Harper's fingers clawed at the forearm crushing her windpipe, nails scraping over sodden fabric and the hard muscle beneath. The pressure cut her breath into ragged bursts. The weight straddled her hips, knees locking her thighs against cold, rain-slick asphalt; every time she bucked upward he dropped harder, driving her back until runoff splashed at her ears.
The man was broad through the chest, rain-dark jacket stretched over the rigid plate of a ballistic vest. A pale scar angled from the corner of his mouth toward his ear, vanishing into stubble. Water beaded across his shaved scalp, his breath hot against her cheek, the stink of sweat, wet wool, and oilskin choking her as much as his arm.
She shot a hand low for the knife at his belt. The arm crushing her throat never eased; his free hand caught her wrist, twisting it inward as he rolled to his knife side. Her knuckles scraped across her ribs before he slammed them into the corrugated steel of the container. Pain burst white through her fingers, nerves sparking, her grip failing.
He wrenched the blade free, forearm grinding harder across her throat as he raised the knife for a straight plunge. His face loomed close in the rain, breath hot, water clinging to the edges of his lashes.
She arched hard from the hips and snapped her head up, crown driving into the ridge of his nose in a blind, desperate arc.
Bone met bone with a wet crack. The jolt burst through her skull like a hammer, teeth clacking, vision sparking into stars. Rain and gunfire collapsed to a muffled hum. He reeled with a strangled snarl, and she dragged in a shuddering breath that tore her throat raw.
The pressure slipped to her collarbone; she jammed her forearm inside his elbow and carved herself a breath of space. Her arms shook as she shoved against the hard plate of his vest, panic lending force. Her right leg tore free, but when she tried to drive it up he dropped on her again, crushing it down before she could land a blow. His knife hand pinned her shoulder, the blade angling across her chest, his weight unsteady. She seized his wrist with both hands, tendons screaming, the tip of the blade trembling inches above her sternum as he bore down.
Her boots skidded for purchase—one heel caught the ridged base rail of the container. Flat on her back, she twisted and heaved, dragging both their bodies sideways across the wet asphalt until they slammed into the steel. The impact boomed through her spine, rattled her teeth, and shook his grip on the knife.
She shoved again, harder, pinning him into the siding until his blade arm slapped the metal for balance. Still prone, she wrenched a hand down to her thigh rig and ripped the pistol free. He dropped the knife instantly, rolling across her gun side to smother the new threat. Both hands clamped on her wrist, smashing it against the pavement. The muzzle skidded sideways with a jolt, metal sparking on the ground. He sprawled half on top of her, chest crushing her right shoulder, his left knee driving her thigh down, his weight grinding her gun hand into the asphalt.
They wrestled in the runoff, grit grinding into her palms, her shoulder screaming under his weight as he pinned the pistol to the ground. Her wrist was twisted flat against the asphalt; she forced a finger into the guard, but he crushed it down harder, the rim biting into the base of her finger when she tried to pull. His breath came ragged in her ear, hot and close, the stink of sweat mixing with rust, powder, and the diesel tang drifting from somewhere down the lane.
Her heel slid in the runoff; still flat on her back, she threaded her left boot between them and hooked it behind his right calf. With a ragged haul she wrenched, levering him just enough for his grip to falter. Her pistol hand tore free.
She shoved the gun up. His forearm crashed across her nose, cartilage crunching, hot copper flooding her mouth. Vision blurred, ribs grinding under the plate of his vest as he forced the muzzle wide. She clung to the hook, twisted her hips, dragging his leg sideways until his chest rolled open.
There was no time to aim. She drove the barrel into him and fired.
The round slammed his armor with a flat, brutal thud, jerking his body but not stopping it. He crashed down harder, smothering the weapon. She jammed the muzzle lower, into the soft gap under the carrier at his ribs, and squeezed again. The recoil snapped her elbow into the container wall.
For a heartbeat he pressed heavier, hot and suffocating. Then his weight broke, sliding off in a sodden sprawl that splashed cold water across her side.
