The training maze was a patchwork of plywood walls and narrow hallways, built to mimic the cramped turns of real buildings without the risk of live fire. Every surface was scuffed from boots and streaked with the bright smears of old paint rounds. Under the fluorescent hum, the air carried sawdust and the chalky grit they used to blunt the splintered edges.
Knuckles stood at the control panel near the entrance, floor plan rolled in one hand, coffee steaming in the other. He tapped the map with a finger, the thud echoing faintly off the plywood, and gave each of them a steady look. "Onyx up front, Harper second, Brock on rear security. There's a blind corner halfway through—don't break formation when you hit it. That's where I'll be watching."
Harper must've let something show, because Knuckles' eyes narrowed and he stepped over to the crate beside her. Onyx stood only a few feet away, and it was the nearest she'd been to him since the Viper Den massacre. The memory itched under her skin, raw enough that she couldn't look straight at him.
Knuckles spread the paper map flat on the crate, the inked lines marking every turn and choke point. Rifles were already slung and magazines seated, safety still on until the run began. Muffs hung loose around their necks, the last check before stepping onto the tape line. "Onyx takes point," he said, tapping the lead position. "You cover second—anything past his shoulder, opposite side of the room, high angles. Brock holds the rear, keeps your backs clear, closes the hole if either of you get hung up."
Brock stood a step back from the group, shoulders against the wall, arms folded. He hadn't spoken, hadn't moved since the briefing started, but she felt the weight of his focus all the same.
Onyx rolled his shoulders and stepped to the tape line, rifle angled firm across his chest. Harper slotted in behind him, measuring the distance Knuckles had drilled into her until it felt carved into her spine. Brock closed in at her back, the brush of his sleeve grazing her arm before he anchored himself in place. At the panel, Knuckles flicked two toggles, and a low buzzer broke the silence before spiking into a single clipped chirp.
"Go."
Onyx pushed into the first hallway at a deliberate pace, rifle raised, his steps so measured the plywood barely gave a groan. Harper kept close, her barrel sweeping the opposite wall, eyes cutting across every doorway and corner he couldn't cover. A dull glint caught her eye—a lens tucked into a shadowed frame. Just a camera, not a threat. She forced her gaze forward. Behind her, Brock's boots fell in low and steady, a constant counterpoint that told her the rear was guarded.
The first turn came fast. Onyx leaned into it, shoulder nearly grazing the wall, and Harper mirrored him on her side, sights dragging across the open angle in a practiced arc. A paper silhouette snapped into view at the far end—there and gone in the same breath—before she squeezed the trigger. The crack of the training round slammed against the plywood corridor, and she caught the starburst of red dye marked its chest as the pulley yanked it back into cover.
They kept moving, steps ghosting over the taped lane markers in lockstep. Harper felt the maze folding tighter with every turn—corridors that pinched down, dead ends that flared out sudden, blind corners waiting with nothing behind them but the next breath.
Overhead, Knuckles' voice bled from the speaker, threaded with dry amusement. "Keep sharp. The moment you think it's tame, it'll take a piece out of you."
A narrow choke point forced them single file, shoulders grazing the plywood. The air was warmer here, close and stale, the sawdust bite sharper as boot soles scraped grit along the floor. Onyx's pace stayed measured, edging on lazy, the kind of tempo that tightened her pulse because it meant he was expecting something. She kept her sights sliding over the edges of his frame, clearing the thin slices of doorway and wall he couldn't cover.
A target snapped from a recessed alcove—half a man's silhouette, black paint bleeding down from its head. Harper fired on reflex. The converted rifle kicked against her shoulder, the training round cracking it sideways on its track. She barely registered the mark before Onyx was rounding the next bend, and she slid with him, muzzle rising high as his dragged low.
