The shop smelled of green soap and warm steel, the coil's buzz steady as a held breath. Harper lay back on the padded bench, shirt pushed high to bare the run from ribs to hip. The serpent coiled her left side in black and crimson, jaw set at the shoulder, coils winding ribs and waist, tail forking above the knee. The artist snapped a fine-tip marker, drew the guide where she'd asked—a single, deliberate line straight through the body, black enough no one could miss it—then set the machine and tuned the pitch.
He worked in even passes. Gloved fingers braced light at her waist. Wipe. A skim of ointment. The coil's hum. The vibration threaded bone and she let it. Pain came clean and small. Each pass pressed the choice deeper.
The line didn't just cut Ink. It crossed almost four months that changed Harper irrecoverably—rifles in a yard that screamed like tearing metal; a gate chained shut; hands in her hair dragging her through Syndicate halls, blood in her mouth and concrete under her cheek; a chair and a bucket and questions that outlasted clocks. It crossed a porch where Dante said her name and fell in her arms, and a sidewalk where Wedge and Lena went still while Brock pinned her to keep her from trying to stop bullets with her body. It crossed all of it and left one truth: you took it; I lived.
Brock sat close enough that his forearm touched the bench frame when he breathed, tape pale at his ear. Contradiction made flesh—the hand that hauled her in and the body that later stood between her and Vex; the door that opened, coffee that wasn't hers yet, work that put edge and steadiness back in her bones—and now the quiet at her side because she wanted him here to see this. When the artist lifted for a wipe and her breath hitched, his fingers found her wrist and held—not to stop her, only to steady. The next pass held steady.
Green soap cleared the shine. Ointment glossed the cut. Second-skin smoothed over black new against old. The serpent remained; the stroke split it—no disguise, no apology. Brock's thumb eased off her pulse and came to rest against the heel of her hand.
"I'm here," he said, low, like setting words into wet ink.
"I know," she said. Dante stays. The dead stay. The line stays. What comes next is mine. She let the breath go and felt the room tip back into place.
She pushed up on her palms, shirt falling back as the vinyl sighed under her weight. The artist slid his gloves free with a snap, muttered aftercare, rang the sale. Brock took the slip and folded the bills without counting, passing them across the counter. Harper stood a step behind him, the faint pull under the fresh film at her ribs a quiet reminder with every breath.
The door's chime gave a thin note as they stepped out, warmth rushing in as the shop's cool air fell away. Sun hit the pavement hard enough to throw heat back through her shirt; the street smelled faintly of asphalt and fryer oil from somewhere down the block. Brock kept pace at her side with a small white bag—ointment, folded aftercare—his other hand loose in his pocket.
The brightness felt strange after the fluorescents, stranger with the fine sting under second-skin. She felt his glance touch and go, as if he were still measuring the choice even though it was made.
The first night they came in wrecked, bodies stripped of anything but exhaustion. After they kissed, the crash took them hard. Dinner went untouched; boots and vests landed in a heap. She didn't go to her own room—wouldn't. She stayed with him, not willing to let him slip from sight, needing the proof of his breath steady beside her. Sleep claimed them tangled, her cheek at his collar, his arm around her waist like it had been there forever.
The next day was still and strange. The compound moved slow, no drills, no orders. Harper ate, listened to Knuckles and Vale snap at each other across the cafeteria table, then went back where she belonged. Brock's quarters had always been hers under his watch, but after the night before the air carried something different. They didn't talk about the kiss. They didn't need to. When night came, she settled beside him again, this time wide awake when she let herself do it. His hand found hers in the dark, thumb brushing once before stilling. She didn't pull away.
By the second day, weight had eased. Graves signed off their wounds, gear was stripped and cleaned, routine creeping back at the edges. They moved through it together, shoulder to shoulder—his steadiness an anchor, her presence shadowing his. Small things carried the shift: the brush of her hand as she passed him a tool, the silence between them that no longer felt hollow. When they turned in that night, it wasn't hesitation but habit; his room had never been a question. Before sleep took her, he bent close enough that his lips touched her hair, a press more steady than tender. She let herself breathe with it, the silence no longer hollow.
This morning she woke on her side with his arm looped at her waist and his breath slow against her shoulder, the compound's hum soft through the walls. She turned, found him watching, and told him she wanted to go off-site—to a shop she knew.
He studied her long enough to be sure it wasn't the tail end of adrenaline. "You sure?" he asked, quiet in the room.
"Yes," she said, and didn't look away.
An hour later, at the counter before the gloves snapped on, he asked it again—no challenge in it, just care. She told him yes again, steady, hand firm on the form, eyes on his. After that there was only the buzz, the line, the wrap.