For a moment she stayed flat, pistol locked in both hands, the front sight steady on the slack of his jacket. Rain chilled her cheek; copper clung thick on her tongue. The knife's handle glinted a foot away, half-drowned in a shallow ripple.
She rolled to her side and pushed up on an elbow. The effort sent her vision swimming, the ringing in her ears sharpening into a high hiss. Warm blood traced from one nostril to her lip; she wiped it with the heel of her hand, metallic salt flooding her mouth.
Her body felt heavy, but she forced one knee under, then the other, hauling herself into a low crouch. The pistol stayed on him while she hooked the knife with her boot and scraped it deeper into the puddle, out of reach. The jacket didn't stir. The hands stayed empty.
When she finally shoved the pistol back into its holster, her fingers trembled. She reached for her rifle a few feet away, sling slick with rain against her palm, and forced herself upright. The lane between the containers pressed close, rain hissing louder than before, pulse hammering like the fight hadn't ended at all.
It wasn't.
Gunfire from the spur lane rolled harder now—sustained, layered bursts running the length of the steel like thunder in a canyon. Not the quick exchange that had dropped the SUV drivers. This was heavier. Relentless. And she knew who was in the middle of it.
She edged toward the mouth of the gap, pulse climbing, then glanced back across at Truck One. Through the rain-streaked windshield, Mason sat high in the cab, one hand braced on the wheel, the other flicking at the dash. The far side of the rig stayed blind from here; Cole and Price were somewhere beyond the bumper, covering the rear approach, lost in the rain. No one was looking her way.
Her pulse still hammered from the fight, vision edged hard with adrenaline. Orders said hold here. But both Brock and Knuckles were in that lane, and the sound said the fight hadn't tipped.
She slid out of the gap with Truck One at her left shoulder, staying low, boots splashing through shallow water pooled in the uneven ground as she angled toward the spur mouth on the right. Containers rose on either side like wet black walls, the air between them thick with diesel and spent powder. Her rifle rode high, muzzle low, safety off. Each step sharpened the firefight—bursts stitched with clipped shouts, voices threading through the rain.
A fresh volley tore the air, noise ricocheting until direction blurred—then the deeper roll to her right set her back on line. She skirted a dropped mag half-submerged in a puddle, brass glittering near a drainage grate. Somewhere ahead a voice barked urgent orders, muffled by angles, close enough to carry.
She kept moving, gunfire pulling her down the spur like a tide she couldn't fight.
The lane widened into a jagged spill of light and noise. Muzzle flashes strobed white in the rain, shadows jerking against the stacked steel. Harper hugged the left-hand wall, a truck-length short of the cab. Truck Two loomed off to her right, canted halfway down the spur, engine grumbling, its flank lit in bursts as Syndicate rifles cracked from behind the wheel well and shadowed container doors.
Brock, Knuckles, Onyx, and Keir were strung along the truck's nose—engine block and bumper for cover—trading bursts down the lane. Farther back, Gunner and Vale locked the rear, their rifles stitching light through the rain.
The Maw fighters held their own barricade: crates, barrels, the jutting lip of a container stack near the far mouth. Shapes rose and dropped in quick arcs of fire. Two were lean and quick, wet jackets plastered to their frames—offload crew from Truck Two, caught mid-retreat.
Harper pressed flat to the slick corner, breath rasping in her ears. Fifteen yards ahead, the nearest Maw crouched behind a split crate, back to her, rifle leveled on the truck line. Her rifle came up, sight cutting through rain and shadow. She squeezed a burst. Rounds punched shoulder and side; he jolted, weapon tumbling as he folded forward.
Another head whipped her way. Fire chewed the corner inches from her face, steel spitting sparks past her cheek. The air baked hot against her skin. She dropped hard, boots splashing through the seam of pooled water, and slid two container gaps left, shifting angle under the layered roar of the fight.