The corridor widened just enough for three across, but Brock held them tight, his shadow folding over hers as they shifted together. The next corner loomed ahead, the right-hand wall jutting farther than the left, cutting off any glimpse of what might be waiting beyond. Harper's throat went dry. She remembered Knuckles tapping that exact spot on the map, his voice telling her not to break formation.
At the mouth of the turn, Onyx dropped into a crouch, rifle angled toward the sliver of open space on his side. Instinct pulled her down with him, boots braced for balance, muzzle trained on the opposite gap. The plywood pressed so close that every adjustment scraped the stock against her vest.
A burst of static rattled from the overhead speaker, then Knuckles' voice: "Hold your lanes."
The floor under her boots trembled with the faint vibrations of something shifting just out of sight. Her grip cinched tighter. Every nerve screamed to lean out and catch a glimpse, but Onyx's steady aim held her locked where she was.
The first target whipped out low, squat silhouette rushing her field of view. She fired twice—training rounds cracking, paint splattering wet across its chest before the pulley dragged it back. Almost in the same instant, another form lunged high from the opposite side. Onyx's rifle barked, and the mark snapped away with red blooming across its head before it had even cleared the corner.
They held their positions for a breath longer, then Onyx lifted two fingers and slipped forward. Harper moved with him, her body following the signal without hesitation. Behind her, Brock's boots shifted once before falling back into cadence with hers.
The maze pinched down again, pressing them nearly shoulder to shoulder before opening into a short, straight run toward the final turn. Harper's breathing had leveled, each step matching Onyx's, her sights gliding across the lane in drilled rhythm. They were nearly through when a low metallic click carried from her left—a sound out of place against the steady churn of the drill.
Her pulse still hammered at her ribs when Brock leaned close, his voice slipping through the ring in her ear. "Don't hesitate when it's in your lane," he murmured. No rebuke in it, no edge — just weight, and it carried more than the shot. The absence of criticism left her more off-balance than if he'd torn her apart.
Onyx swung the last corner without slowing, and Harper followed, muzzle sweeping the empty stretch to the exit. No targets waited this time, only the hollow clatter of boots on plywood until daylight spilled across the floor from the open bay door ahead.
They broke formation at the threshold, Brock peeling off to clear his rifle while Onyx shoved his visor up off his face. Knuckles waited by the crate, coffee cup still in hand, a crooked tilt to his mouth.
His gaze cut to Harper as he tapped the side of the map. "Not bad for a first run. But you're drifting into other people's lanes. Trust the guy next to you, or you'll both be slow when it matters. And stop riding a target after it's down — shoot, clear, move. That habit'll get you lit up in a real fight." He dropped the map back onto the crate and jerked his chin toward the hall. "You've got two days to fix it."
Harper slung the rifle and stepped past him, the thump of Brock's boots falling in behind her. She didn't look back at the maze, but the corners still pressed against her mind, every turn reminding her of how different this had been from the street. The Maw had been chaos, blood and instinct. This was structure, lanes, timing drilled into her bones — and the thought she couldn't shake was that next time, the Syndicate would expect her to run it the same way when the doors were real.
Brock's hand brushed her shoulder as they cleared the doorway, brief enough anyone watching might have missed it. "Run it through in your head again. Every corner," he said, already moving ahead.
She matched his pace, silence stretching between them, and knew it wasn't plywood she'd be facing again — it was the job, the Syndicate's line, and whether she could carry her weight inside it.
The track's red surface still clung to the day's heat, grit grinding under their soles with every stride. The air tasted faintly of rubber and cut grass, sun high enough now that it baked down through the chain-link and shimmered off the lanes. Breath came steady, measured, Brock keeping the rhythm he'd set. Knuckles matched without strain, the silence between them as familiar as the run itself, broken only by the scuff of their shoes and the faint rattle of the fence when wind pressed through.
They rounded the far bend, sun glaring off steel mesh, shadows stretching across the lanes in warped angles. Brock's gaze stayed fixed ahead, lids narrowed against the glare, but his mind was already moving elsewhere.
