to sip my morning coffee, before walking into the rain shower in the master bathroom.

The second favorite spot is the roof terrace, reachable from the bedroom via a small spiral staircase. The view of the Grand Harbour is breathtaking, especially late in the day, as it shines in the colors of the setting sun.

That’s the part of the day, no matter where I am, when the sun is setting, when he most often slips into my thoughts. When I miss him the most. His arms around me, his chin on top of my head, our fingers intertwined...

I get out of the house when those thoughts hit. It’s either that; keep busy, or cry and scream at the sky.

Valletta is beautiful, both day and night, either walking down the waterfront, people-watching while sitting in one of the cafes or trying in vain to lose myself in its street and alleys.

My fingers tingle with the need to hold his as I walk, my throat aches with the need to talk to him, laugh with him, my eyes water with the desire to see him. How many times have I turned around to tell him something, with words dying on my lips when I remembered he’s not really there.

But he’s there in spirit. He’s there beside me, because I want him to be. I’m alone, but he’s there. For many years, he wasn’t there, because I turned my back on him, refused to think about him, told myself I forgot everything and all about him, yet now I refuse to keep him away from my thoughts. Even though he’s God knows where, Logan Echolls will never be far from my thoughts and my heart.

I’m back at the waterfront, a couple of blocks from the house, when the thought strikes that I’d been in Malta for four days already and I’ve yet to stray away from the capital. I have no intentions of going far, not really. I’m waiting. For what? A miracle, I guess. I know there are no such things, not with the things I’ve seen and experienced, but the sliver of hope still lives inside me. Will probably always live, despite the bleak prospects, despite the fact it’s been one year and there has been no news. But I refuse to accept silence as an answer, so I’m waiting. And will continue to wait for as long as I live, I suppose. And will continue to look for answers. This is my big case now.

I shake my head to get rid of any despondency—only determination will do!—and look toward the horizon, where the moon is just starting to peek over Fort Ricasoli. I just might go up on my terrace tonight and take some moody pictures to fit my mood.



Take moody pictures and think about him. Sounds like my usual night.

You’re saying that I sound pathetic? Maybe. Probably. But missing him, pining after him, desperately wanting to see him, hoping he’s okay, that he’s alive, is better than pretending that nothing had happened.

People change. He changed a long time ago, I needed an extra push. The bomb gave me that. I wish I could say that he gave me the push. The proposal, the patience with which he dealt with me, the persistent chipping away at my stupid protective walls, the marriage...I would’ve probably remained the same, the aloof, bitter, angry Veronica Mars that just happened to be married.

But losing him... That gave me the motivation for the change he’d begged me for. The losing him after finally letting him fully in...Boy, that sure was the impetus for change. I’m still bitter and angry, because I have no answers, because I’d spent months butting my head against the bureaucratic, Top-Secret secrets keeping wall that kept me away from those answers, but I’m not Veronica Mars anymore. I’m Veronica Echolls, married to the man of my dreams, the love of my life, the man currently leaning against the iron-wrought balustrade of my roof terrace, staring at the moonlit view...

Wait.

What?!



The sound of my camera clattering to the floor snaps me into action.

This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill!

When Logan turns, I’m already in front of him, reaching for him...

And then his arms clamp like vises around me, his scent hits my nostrils, his mouth covers mine, his tongue slipping in between my lips, and I’m finally whole again.



There are no words. No words are needed. No words are necessary as we reacquaint with each other in the most primal way possible.

Our first time after a year is right there, on the stone floor of the terrace with the moon shining down on us, our clothes still mostly on.

The second time is on our knees on the lounge chair.

It’s fast and furious, all passion and need, all the pent-up anger and fear pouring out as relief takes over.

The third is against the wall, halfway down the spiral staircase, as we finally start peeling our clothes off. I’ll have bruises and scrapes in the morning, but I don’t care.

When we finally make it to the bedroom, sinking into the soft bed, our moves turn languid, mouths soft. It’s all gentle exploration, finding the known and new nuances of our skins and bodies. There are scars on him, scars that haven’t been there before. On his face and neck. Deeper, uglier scars on his torso and back covering the older ones from Aaron’s belt.

They look like signs of torture to me and when his fingers stop in their caresses and his eyes, his beautiful brown eyes, bore into mine, I know he’s expecting questions. He’s preparing for them, bracing himself. And I’m afraid to ask.

Those scars are probably the answer as to why he didn’t come back to me sooner and I’m suddenly afraid to ask. Afraid of the questions, afraid of the answers. Afraid of what the future might hold, afraid of losing him again.

So I lean down, kiss him with all the love I feel for him, and guide him inside me.

I don’t need words. I don’t need answers or reassurances.

For now, all I need is him.

For now, all we need is each other.



“I knew you were alive,” I whisper when the soft light of day starts slowly seeping through the flimsy curtains.

“I know,” he breathes, brushing a soft kiss against the crown of my head. “They told me.”

He chuckles, the movement of his chest dislodging my head from my preferred spot. I move back into position with a huff, grumbling, “What’s so funny?”

“You’ve made quite an impression on the powers that be, Veronica Mars.”

“Veronica Echolls,” I reply without thinking, the correction already ingrained.

It makes him freeze for a heartbeat, the name. His arms tighten around me and he just holds on. Then he moves down into the bed, his gaze meeting mine. The look in his eyes makes mine sting. “I also heard,” he says softly. “Why?”

There’s hope in his eyes, flickering as if he’s keeping it locked up, afraid of yet another rejection. I’m to blame for that reserve, that fearful look of hope in his eyes. I’m to blame for many things going wrong in our relationship, but I’m done with being a bitch. This is my man. And I’m done keeping myself apart, I’m done hurting him. Rejecting him.

