"Move," Harper said, tilting her head toward the cupboard behind him.
Brock stepped aside just enough for her to pass, catching her mug off the counter on the way. He filled it from the pot and set it back in her reach. "You're bossy before caffeine."
"That's funny, coming from you," she said, turning back to the stove. The burner clicked under the skillet, the first strips of bacon hissing as they hit the heat.
He smirked but stayed close, posted at the counter, watching as she cracked the first egg into a small bowl. She reached for the block of cheddar, grating a loose handful into the mix and whisking until the streaks of yellow disappeared into the pale foam. The coffee steamed between them, the quiet easy—two people sharing the same kitchen without crowding each other.
Harper tugged the fridge door open, cool air spilling against her arms. Bell peppers, eggs, milk, the staples she'd once joked were missing that first morning she tried cooking—now they were always here. He'd caught the comment and made sure the fridge stayed stocked. Some nights she even ended up at the stove again, throwing together dinner while he worked at the island, the rhythm of it steady enough to feel like routine. She grabbed a pepper, its skin slick with condensation, and shut the door with her hip.
Harper set the pepper on the board, knife moving in quick, practiced strokes. The pieces hit wood in a clean cadence before she scraped them into the bowl, whisking until the colors disappeared into the mix. She slid the bowl back toward the stove, the bacon already popping in the skillet beside her.
Only then did she notice him still there, mug in hand like he had nowhere else to be. She shot him a sideways glance. "If you're planning to stand there all morning, I might let yours burn."
His brow lifted just enough to register. "That a threat?"
"It's a promise," she said, flipping a piece with deliberate slowness.
Brock let the corner of his mouth twitch, a ghost of a smirk, then pushed off the counter. He crossed to the island and slid into his seat, coffee in hand, the chair legs dragging soft against the floor. He didn't say another word, just settled there, steady, watching her work the pans as if she were running a drill instead of breakfast.
Harper lifted the bacon out one strip at a time, setting them on a paper towel to bleed off the grease. She thumbed the dial lower, tipped the bowl, and let the eggs slide into the skillet with a hiss. The spatula scraped slow arcs through the yellow while she leaned to pop the toaster, rhythm neat and practiced as if she'd done it here a hundred mornings.
At the island, Brock sat quiet, coffee untouched in his hand. His eyes tracked her—not the food, but the way she moved, easy in his kitchen like it was hers too. He didn't smile, didn't shift, just let his gaze linger longer than he meant to, steady and unreadable to anyone but himself.
The eggs firmed quick under the spatula, steam rising soft as she scraped them into folds. Toast popped and she caught the slices barehanded, stacking them beside the bacon before sliding both plates onto the counter. One she nudged across to him, the scrape of ceramic low against the wood. The other she lifted and carried around, dropping into the chair beside his with the quiet ease of someone who'd claimed the seat before.
They ate without hurry, the faint tap of forks and the soft tick of cooling metal filling the space between them. Harper sipped her coffee, letting the warmth work its way into her hands before setting the mug down again.
"You used more cheese this time," Brock said, not looking up from his plate.
"That a complaint or a compliment?"
"It's an observation." He didn't look up, just cut another bite, but the corner of his mouth shifted like he was holding back the rest.
She smirked faintly, nudging a strip around her plate. "Good one or bad one?"
He didn't answer, and she didn't press. They worked through their plates in no rush, the scrape of forks and the low hum of the toaster cooling filling the room. Harper tore off a piece of toast, dragging it through the yolk-soft scramble, then glanced sideways at him.
"So what's the plan today? More driving? Range?"
Brock cut into his eggs, ate the bite before answering. "No. I've got some last-minute tightening up to do with Knuckles for tomorrow." He reached for his coffee, took a slow drink, then set the mug down again. "Figured we'll keep it light this morning. Maybe head to the track."
Her fork slowed, the reminder of tomorrow landing heavy in her stomach. The escort job. Do or die. The thought pressed hard against her ribs, but she shoved it down, forcing her voice light.
"Track, huh? About time. I used to love running," she said, leaning just far enough to swipe a strip of bacon from his plate before he could guard it. She popped the end into her mouth with a smug bite, eyes flicking up to catch his reaction.