─•────
The track shimmered under the sun, heat rising off the red surface. Their strides kept even, grit crunching under each footfall, rhythm steady enough that the silence stretched long.
Brock broke it first, voice carrying without strain. "Got another job lined up. She's coming."
Knuckles' head tilted just enough to catch him in the corner of his eye. "What kind?" His hands stayed loose, motion unbroken, each stride chewing up the lane.
"Cole and Price traced the Maw. Office space, not a front. They're using it to stash data off-site. Vex wants every file we can pull—maps, logs, comm trails. The more he's got, the tighter we can choke their HQ when the time comes." Brock's eyes stayed pinned ahead, lids narrowing against the glare bouncing off the chain-link.
Knuckles spat into the infield as they hit the bend, then lengthened his pace to fall back beside Brock. "And this office has it sitting pretty on a shelf?"
"Room's locked down, tighter than most. Maglock, secured panel. Too tight to kick." Brock dragged sweat from his temple with the back of his wrist, kept running. "But it's not built for someone small enough to come down from the ceiling."
For the first time, Knuckles looked over. His breath came heavier now, shirt sticking at the shoulders. "Running her through ducts, huh?"
"She gets in, pops the door, we take what we need. USB, fast out. She's not playing soldier — just opening the way."
Knuckles ran a hand over his jaw, letting the lane carry him a few more meters. "You're staking her on the inside."
"I'm putting her on something simple," Brock said. "No guns blazing, no mess. Just get the door open. It may be a reprieve from the chaos that last job was."
Knuckles' exhale came rough with the effort as they hit the curve. "Simple doesn't mean you let your guard down."
Brock's rhythm didn't falter. "She won't. Neither will I. But this isn't bullets in the street. It's a lock, a room, and us on the other side."
Knuckles' mouth pulled in something close to agreement, air rasping through his nose as they chewed up the next stretch of track. "A reprieve's not a bad idea." His tone carried weight that Brock caught but didn't read yet. Another dozen strides passed before he spoke again. "Did she tell you what happened in there? On the Maw run. Why her face was bloodied?"
Brock shook his head. "No. Graves cleared her. I figured she bounced it off a container."
Knuckles shook his head, jaw set tight. "Wasn't that. When we were writing the report, she put it down different. She broke from her post initially because fire was coming in from the stacks, by Truck One. She moved to cover it. That's when one of theirs rushed her. Sounds like she got jumped."
Brock's pace stuttered, just half a step, his eyes cutting to Knuckles. "She what?"
"Yeah." Knuckles' tone stayed even with his stride. "Sounds like it was melee before she put him down."
Brock's jaw worked, but his movement stayed steady. "Glad I've drilled combat into her the way I have, then." His next breath came measured, words riding it.
Knuckles rolled his shoulders back, shirt darkened down the spine. "I watched you two on the mats the other day. She's quicker now. Lot quicker than the last time I went up against her." He dragged his forearm across his brow, then fell back into rhythm.
"She picks things up fast." Brock's eyes stayed fixed forward, focus narrowed on the far end of the track.
Knuckles slanted him a look, soles grinding grit on the straightaway. "Yeah?"
"Much quicker than I did at her age." Brock's stride lengthened half a beat, as if to outrun the admission, shoulders rigid under the glare.
That pulled Knuckles' brows together. He let a dozen meters pass, the sound of their footfalls steady in the silence, before he asked, low, "And that is?"
Brock let the quiet ride for half a lap before he said it. "How old do you think she is? You were there when Silas died. So was she. How old do you think she was then?"
Knuckles gave a rough breath through his nose, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. "Brock, I barely remember what I had for breakfast. I don't remember what she looked like years ago. Why are you being cagey?"
Brock's pace stayed even. "She's eighteen, Knuckles."
Knuckles' footfalls stuttered, then stopped outright, grit scraping under his soles. Brock slowed when he realized he was running alone.