Knuckles' rifle hammered from up ahead, and she used the noise to mask her move. She hugged the truck's shadow, slid up the driver's side, and dropped into cover at the front wheel well. Brock crouched there, shoulder pressed to the frame by the bumper, rain streaming off the matte black of his rifle.
He turned just enough to catch her. His eyes flicked over her face—the blood smeared under her nose, the wet sheen along her temple. His jaw set hard, irritation flickering with something heavier, then he leaned back out, sending another burst down the lane. A small tilt of his head ceded the near side to her without a word.
She ducked low on his left, sighted down her lane, and caught a Maw muzzle flash sparking from behind a stack of barrels. Two quick shots dropped it. Brock swapped mags without looking; she filled the gap, rifle barking steady until his action slid home. For a stretch they moved in sync—him edging back along the panel toward the door, her tracking left and keeping it clear.
Onyx shouted from the nose—something short, urgent—and Brock jerked his chin before sliding back along the driver's side toward the rear. Knuckles poured fire down the lane to cover the move. Harper shadowed close, palm dragging the slick steel, boots slipping on scattered brass as she followed his line. The push was working—Syndicate rifles hammering the Maw fighters back toward the far stack.
She kept her rifle forward—and caught motion off their left, not ahead. A dark shape slipped through a container gap, hugging shadow, muzzle already rising. The angle put the shooter square on Brock's exposed side as they moved past the cab.
Her lungs locked tight. She swung her sights, but Brock's shoulder and the truck's corner filled half the lane; one bad pull and she'd cut him down. The flanker's barrel dipped for the shot.
"Brock!" The warning ripped out of her. He turned just enough and she drove into him, shoving him flat to the panel and taking his place on the edge. The burst tore past where he'd been and raked under the edge of her vest, fabric shredding, fire scoring across her ribs. The impact folded her to a knee, breath crushed out in a single ragged gasp.
Brock snapped off the steel, pivoted, and leveled his rifle in the same motion. Two bursts hammered the flanker back into the container wall; the body dropped, weapon clattering on wet concrete.
Harper's palm pressed to her ribs, came away hot and slick, the rain washing pink trails down her glove.
Brock caught her vest and yanked her into the pocket behind the rear wheel well, tucking her tight into the shadow of the tire. His gaze flicked once to her hand on the wound—the muscle in his cheek jumped—then he leaned out again, rifle barking to keep the lane sealed.
They crouched there under the drum of rain, shots rattling the steel above. Brock's head dipped once, an unspoken signal forward. He stayed close as they moved, rain streaming off the truck's side, the air clinging with burnt powder, diesel, and blood. His free hand brushed her forearm—not comfort, just a hard confirmation she was still on her feet.
A shadow cut through the rain from up-lane—Knuckles, skidding in low with his rifle up. His eyes snapped to Brock first, a flash of alarm like he expected to find him down for good.
"You hit?" he barked over the gunfire.
"Not me," Brock shot back, aim never leaving the gap. "Voss."
Knuckles' gaze shifted, catching Harper with one hand pressed to her ribs, chest heaving. He reached out, dragging his palm quick across the edge of her vest, eyes narrowing at the blood slick on her glove. A breath, tight through his teeth. "You still moving?"
She gave the smallest nod. His jaw hardened, and he slid into cover at the front side of the rear wheel well, rifle snapping out bursts toward the fighters dug in around Truck Two's nose.
Harper forced her hand off the wound, flexing her grip back around the rifle. Her pulse pounded hot in her ears, drowning the rain. The ache in her side burned steady, but adrenaline shoved it back just far enough to keep her upright.
She slid out from the rear wheel well on Brock's left, hugging the panel until her muzzle cleared, then shouldered in beside him. Muzzle flash carved his profile in jagged bursts. She took the left, caught a shadow slipping between container gaps, and dropped it with two rounds. The body vanished behind a slick wall of blue-painted steel.
"Left side's thinning," Knuckles called.
"Push," Brock answered, clipped.