Brock's fork paused halfway. He looked at her, brow tilting. "You stealing my bacon now?"
"Borrowing," she said around the mouthful, grin tugging.
His hand came up steady, fingers pinching the other end still hanging from her lips. He tugged it free, dropped the mangled piece back onto his plate, and never blinked.
"Then I'm taking it back." He cut into his eggs like nothing happened.
She stabbed her fork into her scramble, scowling at her plate. "You're impossible."
"Efficient," he said, not looking up.
They finished the rest without hurry, plates scraped clean while the smell of bacon lingered warm in the air. Harper pushed hers back, then stacked both and carried them to the sink. Water splashed as she set them down, her hair sliding forward until she brushed it behind her shoulder.
Brock leaned back in his chair, mug empty, eyes on her as she dried her hands on a dish towel. "Go get changed," he said, voice even. "Something for running. We'll head out soon."
She nodded and left the kitchen, slipping into her room and shutting the door behind her. Cargo pants hit the floor in favor of black running shorts and a fitted tank, fabric soft from years of wear, light enough to move with her instead of against her. She scraped her hair into a high ponytail, tugging it tight until it sat firm at the crown of her head. When she straightened, the forked tail of her viper tattoo curved into view just below the hem of her shorts, the coils winding down the back of her thigh before tapering above her knee.
When she stepped out, Brock was waiting against the wall opposite, dark track pants and a plain black T-shirt making him look like he'd been cut out of the shadow there. His gaze swept her once, steady, and lingered a breath at her thigh where the tattoo curved down, not because it surprised him but because it always drew the eye. Then it lifted back to her face.
"Used to love running," she said, adjusting the waistband of her shorts. She didn't add that she'd been fast—faster than most of the guys she'd run with. No point handing him the warning.
Brock's mouth shifted, not quite a smile. "We'll see if you still do."
He crossed to the counter, grabbed two bottles, and twisted the tap until water rushed cold against the plastic. One he slid across to her without a word; the other he capped and hooked through his fingers.
She took it, tucking it under her arm as they stepped out together. The hum of fluorescents followed them down the hall, the echo of their steps carrying into the elevator. Inside, the car swayed as it dropped, the silence easy but edged with what waited tomorrow.
The elevator doors slid open to a bare corridor, their footsteps quickening across concrete until Brock pushed through the last set of doors.
Sunlight spilled over them, bright enough that Harper blinked. Warm air carried the smell of grass and rubber, a cleaner scent than she was used to inside the walls. Ahead stretched the track—lanes of sunbaked surface bordered by low fencing. A few Syndicate members were scattered across it—two men jogging easy laps in sweat-darkened shirts, another pair bursting through short sprints, the slap of their shoes echoing off the fence. Farther down, a couple leaned against the railing with water bottles in hand, voices low as they watched the runners.
Brock slowed at the edge of the track, his eyes running a circuit of the oval. "You've been wound tight all week. This'll bleed some of it out."
Harper hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts, one brow lifting. "So this is therapy?"
"Call it that if you want." His mouth twitched like he almost smiled. "Better than letting you stew in your head."
She tipped her head, stretching her neck to one side. "You're just hoping I can't keep up."
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Three laps."
Her grin came quick as she tugged her ponytail tighter. "Make it interesting. If I win, you're mine for the morning—until Knuckles drags you off—and after dinner too. Whole day's mine. You do what I say. No glares, no lectures, no boss voice."
He weighed It for a moment, eyes tracking a runner pounding past in the next lane, the slap of shoes echoing against the fence. Then he nodded once. "Fine. But when you lose—"
"Not happening," she cut in, already angling toward the far bend.
They walked the curve of the track together, heat radiating through the soles of her shoes. Harper kicked her legs out one at a time, loosening them, then rolled her shoulders back. "You sure you're not gonna fold halfway?"
Brock crouched at the edge of his lane, tugging his laces tight, then glanced up at her. "Save your breath. You'll need it."
Harper scoffed, stretching one leg behind her, heel grinding into the track. "You'll be the one gasping."
The joggers on the far side slowed as they lined up, eyes tipping their way. One sprinter stopped entirely, elbows braced on the rail, sweat streaking down his temple as he watched. Harper felt the weight of it—the curiosity that came with seeing someone like Brock toe a line instead of watching from the shadows.