"Eighteen?" Knuckles' voice cracked too loud, heads turning at the far end of the track. He dropped it fast, voice rougher but lower. "She's fucking eighteen? Harper? She's that fucking young?"
Brock's jaw flexed. "She's that fucking young."
Knuckles dragged both hands down his face, pacing a few steps in a tight circle before he looked back at Brock. "Fuck. I knew she looked young but eigh—Jesus Christ, Brock. You're telling me we tortured an eighteen-year-old? Slaughtered everyone she ever knew? And now we've got her here, running jobs like she's one of us?"
Brock's eyes narrowed, shoulders taut as he caught his breath. "We all started young."
"She's a girl, Brock. She should be worrying about what classes to take, not dropping through ceilings or fighting grown men in a shipping yard."
"She's been doing it since she was in single digits," Brock said flatly. "It's all she knows."
Knuckles groaned, deep in his chest, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Christ almighty…"
Brock's gaze cut to him. "You know what makes it worse?"
Knuckles barked a bitter laugh, short and without humor. "I don't want to know. But I know you'll tell me."
"She's barely eighteen. Remember the night we caught her? Dragged her in? She told me last night—her birthday was two days before that raid."
Knuckles' face twisted, the words hitting deeper than he'd admit. "You're telling me the day you and me were planning that fucking hit, she was across the city blowing candles on a cake?"
"Yep." Brock's voice was even, flat as the track under their feet. "And now every single person who was there is dead."
Knuckles blew out a breath, fell back into rhythm. "Eighteen," he muttered again, as if testing the number. "I've seen men in their twenties who still trip over their own rifles. She's already past them. Give her time, and she's gonna be a goddamn problem for anyone in her way."
Brock's eyes stayed forward, tone flat. "She will."
Knuckles shook his head, a flick of sweat breaking from his hairline. "Unstoppable at this pace."
Knuckles was quiet for a few strides, the sun running sweat down his temple. Then, blunt: "You think she'll pass? Actually make Syndicate?"
Brock's jaw flexed. "I don't know." He drew in a lungful of air, let it bleed out slow. "She's good. She's fucking good. But I don't know how you separate that from the fact we killed her father and everyone else she ever gave a damn about."
Knuckles' eyes narrowed, movement steady.
Brock glanced over. "When we hit the Viper den — you remember me telling you about the guy she tried to shield?"
"Vaguely."
"Name was Dante," Brock said. "Probably her boyfriend."
Knuckles blew out a low breath, gaze shifting back to the far curve of the track. "So?"
"She knew standing in front of him wasn't gonna change a damn thing," Brock said. "And she did it anyway. That kind of loyalty doesn't come around often. You can use it, if you know how."
Knuckles' mouth pulled tight, his eyes cutting sideways. "Use it, sure. But even if she's Syndicate on paper, there'll be plenty who still see a Viper. That target doesn't vanish just because Vex stamps her in. And Vex—" he shook his head, shoulders rolling loose with the run—"he's not gonna give her slack. He wanted her dead once. He'd be just as happy if she washed out."
Brock's gaze hardened, tone flat. "She won't carry a target if I'm standing next to her. And she won't wash out."
Knuckles' brows lifted, a ghost of a smirk tugging. "Sounds a lot like you're betting on her."
"I'm betting on what I see," Brock shot back.
"Careful, brother," Knuckles said, low but edged. "That's how men go soft."
"I'm not soft." Brock's reply came quick, edged, carrying like a warning.
Knuckles held his gaze for a beat before turning forward again. Their cadence drummed grit into the track, silence stretching long enough that the sound of their breathing filled the space between them. Then Knuckles cut him a sidelong look.
"You're betting on her, fine. But tell me—has that changed how you treat her? Or is she still locked up like Rapunzel anytime she's not on the mats or in the mess hall?"
Brock's jaw flexed. "Mostly."