Harper's boots skidded in the greasy water as she moved, tight on Brock's flank. The air thickened with cordite, each breath metallic, rifle reports ricocheting between containers until it felt like the sound lived inside her skull.
They advanced in bursts, panel by panel along Truck Two's driver's side toward the nose, leapfrogging between the truck and the container wall. Knuckles' fire cracked steady behind, stitching cover while she and Brock slid forward. Harper kept her rifle braced, every pivot spiking pain through her ribs, forcing her to grit down and keep moving. The graze burned hotter, spreading under the vest like a brand pressed into flesh, rain cooling the edges without dimming the fire.
Ahead, muzzle flashes flared at the truck's nose, two Maw fighters firing wild from broken cover. Brock's rifle barked three times; one crumpled into the open, the other ducked hard into the blind spot.
"Gunner—right corner!" Brock's shout cut through the chaos. From the passenger side a few panels back, Gunner's fire swept the edge, pinning the survivor.
Harper pressed against a container corner, lungs ragged, vision tunneling down her sights. She held for the instant he leaned too far—and fired. The round punched through his shoulder, spinning him out wide. Knuckles finished him in three quick bursts, the body slamming flat in the rain.
The gunfire bled out, leaving only the drum of water on steel and the hiss of steam curling from a nearby exhaust. The sudden quiet rang loud in her ears.
Brock held a beat, rifle leveled, scanning every angle. Only when nothing moved did he lower the barrel. His eyes cut briefly to Harper's side, catching the dark smear under her vest, before shifting back to the lane.
Knuckles scanned forward, boots splashing as he edged to the spur mouth. "Clear!" he called, voice carrying sharp in the wet air.
Brock keyed his comm, voice cutting clean through the rain. "Vale—cab of Two. Onyx, Keir, cover him. Gunner, hold passenger side."
"Copy," Vale came back, close enough his voice cracked through the noise.
Across the flank, Vale broke from cover and hauled into the cab. The engine's idle shifted, deepened, air brakes sighing as he settled behind the wheel. Gunner posted tight along the passenger side, rifle leveled on the dark corners ahead.
Brock's eyes cut to her, lingering for a breath before rising again. His tone stayed even. "We're rolling out. Vale's got Two. Move."
She gave a nod and shoved off the container, ribs flaring as she forced herself back into motion. The throb in her ribs flared, nearly buckled her, then dulled back under the adrenaline haze.
Brock slung his rifle and started along Truck Two's driver's side toward the spur mouth. Harper kept on his flank, runoff slapping under their boots. Rain sheeted down the container walls, slick and relentless, the air heavy with burnt powder and hot diesel.
Knuckles and his crew cut across the mouth of the spur toward their SUV, rifles still up though the lane was clear. He slowed as Brock came even; the two men met with a brief nod, a fist bump solid against wet gloves.
"Not bad for an ungodly hour," Knuckles said, a grin ghosting under the shadow of his hood. His eyes flicked to Harper. "Get her patched before she drops."
Brock's jaw flexed but he let it ride, shifting his weight toward the main lane. They split there, Knuckles' crew peeling off toward their SUV while Brock and Harper angled back toward Truck One, the rain swallowing their footprints as fast as they made them.
They moved out along the main lane, rain slicking the concrete, container walls falling back into open space lit by idling headlights. Engines rumbled low, steady, a stark contrast to the chaos still echoing in her ears.
Cole and Price were posted near Truck One, rifles at low ready. Price's eyes cut to Harper first—taking in her soaked jacket, the spreading stain at her ribs. Cole's brows knotted, his mouth pulling tight.
"You were supposed to—" Price started.
"She's here now," Brock cut him off, voice flat, stride unbroken. "It's finished."
Cole and Price exchanged a look but fell in at his shoulders, forming a loose flank as they crossed the last stretch. Mason sat high in the driver's seat of Truck One, hands steady on the wheel, the big rig idling with a deep mechanical thrum. Brock stepped up onto the running board, leaned in through the open window.
"Follow us out. Straight back to the compound."
Mason gave a single nod. "Got it."