She shook it off and dipped lower into her stance, palms brushing the ground before she settled back on her haunches. Her ponytail slid over her shoulder, sweat already prickling at her hairline in the sun. She flicked her gaze sideways once—Brock steady, still as stone, like the race was just another drill.
"Ready when you are," she said, voice low, more challenge than invitation.
He nodded once, eyes fixed down the lane. "Three… two…" His voice cut off at one, and they launched.
Brock's longer stride stole the lead in the first ten meters, his body cutting smooth lines down the lane, but Harper didn't bite. She settled into her rhythm, arms driving steady, breath in sync with her steps. Heat radiated off the rubber, rising up through her shoes, the air thick against her skin as though the track itself was trying to slow her down.
He glanced back once, a quick check over his shoulder. "That your top gear?"
She only smiled, saving her breath.
They took the first curve tight, Brock's stride efficient, every footfall measured. Harper hung half a step off his shoulder, close enough to feel the pull of his pace without showing strain. By the time they crossed the line on the first lap, sweat had broken at her hairline, sliding down her spine, calves heating as though fire had threaded into the muscle. She pushed it down. Three laps wasn't forever.
Lap two—he opened it up. Not much, just a fraction, but enough to force the choice: fall back or answer. Harper answered. Her stride stretched long, eating the lane until she drew even with him. For half a heartbeat they matched, shadows overlapping on the track, before she eased back, letting him hold it again.
"Trying to bait me?" His voice carried without effort, maddeningly calm.
She turned her head just enough to flash him a grin. "If it works."
The curve loomed and she cut inside, ponytail snapping with the turn, his shoulder brushing her periphery. She could feel him there, steady, immovable, the kind of runner who never gave more than exactly what he had to.
By the time the final lap hit, her lungs were pulling hard, chest rising sharp with every breath. Sun hammered down through her crown, making the edges of the track blur, but she kept her focus locked on the white lines and the weight of him beside her. Their strides fell into perfect counterpoint, the sound of it carrying down the fence like a drumline.
She moved first. Into the curve, she lengthened her stride, hugging the inside lane so close her arm nearly brushed his.
"Cheap," he said, the first rough edge in his breath.
"Smart," she shot back, teeth bared in something between a grin and a snarl.
The last straight hit like a wall. Every part of her screamed to back off—legs burning, lungs tearing raw—but she shoved harder, forcing her stride long, fists pumping tight at her sides. His shadow stretched over hers, matching, refusing to break. For ten steps they ran even, stride for stride, until she found one more breath and drove it all forward. Half a step. Enough.
She crossed first, stumble catching her into a lean as she braced her hands on her knees. Her chest heaved, air tearing in and out, sweat slicking down her spine, calves trembling like they might give. And through it all, a grin split her face, wild and uncontained.
"Too slow," she managed between pants, the words ragged but sharp enough to sting.
Brock came in just behind her, slowing with a controlled pull of his stride, stopping so clean it made her stumble look reckless. His chest rose and fell heavy, shoulders rolling once to ease the burn. Expression steady, unreadable, though sweat clung to his jaw.
Across the fence, the handful of Syndicate members who had stopped to watch murmured openly now—a ripple of surprise and curiosity at the sight of Brock running full-out, and at the girl who'd beaten him to the line.
Harper shoved damp hair back from her face, still breathing hard but buzzing with something that had nothing to do with oxygen. "Well," she said, savoring the grin that tugged her mouth, "you lost. Which means…" She let it dangle, eyes bright. "I've got plans for you."
His brow lifted a fraction. "Plans."
"Mhm." She stepped in close enough to catch the salt of sweat and the faint metallic tang off him, her legs still trembling from the push. "Might have you haul my water all day. Or hold an umbrella in the courtyard like some bodyguard out of a bad movie. Maybe even braid my hair—sit still and take orders for once, Commander. Or hell, wash the dishes tonight since I'm the one who cooks."
For a second she let herself picture it: Brock actually doing something because she told him to, no scowl, no fight. The thought made her pulse skip.
Brock's expression didn't shift, the same unreadable stare he wore in the training hall. "That's how you want to spend your win?"