Knuckles let out a rough breath, half a scoff. "If you want her to integrate, you can't keep her boxed in like some captive. Doesn't mean give her keys to the whole place, but Christ—let her sit on a couch, flip a channel, read a book. If she's going to stay, she needs to live more than a locked room and your orders."
Brock didn't answer, but his gaze stayed forward, and Knuckles could read the grind in his silence.
At the far bend, Knuckles tipped his chin toward the benches by the fence where water bottles waited in the sun beside a folded map. "Come on. We'll run through your little Mission Impossible job before we hit the mats."
Brock fell in beside him, movement shifting from the rhythm of the run to the clipped pace of men with work to plan.
─•────
The WRX's engine ticked as it cooled, faint heat shimmering off the hood in the dim garage. Brock hauled a paper sack off the passenger seat, grease already seeping through the cardboard bottom. He shut the door with his hip, boots striking echoes off the concrete as he cut across toward the stairwell door.
The corridor on the other side hummed with fluorescent buzz, walls painted the same tired gray as every other Syndicate hallway. He keyed the elevator, weight shifting while he waited, the bag warm against his palm. When the doors slid open, he stepped inside, rode up in silence.
The residential floor opened into a narrower hall lined with steel doors and unit numbers etched into plates. Keir came around the corner at the far end, a towel draped around his neck, sweat slick on his skin from whatever drill he'd just finished. Their eyes met, a brief recognition.
"Lawson," Keir said, voice rough but even.
"Keir." Brock gave him a single nod, pace unbroken. The exchange was nothing more than habit, two men acknowledging each other without warmth.
Brock keyed into his quarters and pushed the door shut behind him. The smell hit then, garlic and tomato sauce heavy in the air as he set the sack on the island, strong enough to drown out the usual tang of gun oil and leather that clung to the place. He shrugged off his jacket, dropped it over the back of a chair, and stood there a moment, hands loose at his sides.
Down the short hall lay the spare room, the one he'd kept her in. For weeks he'd carried meals straight there, turned the bolt, left the plate inside, shut her in again. Tonight he didn't move right away. Knuckles' voice from the track hung close: let her breathe, give her something human.
Brock lingered in the kitchen, eyes fixed on the hallway. The silence pressed heavy until his shoulders knotted, then he let out a breath and pushed himself down toward the far door.
The deadbolt gleamed as he reached it. He wrapped his hand around the steel and turned. The mechanism slid louder than it had any right to in the close hall, the sound a warning that carried through the room beyond. He didn't knock. Just threw the lock and pushed the door open.
Harper sat curled on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, toes hooked under the blanket. The room offered nothing else. A bed. A desk. Four walls the same flat color, the same flat air. No books. No cards. No noise but the pipes groaning in the ceiling and the faint buzz of the hall light bleeding under the door. She'd spent the better part of an hour staring at the seam where the floorboards met, letting her thoughts scatter and circle back until they went thin.
The scrape of the deadbolt cut through the silence and snapped her upright before she even thought to move. Steel grinding against steel — the sound always carried down the hall, and her body answered it like a reflex, every line of her tightening in the space of a breath.
She dragged her hair back from her face and locked her eyes on the door. He never knocked. He never called her name. The hinges gave a long groan and then the door swung inward, light from the hall slicing across the concrete floor until it brushed against her bare feet.
Brock stepped in. Same as always, except not. His hands were empty. No plate balanced against his arm, no tray dropped on the desk. Just him filling the doorway, shoulders set, the weight of his stare fixed on her.
Her stomach knotted, suspicion lacing through her chest as her gaze traced his empty hands. "What?" The word slipped out hard, sharper than she intended. Her eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"
Brock's voice came low, rough, like gravel caught in his throat. "If you're hungry, you come out for dinner."
She blinked at him, disbelief flashing quick across her face. "Pardon?"
His answer was his eyes, steady and unblinking. When he spoke again, his tone carried the weight of command, stripped of anything soft. "This isn't a test. It's just dinner. Get up."