Brock dropped back down, turning toward the Tahoe staged a few feet ahead. He pulled the passenger door open, waiting until Harper slid inside before closing it with a firm hand. One last sweep of the lane—eyes cutting over engines, shadows, and the dark edges of the port—then he rounded for the driver's side.
The Tahoe settled into the lead, tires hissing over wet pavement. Brock kept his eyes forward as they cleared the port, wipers dragging slow arcs through the rain. The engine's low growl filled the cab, broken only by the distant rumble of the rigs behind.
Harper angled toward the window, one elbow on the armrest, her other hand clamped over her ribs. The wet fabric clung heavy, every jostle tugging at the raw heat beneath. Streetlamps slid across her face in broken intervals, catching the fine spray on her lashes.
Her breathing had steadied since they pulled away, but each dip in the road drew a small hitch she forced down. She didn't speak. Neither did Brock. The silence sat dense between them, thick with everything unsaid.
In the mirror, Knuckles' SUV rode offset at their back. Truck One's grille filled the lane beyond, Truck Two steady in its wake, the WRX and Charger closing the tail. The convoy moved like a single animal, engines and exhaust weaving into a single body.
Brock's eyes cut her way once—a glance that weighed more than a check—before returning to the road. His hands stayed steady on the wheel, but his jaw hadn't eased since the fight.
The city thinned as they pushed inland, the sky bleeding pale at the edges. By the time the cranes of Eastport fell behind, a thin stripe of sun split the clouds, turning the wet asphalt into a ribbon of dull gold. Harper's gaze fixed on it, the ache in her side pulling her back to the fight in the gap—the knife, the weight, the way she'd shoved Brock clear and taken the burst instead.
At the split, the rigs peeled away with a sigh of air brakes, lumbering toward the warehouse sector. The SUVs held course, pressing inland. They dropped down the ramp into the Syndicate's garage, engines reverberating off concrete until Brock swung into an open space near the elevator.
Engines clicked silent one by one, headlights snapping off. Doors thumped, boots hit the slick floor. Wet asphalt, burnt powder, and diesel hung heavy in the still air.
Brock stepped out, rifle slung, and posted at the Tahoe's nose. He didn't call them in; they drifted close on their own, boots ringing against concrete until the teams formed a loose half circle—Brock's crew, Knuckles' crew, the overwatch pair.
Harper stayed by the passenger door, palm light on her ribs, watching heat ripple off the hoods and curl into the damp air. The concrete hollow carried every sound—engines ticking down, rainwater dripping from wheel wells, the faint echo of boots shifting as men waited.
"Good work out there," Brock said, voice steady and carrying. "Get cleaned up. Rest. We'll debrief tomorrow." His gaze passed over them, deliberate but never settling. "Patch up and keep your heads down."
Nods followed, a low murmur of acknowledgments. Then the circle broke—Price, Cole, and Knuckles' team peeling off toward the side stairs, overwatch cutting to the far end of the garage. The sound of their boots faded into the concrete, leaving the air heavy with oil and exhaust.
Brock turned back to her, rainwater dripping off the edge of his jaw, and jerked his chin toward the elevator. "Medical."
Harper pushed off the Tahoe and fell in beside him. The elevator doors slid open with a muted chime; they stepped inside, boots squeaking against the metal, rain pooling dark at their heels. The doors sealed them into a close, humming box that smelled of wet fabric, gun oil, and blood.
Brock faced forward, jaw set hard enough to work the muscle at his cheek. "You were told to stay with the first truck," he said. The words weren't loud, but they carried the edge of a blade, no room for misunderstanding.
She shifted, ribs flaring, palm pressed firm to her side. "I heard the fight and figured you might need—"
His voice cut in, lower now, rougher. "You saved my life."
Her mouth closed. The cab hummed, carrying them down. She could hear her own breathing, uneven, filling the space.
He glanced over—just once—but it stripped some of the steel. His eyes swept her jacket, the blood seeping dark against the fabric, the smear under her nose, before landing on her face. Relief flickered there, gratitude that looked out of place on him. His shoulders dropped a fraction.