“Because we’re married. Because I love you. Because you’re mine and I’m yours.”

“Veronica...” His breath hitches at the last syllable, his body shivering slightly, and I hug him, hiding my head against the side of his neck.

“I should’ve said yes the first time you asked,” I whisper, wishing I could redo everything. “I’m sorry.” I lift my head, looking at him. His eyes are shimmering with tears. “I’m so sorry, Logan.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be. I regret nothing.” He kisses the tip of my nose, making me chuckle. “I love you, Veronica Echolls.”

“I love you, too, Logan Echolls.” I burrow in again. “God, you feel so good. I knew you were alive,” I whisper.

“It was touch and go at first,” he says softly, his hand brushing soothingly against my back as I flinch.

“Can you tell me what happened?” I ask, though I don’t really want to know. Not if it was touch and go, not if it got him the scars.

“My last mission, before our wedding...” he murmurs, tightening his arms around me. “I don’t know how, but they found me. I’ve just opened the car door when they grabbed me. That’s the last thing I remember...”

I press my face against his neck as I listen to him tell the story. He’s purposely keeping his voice soothing, calming, but the words still bring chills to my skin.

It took the Navy four months to find him and get him out.

Those first four months that I’d spent railing and yelling at his base, in DC and anywhere in between, he’d spent in hell. Yet he never broke. He doesn’t tell me that, but I know. The Navy wouldn’t mount a rescue of a no-longer-viable asset they wouldn’t be able to use in the future.

He’d spent the past five months in deep cover, trying to find the rest of the cell and make sure no new roots sprung from their ashes. That left three months in between unaccounted for and I don’t need to be good at math to know how he’d spent those. I brush a finger over the puckered angry-looking scar on the left of his abdomen. It’s easy to put two and two together. Except there are more than four scars on him. Much, much more.

“...so here I am,” he finishes softly, brushing yet another kiss against my temple. “You’re surprisingly quiet, Veronica. No questions?”

Oh, I have questions. So many of them bubbling inside me, most unanswerable. At least to someone with zero security clearance. But there is one he might be able to answer.

“Am I being followed?”

He chuckles. “That’s the one you picked?”

I shrug. “It’s probably the only one you can answer without having to kill me after.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I know. Just answer me. Am I being followed?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

“Because I’m a nuisance?”

“No.” He tucks a finger under my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Well, sometimes, but mostly because you’re my wife.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

He rolls his eyes, probably exasperated at my inability to comprehend. All the sex must’ve short-circuited my brain, because I should probably get it.

“When they held me, they never mentioned you, but only God knows how much or how little they know.” His eyes hold mine and I feel like I’m drowning again. “You’re my only weakness, Veronica. If something happened to you...” He swallows convulsively. “I’d die for you, I’d spill state secrets for you. I’d do anything for you.”

“Ditto.”

He grins at that. The carefree, sunny, kick-in-the-chest sexy Logan Echolls grin that I love so much and haven’t seen since our wedding day. “So I made sure you’re protected.”

Even last year, the statement would’ve raised my hackles, now I just want to bawl at the sweetness of it. Cuss it, I am a marshmallow. Especially when it comes to this man.

“And who do you trust to protect me?”

He shrugs. “There are two guys from my former squadron. Bronco and Lonestar. I told you about them.”

There is a vague recollection of the call signs and the names associated with them, probably an anecdote or two could be recalled, if I really applied myself.

“They have a private security firm specializing in all sorts of surveillance. They owed me a favor, so...”

“So...” I finally bite the bullet and ask the most important question. “How long can you stay?”

I knew from the start, this interlude is a short respite. His mission isn’t done and it probably won’t be for a long time. God only knows how long. But he’s alive, he’s mine, he’s here, and for now, all I want to know is how long I can keep him. Beside forever, that is.

“I have to be back on Tuesday.”

Two days. And then who knows how long he’d be gone.

But we have two days. Two entire days of just him and me, of us. For two more days, he’s all mine.

I swallow the tears and begging words that would just make him feel guilty and grin at him.

“What are you waiting for, sailor?”

“Who knew you could be such a demanding wife,” he sighs, but it’s there in his eyes. The apology, understanding, and admiration.

I want to wipe the apology and that smidgen of guilt lurking behind it into oblivion. I want to see his eyes glaze over as his gaze loses its focus. And I know just the way to do it.

I roll onto my back and he follows readily, his hands searching, his mouth demanding as we both seek oblivion.



We’re standing on the terrace, watching Fort St. Angelo lose the last of its golden color cast by the already-set sun. Logan stands behind me, his arms around me, our fingers intertwined on my abdomen, his chin resting on top of my head.

It’s Monday and he’s leaving soon.

God only knows when I’ll see him again. I don’t think about ifs, I refuse to think about ifs. There are no ifs with us, there’s only when and where.

Yet, our little interlude is over and it’s time to return to the real world and the bleakness of living apart. I swallow the threatening tears and turn my head so I can brush my lips against the column of his neck.

I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to go back to living without him, but I know I have no choice. He is what he is and I love him for it. He wouldn’t be the same, if he didn’t do what he does, if he weren’t what he is, so I wouldn’t have it any other way.

His eyes meet mine and in them I see the same desperation and longing he must see in mine. But we don’t speak.

He seeks my mouth and I open eagerly, pouring all of me, all that I feel for him, into the kiss.



It seems like hours have passed when we part.

The sky had darkened, but the moon has still to rise, and I know it’s time.

The goodbye is written all over his face, I can taste it in his soft, lingering kiss.

“Come back to me,” I whisper.

And just as he appeared, he’s gone again, leaving me alone on the dark terrace with tears I refused to let him see earlier, streaming down my cheeks, his parting word echoing in my ears, through my body.

“Always.”

The End