Now the city moved around them in its easy midday rhythm—low traffic, a voice drifting from an open café door, heat pressing through their shirts. She adjusted her shirt where it lay loose over the fresh mark, and they kept walking.
Sun flattened their shadows along the sidewalk. Her limp had eased since that night—less drag, more measured step—but the muscle still pulled when she tried to lengthen. She kept the pace even, not out to prove anything with him right there.
Half a block on, his hand found the small of her back—warm, certain—and eased her off their line. She glanced over, brow tilting, not sure if he was steering her clear of something or just reminding her he could.
They followed the sidewalk another block, heat rising off concrete. A corner shop spilled roasted air through its propped door, beans grinding under the chatter inside. Brock nudged her that way without a word. She matched him, weight shifting careful as she stepped. He pulled the handle and let her step in first, cool air sliding over sweat and street noise.
The shop was all glass and gloss, sunlight pouring through tall windows onto polished floors that shone too clean for the city outside. Shelves of branded mugs and silver bags of beans lined one wall; the air carried a vanilla-sweet roast, more perfume than grit. A chalkboard menu hung above the counter, neat letters in careful rows. The hum inside was low—soft music under the churn of blenders, the hiss of steam like punctuation.
Harper let her eyes trace it all, the order and polish of the place, until she saw Brock already at the counter ahead, posture easy, waiting his turn. She moved up to join him.
They reached the counter together. Brock didn't hesitate—his voice low, even, ordering a black coffee without glance at the board. Then he stepped back half a pace, eyes flicking to her, leaving the space open.
Harper tipped her chin up at the menu overhead, rows of names and sizes stacked like code she hadn't studied. Caramel, vanilla, iced, blended—it read more like a list of disguises than drinks. For a breath she almost stepped back, defaulting to whatever he'd taken. But the line waited, and his silence was steady, no rescue in it.
"Iced Vanilla Latte," she said finally, the words sticking a little on her tongue. "Medium."
The barista tapped it in, smile automatic, and Harper let the choice settle in her chest as if she'd done something louder.
Brock slid a few bills across the counter, took the change without looking, and shifted her toward the pickup window with a hand at her back. He tucked the folded slip into the barista's reach, then dropped the white bag into his cargo pocket.
"Iced vanilla latte, huh?" His voice carried a dry edge, more observation than tease.
Harper tilted up, brushing a quick kiss against his jaw before answering, the grin flickering small and real. "Looked better than black coffee."
The corner of his mouth tugged, faint but there. His arm settled across her shoulders, steady and warm, and she leaned into it without thinking, her weight fitting the line he made.
The counter bell chimed and the barista set the cups down—one black, one pale with ice. Brock took both, slid one into her hand, and steered them back toward the door. Street noise and sun hit them as the glass swung shut behind.
She sipped, the chill hitting her teeth before the sweetness spread. "Better than black coffee," she muttered into the cup.
"Too much sugar," he said, but there was no real bite in it.
She tipped her head, side-eyeing him. "Guess that means more for me."
He gave her that small look, the one that never quite broke into a smile, and kept pace beside her while the sidewalk carried them on.
They left the storefronts behind, the path bending toward the river. Grass pressed close at one edge, trees feathering light across the way; on the other side the water moved steady, sunlight breaking against its surface. The traffic fell off until there was only the scuff of their boots and the low rush of current.
For a while they walked without speaking.
"What does the dinner tonight entail?" Harper asked finally.
Brock's mouth pulled into something close to a grin. "It's your acceptance. Official. Syndicate says you're ours now." He tipped his cup, took a swallow. "It'll just be the crew. Not too busy. But—" his mouth edged a little higher—"expect it to get rowdy."
Her fingers tightened on the cup, the cold seeping into her palm. Rowdy sounded wide, unpredictable. The river carried on, steady against the bank, but her chest felt caught on the word.
Brock angled them toward a bench set back in the shade, the metal warm under his hand as he nodded for her to sit. She followed, easing down beside him, eyes still on the water.
"Relax," he said, his voice low, certain. "Everyone's excited to see you as one of their own. Truth is, I think they already did. Tonight just makes it official."
She let out a slow breath, shoulders dipping an inch.
He glanced over, the corner of his mouth tugging. "Just… don't drink too much."
Harper tipped her cup, ice shifting. "Guess you'll have to keep watch then."
His mouth tugged clearer this time, brief but real, before he turned his gaze out across the river. The current pulled on, sunlight flaring and breaking against the surface; he watched it in silence, the weight of him easy beside her.
It went on like that for a while, the two of them quiet, the city a hum far behind.
When he turned back, Harper's shoulders had gone still, her eyes set on the water but not really seeing it. Something in her face had shifted, distant, pulled inward.
"Hey," he said, voice low, pulling her back. His arm brushed hers as he leaned in a fraction. "Talk to me. What's on your mind?"