"I'm pissed you're hurt," he said, quieter still, "but I'm glad you were there."
The elevator slowed, her balance slipping with it; his hand shot to her elbow, steadying, warm even through soaked fabric. He let go just as quick, but the tether had been there.
Neither spoke after that, but the silence shifted—less command and anger, more of what hadn't had space to exist while the gunfire still ran hot.
The doors slid open with a sigh. Brock's voice followed, steady but not cold. "We'll talk protocol later. Right now we fix you."
The doors slid open on the medical floor, antiseptic biting through the rain and diesel still clinging to their clothes. Brock's hand stayed firm at the small of Harper's back, guiding her into the white-bright corridor.
Graves looked up from her desk—and stopped. Her eyes went straight to Harper, taking in the wet bloom at her ribs, the way she leaned more on Brock's hand than she meant to. "What happened?"
"Graze," Brock said. "Right side. Needs cleaning and stitches."
Graves's gaze flicked to him, holding. "You've got her running missions already?"
He didn't back off it. "She was ready."
The look Graves gave Brock carried more than words, but she let it pass, turning her attention back to Harper. Her voice softened a shade. "Come on. Up on the table."
Harper eased forward under her guidance, boots heavy on the tile, until she sank onto the padded edge. The paper crinkled loud under her, the Kevlar vest soaked and dragging on her chest.
Before Graves said anything, Brock's hands were already on the buckles. He stripped the vest loose with practiced efficiency, the weight sliding off her shoulders and dropping to the floor with a solid thud.
"Shirt too," Graves said, tugging on gloves. Then her eyes cut toward Brock, deliberate. "Do you want him to step out?"
For a breath Harper froze, pulse jumping. Then the word came rough, quicker than she meant: "No."
It caught Graves slightly, enough for surprise to flicker across her face before she masked it. She gave a small nod, voice even again. "All right. Let's see."
Graves snapped a pair of scissors from the tray and hooked them under the hem of Harper's shirt. The fabric clung stubbornly, sodden and dark, but the steel slid through with a steady rasp until the shirt peeled back in two halves.
The wound lay bare: a raw groove along the line of her ribs, the skin torn and blackened at the edges where the round had kissed through. Blood had matted down her side, streaks running into the waist of her pants. A bruise was already blooming outward, purple and blue spreading fast under the pale wash of the lights.
"Lay back," Graves said, voice even.
Harper shifted stiffly, easing onto her spine. The paper crinkled loud under her shoulders, ribs jolting at the change in angle. Brock stayed near the head of the table, his frame steady in the corner of her vision, arms folded but eyes never leaving her.
Graves leaned in with gauze, the sting of antiseptic filling the air as she pressed to the wound. The burn hit instantly, dragging a hiss through Harper's teeth.
"I know," Graves murmured, clinical but softer than before. She dabbed again, stripping blood and grit away, her gloves already streaked. "Surface damage. Ugly, but it didn't dig deep."
The gauze came away dark, dropped into a tray, replaced by another. Her hands moved steady, methodical, the rhythm of long practice.
From a small case she drew a syringe, the liquid inside faintly cloudy. She thumbed the plunger, a bead welling at the tip, and glanced to Harper. "Local anesthetic. It'll numb you enough for the stitching. Burn first, then it fades."
Harper's eyes tracked the needle, throat tight, but she gave a small nod.
Graves steadied her side. "Hold still."
The needle slid in just above the torn skin. Harper's body jerked once at the sting, a hot flare that spread under her ribs before it dulled to heat. Graves withdrew, stripped the syringe into a tray, and pressed gauze lightly to the spot.
"Give it a minute," she said, pulling off her gloves for a fresh pair.
Harper's breathing steadied by degrees, each exhale catching less against the throbbing edge. She tipped her head back against the paper, staring into the glare of the ceiling lights.