Her jaw stayed tight, the silence stretching between them until it felt like it pressed against her ribs. Finally, she eased off the bed, bare feet whispering against the floor. Her arms folded across her midsection, a shield more than comfort, and she moved toward him in careful steps.
Brock didn't shift out of the doorway right away, forcing her to close the distance before she could slip past. When she did, she kept her head angled down, her hair sliding forward to hide the edge in her expression. She brushed close enough to catch the heat of him, then slunk into the hall with the wariness of someone crossing a tripwire.
He felt the hesitation In her gait, saw the way she wrapped herself in like she expected a blow. It made something in his jaw grind. This was dinner, nothing more — the fact she couldn't tell the difference hit harder than he wanted to admit.
He fell In behind her without a word, steps carrying them both back into the open space of the quarters where the sack still waited on the island.
Harper slid into a chair at the island, arms still tucked around herself until her eyes landed on the sack in the center. Grease stains marked the cardboard, and the corners sagged from the weight inside. Her shoulders eased a fraction, the suspicion in her face giving way to something closer to relief. It wasn't a trap. It wasn't a test.
Brock caught the change, small as it was. The corners of his mouth tugged, the closest thing he'd shown to a smile in days. He reached into the cupboard, pulled down two plates, and set them on the counter with a solid clack.
"Hope you like Italian," he said, voice still gruff but carrying the faint edge of dry humor.
"I'm not picky," she murmured, voice low but steady.
Brock snorted, pulling the sack open and lifting out the warm aluminum pans. "I've seen what you eat at the cafeteria. I'd beg to differ."
Her eyes followed his hands as he worked the crimped lids loose, steam curling out in faint wisps. "If they made better food, maybe I'd eat more."
"That's why I get takeout so much," Brock muttered, setting a portion of pasta onto the plate in front of her.
She arched a brow at that, the faintest flicker of challenge in her expression. "You've got a whole kitchen here. Don't you cook?"
Brock glanced at her as he scooped pasta onto her plate. "I cook your breakfast, don't I?"
She huffed, arms folding tighter around her middle. "Oatmeal, protein bars, and sometimes scrambled eggs isn't what I mean."
His mouth twitched, but he didn't bite back. He set her plate down with a soft clink, reached for the second container, and started plating his own. "No," he said finally, voice flat. "I hate cooking."
She didn't answer, just watched him finish scooping his own portion. Brock reached into the bag again, pulled out foil-wrapped garlic bread, and split it between the plates with a quick toss. No ceremony, no extra word.
He grabbed two forks from the drawer, slid one across to her, then set his plate down with a dull scrape of china on the countertop. Finally, he lowered himself into the chair beside her, posture heavy but settled, as if the choice had already been made and he wasn't going to take it back.
She took the fork, fingers brushing the handle like she wasn't sure she should. The pasta sat steaming on the plate, richer than anything she'd been handed out of the mess. But it was the seat — the island, the way the plates sat side by side — that made her throat tighten.
She'd eaten with him almost every day. Lunch in the cafeteria, surrounded by noise and steel eyes and the shuffle of boots. That had felt like duty, part of training. This was different. His space. His table. The silence here carried farther, magnifying every small sound until it seemed to press at her skin.
Brock settled in like it was nothing, shoulders loose, posture heavy in the chair. He didn't look at her right away, just dug into his serving, as if to show her this was ordinary — even if she couldn't quite believe it yet.
Harper twirled a small bite, the motion deliberate, like testing whether it was allowed, and lifted it to her mouth. She chewed in quiet, eyes on the plate. Brock ate beside her without comment. For a while, the only noise in the quarters was the muted clink of metal on china, both of them working through the meal as if silence itself was another course they had to finish.
They ate in silence until the plates sat nearly clean, the weight of the meal matching the weight in the air. When Harper set her fork down, Brock rose without a word, gathering both plates and carrying them to the sink. The clatter of ceramic on steel broke the quiet for the first time.