"I'm not wasting anything," she said lightly, mouth quirking. "Think you'd be good at it?"
"Don't push," he said, the words quiet but solid.
Her smile thinned into something sharper. "Why? Scared I'll come up with something you can't handle?"
His gaze stayed steady, flat. "Scared you'll start thinking this means more than it does."
It landed like a fist under her ribs—quiet, precise, impossible to shrug off. For a second her grin faltered, but she forced it back, teeth bared in something that looked like defiance even as the ground tilted hollow beneath her.
"Guess I'll put you down for a no on the hair, then."
The fence murmured behind them, the sound of onlookers carrying just far enough to scrape her nerves. Harper blinked hard and turned, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her shorts as she headed for the nearest bench. Shoulders loose by force, like she could fake casual until it stuck.
"Wasn't asking for much," she said at the ground, the words thinner than she wanted.
Brock's voice carried after her, steady and flat. "You were asking for more than you think."
His eyes tracked her as she walked. The act didn't hold; her shoulders had tightened again, stiff under the strain she tried to hide. She lifted a hand, quick, almost careless, to swipe her face. But it wasn't the motion of wiping sweat.
"Harper…" His voice reached her, low, steady.
She turned. Eyes rimmed red, cheeks wet, the defiance gone. The sight of it cut through him harder than the race had.
"You know what I wanted?" Her voice cracked, raw around the edges. "Just one thing. One day that felt normal. Where I don't feel like I'm under glass with a clock ticking down. Where I can just… be me. Even for a little while."
Brock's mouth opened, words ready. "You've had that. My place—you've had space. You've been outside, training, eating when you want—"
He stopped. Not because he ran out of words, but because of the way she looked at him. Her eyes said it all—that he didn't get it, that he couldn't.
"Forget it." Her voice was smaller now, frayed at the edges. She turned back toward the compound, stride clipped and fast. "Keep your day."
She got three steps before his hand caught her arm—not rough, but firm enough to halt her.
"Harper."
She didn't turn. "Let go."
"Not until you tell me what the hell this is." His voice was low, steady—carrying something just beneath the surface.
She turned her head just enough for him to see the tremble at her mouth. "It's me trying to take one win before Vex decides if I'm worth the air I breathe. One day that's mine. That's all I wanted."
Something shifted in Brock's face, but he didn't speak. She pulled free, not looking back as she crossed the track. Fence shadows slid over her skin, the faint smell of rubber and dust rising with each step, the taste of the win already gone.
Halfway to the doors, she crossed paths with Knuckles. He was heading the other way, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, grin already hitching at the corner of his mouth.
"Hey Harp—"
It never made it out. She didn't flick him so much as a glance, stride unbroken, jaw locked tight. But the wet shine at the corner of her lashes caught the sun, a fleeting glint that made his words die in his throat. The grin slipped clean away, replaced by a crease that dragged deep across his face. He turned to watch her pass, posture shifting heavier, all trace of easy gone.
Brock was still at the far end when Knuckles reached him, the distance between them strung with curious stares. A few of the others had slowed their laps, the scrape of shoes softening into silence as Harper's figure disappeared through the door. Shoulders tight, head down. The metal swung shut behind her with a dull, final thud.
Knuckles glanced back toward the door, then at Brock, his face serious.
"Nice work," he said, voice low, bone-dry. "You planning to kick the legs out from under her right before you throw her into the fray tomorrow, or was that just a bonus?"
Brock's jaw flexed. He didn't answer. The look she'd left him with—tight, shuttered—sat heavier in his chest than he wanted to admit.
Knuckles let the silence breathe, then tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "So what was that?"
"Training." Flat, clipped.
"That wasn't training." The humor was gone now, tone edged. "She looked like she'd taken a gut punch."
Brock finally cut his gaze his way. "You reading her now?"
"I don't have to." Knuckles' hands slipped deeper into his pockets, his shoulders easing though his eyes stayed sharp. "Come on, Brock. I know you. That wasn't about drills. Not with her."
Brock held his silence, but the shift in his stance gave him away—small, but clear.
A slow grin edged back onto Knuckles' mouth, though it didn't touch his eyes. "Ah. Got it. She's under your skin."