Graves moved higher, gloved fingers tilting Harper's chin toward her. "While we wait—your nose."
Harper stiffened, breath snagging. The skin there still ached raw from the fight, blood dried in a smear across the bridge.
Graves's touch was careful but precise, fingertips running along the line of bone beneath the swelling. Harper hissed when pressure found the ridge.
"Swelling," Graves noted. "Tender, but alignment feels good. No break." She shifted, eyes narrowing against the light as she checked the angle from the other side. "You'll ache for a while, maybe bleed again if it takes another hit. But nothing to set."
She let Harper's chin go, peeled the gauze back from her ribs, and gave a light press. Harper barely flinched.
"Good," Graves said, with a small nod. "It's starting to take."
She reached for a sterile pack, a curved needle glinting in the light. "Let's close it up."
The first puncture bit quick, followed by the tug of thread—pull and pressure, skin drawing tight in a rhythm that made Harper grit her teeth. Each pass burned faintly under the antiseptic still clinging to raw edges.
Her hand curled tight against the edge of the table, knuckles blanching as she watched Graves work.
"Eyes on me," Brock said, low and steady.
Her head turned almost without thought. He filled her vision, immovable, weight set in that stance that brooked no collapse. The lights, the sting of chemical, the tug and cinch of thread—all of it blurred to the edges while his focus pinned her breathing steady.
Graves didn't comment, but a flicker crossed her face as she caught it—something between surprise and recognition—before her eyes dropped back to the needle in her hands.
She tied off the last knot and pressed gauze firm over the line. "Done." Tape smoothed into place, gloves stripped and dropped.
Another syringe was drawn, tapped, and slid into Harper's arm. "Pain relief," Graves said. The cold sting gave way to warmth spreading slow under her skin. "It may make you drowsy. Rest the day. No strain on that side." She set a small amber bottle on the tray. "One of these if you need more. They'll slow you down." A second syringe. "Booster." Quick jab to the deltoid. "You're covered."
On her way to the cabinet, Graves pulled a plain black scrub top and set it by Harper's side. "Yours is ruined."
Harper worked the fabric carefully over her head. The stretch pulled against the fresh stitches and stole her breath in a tight gasp. Brock didn't move in, but his eyes stayed locked, steady, ready if she faltered.
Graves lingered at the edge of the light, stripping her gloves. Her eyes swept Harper's frame, pausing at the lines of her face, the set of her shoulders. "You've put weight back on," she said quietly. "You look stronger."
Harper froze for a breath, caught by the words. The corner of her mouth pulled faintly, not a smile but close—something like relief breaking under exhaustion. She lowered her eyes, voice rough but sure. "Feels better than the other way."
Graves gave a short nod, the faintest softening at the edges of her expression.
Harper eased down from the table, boots hitting tile with a muted thud. The motion tugged the line of stitches raw, a wince cutting through her composure, but she stayed upright. The scrub top clung damp against her spine, smelling faintly of detergent instead of rain and cordite.
Brock was already beside her, close enough that his presence filled the space between her and the door. His hand found her elbow, firm without force, guiding her into step. Graves watched them go, something unreadable flickering in her eyes before the doors whispered shut behind them.
The elevator hummed around their damp clothes, rain drying to salt streaks on fabric. Harper leaned against the wall, the scrub top loose over her waistband, ribs throbbing under the fresh pull of stitches. The painkiller dulled the edge, but each sway of the car sent a warm heaviness through her limbs.
Brock stood steady beside her, eyes forward. He didn't speak, but his gaze cut once to her side before fixing back on the doors, jaw working like he was holding something in.
When they stepped out, the corridor was quiet in the pale wash of early morning. Only a few strides carried them to her door. Brock swiped his card without looking at her and held it open until she stepped through. The latch clicked soft behind them.
He didn't pause in the main room, just steered her straight through to her room with a hand brushing her lower back—light, deliberate, a guide more than a push.
"Sit," he said.