She slid down from the chair, bare feet touching cool tile, and lingered just long enough to find her voice. "Thanks," she murmured, "For letting me out to eat."
Then she turned, moving toward the hall.
Brock's voice cut after her, flat but firm. "Not yet."
Her steps faltered at his words, bare feet halting on the floorboards. She half-turned, eyes narrowing slightly, caught between defiance and caution.
Brock nodded toward the open space of the quarters. "Sit. You're not going back in yet."
The bluntness left no room to argue, but it wasn't the same weight as an order in the training hall. It sounded heavier, quieter, like he'd decided this without asking himself if he should.
Harper hesitated, then padded toward the couch, wrapping her arms tight across her middle again as she lowered herself onto the edge of the cushion. The leather felt foreign under her, softer than anything in her room, and she sat stiff-backed like she didn't know what to do with it.
Brock crossed the room and dropped onto the opposite end of the couch. The frame dipped under his weight, leather sighing, and the gap between them felt wider than the space itself. He leaned forward, rubbing a hand down his face once before letting it fall loose. The silence stretched, not sharp but heavy, like the air itself was waiting for something to shift.
Harper's eyes flicked around the room — the books stacked unevenly on a shelf, the TV sitting dark, the clutter of takeout menus in a drawer left cracked. Her gaze came back to him, cautious, almost searching.
Neither of them spoke. The quiet didn't bite the way it had at the island. It lingered, awkward at first, then settling into something that felt different, almost bearable.
Brock reached for the remote resting on the arm beside him. One press, and the TV blinked to life, the Netflix logo flaring red across the screen before rows of shows filled it.
Harper blinked at the sudden glow, then at him, suspicion flickering back into her eyes. "You watch Netflix?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Brock's mouth twitched, the faintest edge of amusement crossing his face. "Sometimes."
He set the remote on the cushion between them without looking her way. "Pick something."
Harper blinked down at it, suspicion tugging at her mouth. "What, I get to choose now?"
"You're the one watching it," he said, voice even.
She picked the remote up slowly, like it might vanish if she moved too quick. The list of shows rolled under her thumb, choices blurring past. "Not much point if I don't know half of these."
"Figure it out," Brock said, dry but edged with something that almost sounded like amusement.
Her eyes flicked across to him, then back to the screen. "You really watch this crap?"
"Sometimes," he said. "Beats silence."
That drew a breath out of her — not quite a laugh, but lighter than the air had been. She sank back against the cushion, scrolling slower now, as if the tension had loosened by a notch.
Harper scrolled in silence until a bright cover caught her thumb. She hovered there, studying the blurb.
Brock let out a low groan. "Not that."
Her head turned, eyes narrowing. "I thought I could pick?"
"You can," he said, the corner of his mouth tugging. "Just not something shitty."
She stared at him for a beat, then hit play with deliberate pressure. The screen shifted, theme music spilling out. "Well, now that you said it, this is what we're watching."
His groan deepened, half protest, half amusement. Harper settled back against the cushion with a faint, satisfied tilt to her mouth, as if she'd won something small but worth keeping.
The episode rolled on, bright voices spilling into the room. Harper sat angled toward the screen, remote balanced loosely in her hand. A gag landed, so dumb it almost didn't qualify as humor, and a laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it.
Brock shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Ridiculous."
Her mouth pulled into a smirk. "You're just mad I picked it."
"Because it's terrible," he shot back, though there wasn't much heat in it.
"Too late. You said I could choose." She tipped the remote toward him like proof.
He leaned back against the cushion, stretching his legs out, and didn't argue. The silence that followed wasn't stiff anymore — it settled, easy in the glow of the screen.
Harper's arms uncurled from around her middle. She sank deeper into the couch, shoulders dropping, hair slipping loose against her neck. Brock noticed in his periphery, the shift small but telling, and felt his own posture loosen without meaning to.