Brock's mouth thinned, denial caught at the back of his teeth. He pushed it out anyway. "It's not like that." The words came flat, but not nearly hard enough to convince.
Knuckles let it hang, reading him clean. He clapped a hand to Brock's shoulder, solid, heavier than usual. "Watch yourself. Lines get blurred quick."
Brock ran a hand through sweat-slick hair, grit catching on his palm, gaze already drifting back to the door she'd vanished through. The space between them felt wider than the whole damn yard.
"Let her cool off," Knuckles said. "Come on. We've got prep before tomorrow."
─•────
Hours had slipped by since the track, swallowed in the windowless strategy room where Brock and Knuckles picked apart every detail of tomorrow's job. Maps overlapped in layers, markers bleeding routes in red and blue, the paper reeking of ink. Contingencies rose and fell until the air turned stale, shadows on the walls stretching thin with the hours. By the time Brock took the elevator back up, the compound had sunk into that tense, pre-operation lull.
His quarters were dim, only the kitchen light casting a muted glow over the counter. A plate sat waiting at the island—roast chicken, potatoes, greens—still faintly warm, the scent lingering in the air. It wasn't leftovers scraped together; it had been plated for him. No note. No explanation. Just there, waiting.
He stood over it for a long moment, mouth tight, before sitting. The first bite landed heavier in his chest than his gut—not because of the taste, but because she'd done it at all after the way he'd cut her down. She cooked plenty, but leaving it out for him like this… that felt different. Deliberate. A quiet peace offering, maybe. Or one last olive branch before tomorrow. He ate anyway, slow and deliberate, like each forkful was something he had to weigh before lifting.
When the plate was empty, he set the fork down with care, pushing the dish toward the center of the island as if distance might dull the weight of it. He looked down the hall.
Her door was closed. Most nights she drifted in and out of the living room, book in hand or half-watching the TV, always leaving some trace of her there until she finally gave in to sleep. Only when she wanted the world shut out did she hole up in her room and pull the door behind her. Tonight, it was shut, hours before she would normally go to bed. That small, deliberate choice pressed into him harder than it should have, the absence louder than any slammed door.
He stood for a while, one hand hooked on the back of a chair, the other flexing at his side. Then he started down the hall, boots muted against the floor. He stopped just short of her door, palm resting on the frame, listening for… something. But there was nothing. No rustle, no shift of sheets.
Finally, he turned the handle.
She was curled on the bed with her back to him, blanket pulled high over her shoulders, hair spilling across the pillow in loose strands. She didn't move when the door opened.
"You're usually not shut away this early," he said, voice low in the stillness.
"I didn't think you'd care." Her tone wasn't angry—just flat, worn thin. "And I don't want to talk to you right now."
He lingered in the doorway, words pressed against the back of his teeth. Finally, he let a few out. "Back on the track—I wasn't trying to—"
"Goodnight, Brock." She cut him off without looking back, her voice soft but firm enough to close the subject.
He hesitated, jaw tight. "Harper…"
She shifted, curling tighter under the blanket. "I want to spend what might be my last night on this earth alone."
The silence that followed pressed heavier than anything he could've said. He stood there a beat longer, watching the slope of her shoulders, the line of her back. The truth of her words cut deeper than he wanted to admit.
At last, he exhaled slow. "I'll come get you before briefing in the morning."
No answer came. Only the faint sound of fabric pulling as she drew the blanket higher, retreating into herself.
He stayed there long enough to know she wouldn't speak again. Then he stepped back, easing the door shut until the click of the latch was the only sound left between them.
Harper kept her eyes shut, listening to his footsteps fade down the corridor. The quiet he left behind pressed harder than his presence ever did. She pulled the blanket over her head, swallowing the knot in her throat until it burned. She told herself it was just a race. Just a stupid bet. But for a handful of minutes, she'd almost believed she could have it—one day without tension, without someone waiting for her to slip. One thing that belonged to her.
And he'd taken it apart like it was nothing.
Her chest ached with every breath, tears pricking hot at her lashes. She bit them back—at first. But the moment the last echo of him was gone, the first slipped free, and then the rest came.
The sobs were low and raw, shaking her until her stomach cramped. The blanket muffled the sound, but not the heat of it, not the raw scrape of her throat. She cried until her face was wet and the pillow beneath her cold, until her body sagged from the effort and her breathing went ragged.