She looked at him, throat tightening once before the words found their way out. Her fingers worried at the sweating cup, ice knocking soft inside the plastic. "It's… a lot." She drew a breath, eyes flicking from his to the water. "If someone had told me months ago I'd be sitting on a bench beside a Syndicate commander—on my own will—I'd have said they were crazy."
The corner of his mouth pulled, quieter this time. "Same for me. If someone told me I'd be sitting at a river with a Crimson Viper—" his eyes stayed on hers "—I'd have called it bullshit."
Her gaze held the river, shoulders rigid against the bench. "That night in the yard—I thought I was dead. I expected you to pull the trigger and open my head into the dirt." The cup creaked under her grip. Her voice caught, thin, but she forced it out. "You didn't. I don't know what made you hesitate, but I'm glad you did."
Brock's jaw shifted, but he let her keep going.
"I try not to think about right after that," she said, voice dropping. "Everything I was dragged through. What was done to me. What I lost." Her hand trembled, the cup shifting in her grasp. She turned to him, eyes wet now, glassed and unflinching. "You were part of it. You broke me down. And still—" her breath caught, jagged "—you're the one who pulled me out of Vex's sights. You pushed me harder than I thought I could survive. I hated you for it. Sometimes I still feel that hate." Her throat worked, the tears finally spilling. "But I'm glad it went the way it did in the end. I'm glad I'm here, with you, drinking this stupidly sweet coffee instead of in the ground with the rest of them."
The first tear broke loose, sliding down before she could wipe it. Brock set his cup on the ground, the hollow thud against concrete soft, final. His hand rose, thumb brushing her cheek with care that matched none of the steel in him. His jaw worked once before he found the words.
"I gave you every reason to hate me." His voice was rough, quiet. "But I'm glad you're here anyway." The corner of his mouth shifted, small but steady. "I'm glad too."
Then both his hands framed her face, rough palms warm at her jaw, steadying her like he expected her to run. He didn't rush it. His breath touched hers first, close enough that she felt the heat of him before his mouth found her.
The kiss landed soft, and it broke something open in her—she let out a sound, half whimper, half laugh, as if the weight of everything they'd just dragged through split in her chest. The iced cup slipped against her palm, cold biting her skin, forgotten. Her other hand rose, fingers sliding into the short hair at the back of his neck, tugging him closer.
She kissed him back, not tentative this time but hungry and sure, leaning into the hold until her whole weight pressed against the steadiness of him. His thumbs stroked once along her jaw as his mouth moved over hers, deeper now, not gentle but grounding, anchoring her in the only place that felt certain. The bench, the river, the brightness off the water—all of it blurred until there was only him, his hold, his mouth, the rawness of it pulling them both under.
─•────
After the river they'd ducked into a narrow storefront with too much mirror and come out with paper bags in hand. Now, hours later, the long hall took them in dressed a shade nicer than their days usually allowed. Harper wore dark jeans with a little give and a ribbed ivory tank; her hair was down, ends still damp. Brock had traded cargo cloth for charcoal slacks and a rolled-sleeve button-up, top button open, the faint edge of tape still showing at his ear.
Their steps fell even on concrete, vent hum rising underfoot. She rolled her shoulders once, keeping the motion small where her body still pulled tender; he caught it anyway, straightened her strap with two fingers, and matched his pace to hers, his hand brushing warm at her back when the corridor narrowed.
The air ahead held a pocket of quiet, like breath before a laugh. Warm light bled in a thin seam under the briefing-room door; beneath it came the muffled clatter of cutlery, a strangled burst of laughter, a bass line that thumped once before someone palmed the speaker. The air carried crowd-warmth and the sugar-sweet edge of frosting, layered over the usual citrus cleaner.
Harper smoothed the hem of her tank and told herself the prickle in her chest was anticipation, not alarm. Brock slowed with her without making a show of it. His palm settled at the small of her back, steady. "Ready?" he asked—not doubt, just ritual.
She tipped him a nod that felt like stepping onto a mark.
He thumbed the latch and pushed.
The room caught itself—sound dipping like a wave that's seen the shore. Music ran low from a beat-up speaker in the corner, not loud enough to fight voices. Maps were rolled and bungeed to the wall; lamps threw warm ovals across a long table crowded with plates that didn't match. A dark bottle sat center like a small anchor.
Onyx and Keir worked the sideboard—steam rising off a tray of roast, bowls of rice and greens, a lopsided cake with one crooked candle. Mason had a sleeve shoved to his forearm and a serving fork in hand. Vale leaned back, boots down, grin half-formed. Cole and Price held the far end, glasses near. Gunner had a shoulder to the jamb, eyes up. Knuckles was already pushing to his feet. Jensen stood just behind him, one hand hooked over a chair-back, while Briggs had dropped heavy into the seat across, arms folded but eyes steady on the door.