The show went on, louder In some places, then quieter, the kind of noise that filled the edges of the room without needing either of them to speak.
Then another gag landed — worse than the last — and Harper let out a laugh, quick and unguarded. It wasn't much, just a bright slip of sound, but it caught Brock like a punch. He turned his head before he thought to stop himself.
For maybe the first time, she didn't look like a recruit or a captive or a fighter holding her ground. She looked like a girl watching TV, shoulders loose, eyes lit with something lighter than he'd ever seen on her.
Harper felt his gaze and the smile fell fast, erased as if she'd never let it slip at all. She straightened against the cushion, eyes locking on the screen like the laugh had been a mistake.
Brock dragged his attention back to the glow in front of them, jaw tight, the sound of her laugh still lodged somewhere he couldn't shake.
The show kept rolling, one episode sliding into the next. Harper stayed upright at first, posture stiff again after the slip of her laugh. But the longer the voices filled the room, the heavier her eyelids grew.
Her arms folded tighter, then loosened again. She shifted, curling slowly toward the far arm of the couch, legs drawn up, shoulder braced against the cushion. Her hair fell forward as she blinked against the pull of sleep.
Brock kept his eyes on the screen, but he caught the movement in his periphery. The small way she folded into herself, the weight in her head dipping lower each time she fought it. For once, she didn't look ready to spring, didn't look like someone expecting a blow. She just looked… tired.
The next round of dialogue from the TV faded into background noise as Harper slumped deeper against the couch, sleep pulling her under. Her breathing evened out, lashes still against her cheek, her frame curled toward the armrest.
Brock sat still, eyes fixed forward, until the faintest shiver ran through her shoulders. Subtle, but there. He let out a low breath, pushed himself up without sound, and moved behind the couch. A folded blanket lay draped over the back. He pulled it down, circling back with a hand angled toward the remote on the cushion near her hip.
He laid the blanket across her as he reached, but her eyes snapped open the instant the weight touched.
She stirred, voice rough with sleep. "What're you—"
"You're falling asleep," Brock cut in, steady.
Harper pushed herself upright, the blanket sliding from her shoulder into her lap. "I can go to bed."
"No." His tone stayed flat, unbending. He settled back at his end of the couch, eyes on the TV. "It's fine. Stay here for now. I'm not tired."
Harper pushed herself higher against the cushions, dragging the blanket around her shoulders. Her jaw tightened, as if sheer will might keep her upright now that he'd caught her drifting. She kept her eyes fixed on the screen, posture rigid, forked light painting across her face.
Minutes stretched. The dialogue blurred. Her shoulders eased without her meaning to, head tilting until the blanket brushed her cheek. She shifted, curling in under the fabric, knees tucking as her body angled more comfortably into the couch. After a while her head settled closer to him than she'd meant, the nearness quiet but undeniable.
Brock didn't move. He sat in his corner, gaze locked on the TV, every sense sharpened by the faint weight of her there — the slow pull of her breathing, the warmth pressed under the same blanket.
Her stubborn fight to sit upright didn't last. Sleep dragged her down inch by inch until she slumped against the cushion, head drifting nearer his leg. By the time she stilled, a loose strand of hair brushed his thigh, feather-light, maddening. She hadn't meant to — her body had simply surrendered, sliding toward the warmth without thought.
Brock looked down. The flicker of the TV caught her face in flashes — lashes resting dark against her cheek, mouth softened, all that hard-edged tension bled away. She was right there, so close he could feel the ghost of her breath against his skin.
His chest cinched tight. His hand twitched, aching to sweep the stray hair back, to touch just once. Instead he curled his fingers into a fist against his knee, nails biting his palm, and dragged his gaze to the screen. The laugh-track rattled tinnily in the quiet room, grotesque against the steady rhythm of her breathing.
He sat motionless, every nerve pulled taut, the distance between them no more than the width of a breath — and for him, an entire fault line.