Exhaustion dragged her under at last. The ache in her chest followed her down, sinking deep, heavy enough to pull her into uneasy dark.
And in that dark, Brock was there.
Not the Brock she knew—no steady presence, no grounding weight—just his outline in the corner of a black-walled room, lit by a single bare bulb that hummed faintly overhead. He stood still, shadowed, too far to touch.
The air stank of metal and oil, coating her tongue, burning her throat. The floor was raw concrete, the cold biting through her bare feet until her bones ached. Her hands were bound tight behind her back, cord biting deeper each time she struggled.
Vex leaned against the far wall, arms folded, that poisonous smile pulling slow at his mouth. "Time's up, little fox," he said, each word curling like smoke. "You didn't make the cut."
Her chest heaved, mouth opening, but no words came out. No plea, no protest—just the scrape of breath in her throat. She turned toward Brock, desperate, searching his face for recognition, for defiance, for anything.
"Brock!" Her voice cracked on his name. "Help me—"
But he didn't move. Didn't even flinch. His gaze slid past her, blank and unreachable, as if the sound couldn't carry that far.
Vex stepped closer, boots grinding against concrete. A gun glinted in his hand, the weight of it casual, cruel. He leveled the muzzle at her chest, eyes glittering in the dim light.
"You failed," he said, voice smooth as glass. "And now you pay."
The shot split the room, thunder in her bones. Agony ripped through her chest, hot and blinding, the taste of copper flooding her mouth. She fell hard to the floor, cheek scraping grit, vision narrowing to a tunnel of black.
Her head jerked toward the corner, to Brock—still standing there, still watching, but impossibly far away. Her lips shaped his name again, but no sound came out. He didn't hear her. He couldn't.
Vex crouched close, smile wide, voice curling soft in her ear. "This is mercy."
The blast cracked the world apart—
She snapped upright, gasping—fists locked in the blanket, heart battering against her ribs. Air scalded her throat. Sweat slicked down her sides, soaking her shirt, her whole body thrumming with leftover panic. The room tilted. She dragged the blanket down with shaking hands and braced her palms against her thighs, trying to anchor herself.
Her cheek was wet, pillow damp beneath her. Knees still drawn up tight, chest cinched. The heat in her throat hadn't left. Neither had the ghost taste of blood. She swallowed hard, bile climbing, and pressed harder into her legs, forcing herself to count. Five. Ten. Still shaking.
The clock on the far wall ticked in slow defiance.
11:02 PM.
Too early. Way too early.
She knew this rhythm. Knew the weight of it in her spine. When the dream struck before midnight, it always circled back. Again. And again. Every time her eyes closed, she'd be back on that concrete floor, muzzle pressed to her skull. Pleading for Brock while Vex smiled. And the voice—
You failed.
Her fists twisted in the blanket. She hadn't screamed this time. Not loud enough for him to hear. And somehow, that felt worse. Like the silence itself had swallowed her whole and left nothing behind to claw her way out.
She could lie back down. Pretend. Wait for exhaustion to drag her under again. But she knew the truth—she'd stay wide-eyed until dawn, counting the dark between shadows like it owed her something. Brock would see it in her face, in the slump of her body, and she couldn't afford that. Not tomorrow. Not when her life would be on the line come morning.
Her eyes burned, throat raw from holding back too much.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Toes pressed into the carpet, knees giving under the tremor in her muscles, but she caught herself—palms to the mattress, elbows locked, breath ragged in her chest.
One more inhale. One more lie that she had it under control.
She pushed herself upright. The room steadied enough to hold her.
Her hand drifted to her side, fingers fisting into the hem of her shirt. Sweat cooled on her back, fabric clinging damp to her skin. Each step across the floor landed heavier than it should have, too deliberate, too cautious, like the boards might give her away.
The tears didn't stop. Cold now, trailing down her jaw, soaking into the collar. She let them go. Didn't wipe them away. Just kept moving until her hand found the knob.
And stopped.
"If it happens again, come get me."
He'd said it once—back when she first came upstairs, the night she woke the whole floor with her screaming. But that felt like forever ago. Long enough that she'd forced herself to choke them down, to bite the sound out of her throat rather than risk waking him. Long enough that she'd almost convinced herself he didn't mean it anymore.