The mattress dipped under her weight. The warmth in her veins was dragging at her, limbs too heavy to fight the stiffness in her side. She reached for the laces of her boots, but Brock crouched first, one knee to the floor. His hands worked the knots loose, wet leather creaking as he tugged them free and set them aside.
She started to fumble at the button of her cargo pants. Brock's hand came down, steadying hers, moving them aside without a word. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and worked the fabric down over her hips, slow enough not to pull against the bandage. The pants slid free and hit the floor in a wet heap.
By the time he stood, she was down to the scrub top and briefs, exhaustion showing through every line of her posture. His eyes tracked her once—face, ribs, legs—jaw flexing, but he said nothing.
"Lie back," he told her, voice even.
She eased down, the mattress taking her weight, the blanket tugged over her with his hand smoothing it once across her shoulder. He set a glass of water and the pill bottle on the nightstand, dimmed the lamp to a low glow.
"Rest," he said. "That's all you're doing today."
Her eyes were already half-lidded, following him as he moved to the door. He paused there, looking back. "I'll be outside if you need me."
The door clicked partway shut, left just enough ajar for the sound of the hall to drift faint under the quiet.
─•────
The soft click of the latch tugged her halfway out of sleep. For a moment she didn't move, the dim shape of the room tilting in the low light, her mind catching up a fraction too slow. Warm air drifted across her face, threaded with antiseptic under something richer—food.
She blinked toward the door as Brock stepped in. The overhead stayed off; only the lamp on the dresser threw a muted glow across his shoulders. He shut the door with his hip, a takeout container in one hand, his eyes already finding her in the bed.
"Evening," he said quietly, like he was testing how awake she really was. "Brought dinner. Graves would skin me if I let you go the whole day without food."
The reminder dragged her the rest of the way out of the fog. The blanket slipped from her shoulders when she pushed upright, ribs pulling hot enough to make her freeze mid-motion. Eyes shut, she held until it eased.
Brock crossed the room, set the container on the nightstand, and slipped a hand behind her shoulder. The touch was steady, impersonal, but solid enough to get her sitting without toppling. He pressed a glass of water into her hand. "Sip first."
She drank. Cool water cut the cotton in her mouth, sliding her throat awake.
"It's evening?" she asked, voice hoarse.
"After nine. You've been out since we got back."
She eased higher against the headboard, wincing at the stretch. "Guess I was tired."
He flipped the lid off the container, steam curling up into the lamp glow. "Here." He took her glass, set it aside, and handed her the fork with the food. Then he sat on the edge of the mattress. The dip of his weight tilted her hip toward him, close enough she felt it even without looking.
They ate in silence. Forks scraped faintly against cardboard, the only sound between them. The food was warm, savory, heavier than she'd expected. She forced it down anyway, each bite sitting thick in her stomach.
But the silence pressed harder than the food. Her chest cinched; her fork slowed. Finally, the words pushed out, rough and unsteady.
"I shouldn't have left the truck."
He didn't answer right away. She kept her eyes on the container, pulse climbing, bracing for the snap she knew was coming.
"I defied you in the office," she pressed on, voice thin. "And now, the very next job—I did it again. Twice in a row. You told me to stay put, and I still—"
"Harper."
The sound of her name cut her off. She looked up, caught by the weight in his voice. His gaze held steady, not hard, not soft—just locked on hers.
"You didn't." His voice cut across hers, steady, but not cold. "You kept me breathing. That outweighs everything else."
Her head lifted, eyes searching him, uncertain. "Even when it's defiance?"
For a moment he didn't answer. His jaw flexed once, then eased. "If you hadn't broken protocol," he said, quieter now, "I wouldn't be here bringing you dinner."
The words landed harder than she expected, pressing against her chest in a way no reprimand ever had. She stared at him, caught off guard, and found him watching her back. His gaze didn't break when she looked up—if anything, it held longer than she could stand, steady and unyielding, but threaded with something that set her pulse uneven.
Only when the silence stretched tight did he look away, the smallest exhale leaving him. "That's what matters. Don't forget it."