She stared at the door. The silence on the other side stared back.
But she needed this. Needed to know he wasn't just a dark figure in the corner of her dream, watching while Vex finished her.
Her fingers closed slow around the knob. The door eased open an inch, then two. She stood there caught between—half in, half out—the hallway stretching dim and still before her, shadowed and silent, the kind of dark that pressed down like weight.
Her grip slid to the edge of the door, knuckles white. Her body angled sideways, like she hadn't decided if she was going back to the bed or moving forward.
One step would take her back into the hollow silence. One would carry her toward him.
She didn't move. She didn't breathe.
Then the image surged back—Vex raising the gun, his words curling like smoke: You failed. This is mercy. Her own voice ragged in her throat, crying for Brock, his face turned away as if he couldn't hear her.
Her throat cinched tight. The pulse in her ears roared, violent and unrelenting. She pressed the heel of her hand to her sternum, as if she could hold it all inside, force it back where it wouldn't spill out.
And then she moved. One step, then another, carrying her across the threshold. She pulled the door shut behind her, the soft click loud as a verdict in the silence of the hall.
The floor in the hall was colder than she expected. Her sweat-chilled skin flinched at the touch. She folded her arms across her middle, walking like someone crossing a frozen lake—slow, silent, every step measured, like a single crack might drop her into the dark again. Brock's door loomed ahead.
She stopped. Stared.
Heat rushed back into her face, shaming, and she dropped her gaze, jaw clamped tight. What was she doing?
The dark behind her felt hungrier than it had in weeks.
She glanced back—empty hallway, no movement, no sound. Just her and the press of silence, her heartbeat pounding too loud in her chest. She could go back. Pull the covers over her head. Pretend the dark didn't feel like teeth.
Her hand lifted, then fell.
Lifted again—fingers grazing the wood, the contact sparking a shiver like it might bite back.
She could almost hear him in her head: Don't push your luck, Harper.
But no voice came. No threat, no warning. Just the quiet pressing back at her—steady, patient, offering—worse than anything he could have said aloud.
Her knuckles hovered against the wood, trembling once before they made contact. Three soft taps. Barely sound, but deliberate enough that she couldn't take them back.
She froze, lungs tight. Each inhale felt brittle, glass held too hard in her chest.
At first, nothing. Just the silence stretching, thick and absolute.
Then the scrape of chair legs against the floor. The faint creak of weight shifting. Footsteps—measured, heavy, each one distinct as it drew closer.
Her stomach flipped. She stumbled back a step, then another, pulse hammering so hard it shook her fingers. The door loomed in front of her like it was about to open into something she couldn't undo.
Panic surged—hot, choking, clawing up her throat. What the fuck are you doing? He was coming. Actually coming. And she was standing there like a stray, like a coward, like someone begging for something she had no right to ask.
Instinct took over. She turned, ready to run—one more step, slam her door, bury herself under the blanket and pretend this never happened.
Her breath caught.
Click.
The handle turned. The door eased open, spilling a narrow cut of light into the hall, bright against her bare feet. His shadow filled the frame, steady and immovable.
"Harper?" His voice was firm and low—no edge, no warmth. Just her name, weight enough on its own.
She froze. Her name hit differently in the dark—like it meant more now, pulled out of him with weight. Her spine snapped straight, breath locked hard behind her ribs. Her fists clenched against her sides.
Then his voice again, calm, unreadable. "What's wrong?"
She didn't answer. Didn't run. Just turned to face him—slow, brittle, afraid that if she opened her mouth the wrong sound might spill out.
He stood in the doorway, the light behind him cutting a glow across his shoulders. Barefoot, sweatpants slung low, torso bare—broad, scar-laced, solid in a way that made the doorway feel smaller. His face unreadable. His tone unchanged.
"I—" she started. Her throat locked. Whatever excuse she might've given—whatever lie that might explain this—died the moment their eyes met. Her face twisted. Her chest hitched, sudden and raw, and a broken sound slipped before she could choke it back.
One sob. Then another, muffled against her hand. Her shoulders drew in, hunched like she could hide the sound.
And that was enough.
Brock didn't press. Didn't step closer. He didn't need to.
He'd seen this before—the way her body caved in, the way her breath came jagged like it hurt to keep pulling it in. He thought of that night after Skiv, when she'd sat on his bed and unraveled, sobbing until her whole frame shook apart, clutching at him like she was afraid she'd fall through the floor. He'd held her steady then, anchored her through it. And here it was again—the same fracture, quiet but brutal.
It wasn't weakness. It was fallout. The kind that carved itself deep and came back no matter how hard she tried to bury it. And he hated how quickly he recognized it—hated that it felt carved into her bones now, a part of her she couldn't shake.
His jaw ticked once, a muscle shifting under the skin. He glanced aside—not far, just enough to let her have the moment without his stare pinning her in place.
Then he stepped back from the door. "Come in," he said. Not soft. Not cold. Just a line drawn—clear, absolute. Something she didn't have to obey. But maybe needed to.
She didn't move. Not at first. Her chin dipped, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder like if she didn't meet his gaze she could still hold herself together.
Her breath snagged, thin and jagged. Her hands pressed into her sides, fingers knotting in the fabric of her shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Bare feet anchored her to the floor, trembling in the spill of light across the threshold.
He watched it all. The way she hovered in the doorway like the frame itself was holding her up. The slight lean forward, her body ready to follow, but her spine refusing to bend the rest of the way.
His hand lifted halfway, almost reaching for her shoulder—then stalled. Fingers flexed, twitched once, curled into a fist against his thigh. He swallowed the impulse down. If he touched her, it had to be her choice, not his.
"Harper." Her name came low, definite, no louder than it needed to be.
Her head twitched toward him, eyes rimmed red.
"Inside."
The word dropped between them like poured concrete. Not comfort. Not command. Just immovable.
For a beat, she didn't move. Then her feet shifted, bare soles whispering against the floor. Not fast. Not steady. But forward.
She passed him with her gaze fixed on the ground, shoulders drawn small, like brushing him might snap her resolve. The air she carried with her smelled faintly of sweat and her shampoo, raw and human, cutting through the steadiness of his space.
Brock stood rigid, jaw locked, breath held long enough to feel the knot in his throat strain. When she crossed fully into the room, he exhaled once and shut the door behind her.
The click was soft. Final. And the silence after wasn't empty—it was thicker, heavier, like the walls themselves were waiting to see what she'd do next.
She didn't move at first. Just hovered near the threshold, one foot inside, one still planted like she could retreat.
Brock didn't crowd her. Didn't speak. He crossed the room slow, the quiet stretch of his stride measured, like he knew suddenness would scatter her. He stopped at the bed, sat heavy on the far edge, elbows braced to his knees. His jaw worked once, but he kept his voice low.
"You planning to stand there all night?"
No edge. No softness. Just flat, steady, giving her the choice.
Her throat bobbed. She shifted, the smallest scrape of bare feet against the floor. One step. Another. Breath shallow, like the air itself was breakable. She stopped at the side of the bed, staring down as if the mattress was a ledge. Then, slow, she eased onto the corner, careful not to brush him, curling her knees up like a shield.
He stayed where he was—solid, unmoving. No reach, no demand. Just presence.
The silence bent around them, heavier than words. It wasn't the tense kind of quiet they'd had before. This one hummed low, fragile, like glass set between them.
Finally, he murmured, "Get some sleep."
It wasn't an order. It wasn't comfort. It was both.
He leaned back, drawing the covers up over himself without ceremony. The lamp clicked off. Darkness crept in, softened only by the thin bleed of light under the door.
For a while she stayed curled at the edge, rigid, every muscle braced as if touch or sound might shatter the truce. Her breath caught each time he shifted, waiting for something more. But nothing came. Just his steady breathing, slow, even—anchoring without meaning to.
Bit by bit, her body eased. Not all the way. Just enough. She lay down on top of the blankets, back turned, arms tucked close but looser now, her legs curled in. The mattress dipped with her weight, a fragile balance holding between them.
Her eyes stayed open longer than she meant, tears drying in tracks against her skin. But the rhythm beside her—quiet, certain, immovable—pulled her under before she could fight it.
This time, when sleep came, it stayed.