Harper took it in—the way a room declares intent: food, light, a seat waiting—and something shifted low; not alarm, just the unfamiliar weight of a thing meant for her. She stood a breath taller without meaning to.
Vex stood at the head, jacket clean under a hard bar of shadow. He didn't smile; he didn't need to. Noise pared itself down a notch to make space.
Brock's hand found the small of her back—a light nudge that read go on. Knuckles rose fully, scraped a chair out with his heel, palm on the backrest, chin tipping up. "Here," he said, like he'd been keeping it warm.
Harper crossed, brushed her fingertips over his shoulder in thanks, and slid in. Chair legs thudded against the table's stretcher; her palms found the edge, grounding. For a beat the eyes around the table still weighed on her, the silence stretched thin.
Two seats down, Vale rocked his chair onto two legs and let a grin curl in. "Thought you were gonna make us eat without you." He caught a bottle by the neck and set it by her elbow with a soft glass clink that said welcome more than the word.
Mason's sleeves were already rolled. He speared the roast, tested the give with a knife, angled the platter so juices wouldn't run. "Gonna plate you before I start lecturing," he said, dry, sliding slices onto a dish. The plate skimmed down the wood and stopped in front of her; rice followed, then a careful ladle of gravy steadied with two fingers so it wouldn't slop.
At the sideboard, Onyx shifted a tray with a forearm and shouldered a lid. "Hot plates," he warned, steam fogging the lamp glass. Keir, wrist under a stack of bowls, ghosted behind chairs laying greens at intervals—fingers quick, eyes already on the next reach. "Roast won't wait," he said without looking up.
Cole lifted his glass in a short salute, a dry smile cutting in. "Welcome in." Price, pouring water one-handed, added a small tilt of his chin. "Save me the end," he said, nudging the pitcher toward her knuckles with the back of his thumb.
Jensen slid his chair out at last with a scrape, leaned an elbow on the table's edge, and gave her a nod that read more like recognition than ceremony. "Good pull," was all he said, but it carried weight.
Across from him, Briggs tore a roll in half, thumb pressing the seam flat before he passed one down the line. "Long road to this seat," he rumbled, eyes steady on her a moment before dropping back to his plate.
Gunner pushed off the jamb, crossed to the table, and dropped into a chair across the corner from Vale. His gaze skimmed her, catalogued, then parked on the room. "Voss," he said—flat, not unfriendly—and straightened a drifting napkin like it bothered him.
Brock took the seat opposite Harper—angled toward the door by habit—pulled his chair in with a knee, and set his palm flat to the table, fingers splaying once before curling in. He checked the line of her plate, turned the fork so the tines faced her hand, and left it there, quiet as a claim.
Plates made a last soft circuit—roast and rice, greens, bread passed hand to hand—then the shuffle stilled. Chairs edged in. Glasses touched wood. The low track from the speaker held the room together without asking for it.
Vex lifted two knuckles and tapped the table once. Talk cut. He let the quiet hold a beat, then broke the seal on the dark bottle and poured until the liquid went near-black. He slid the glass; it stopped in front of Harper.
"This is simple," he said. "Voss is marked in. Lawson has her—his watch, his call." His gaze walked the table, then came back to her. "You were useful when it counted. You kept the corridor open. The load came home, and so did the crew. That wasn't luck, and it wasn't weather. That was you." A small nod—the kind he didn't hand out twice. "That's worth keeping."
He poured his own and set the bottle down. "Tonight isn't a briefing. It's a mark. Eat. Drink. Take the welcome." He lifted his glass. "To the work." A breath, looser by a hair. "To Voss."
Glasses lifted. "To the work," rolled the table, then sharpened into a single echo: "To Voss." Harper brought the near-black up—smoke, bitter, heat—took it in two swallows, and set the glass down with a clean thunk.
The room broke open: a cheer, chairs scraping, a fork drumming wood, the speaker nudged louder. Brock only tipped his back after hers; when he set it down, he gave the table one short tap that read like a period, and the noise climbed.
Plates steadied the noise. Forks found work; talk ran in short lanes—who grabbed which corner of the choke, who saw the van first, how the rain turned to steam off the docks—then drifted toward nothing at all. Mason kept the roast moving, wrist sure with the knife. Onyx ghosted a tray down the far side, topping water, swapping out a dull knife for a sharper one without pausing the song. Keir slid a bowl of greens between elbows and stole a roll with two fingers like he hadn't. Harper ate until the knot in her stomach loosened; the chair took her weight like it had been saving the spot.
The bottle made a cautious second round. Vale tipped it over her glass with a flourish he hadn't earned; Brock ghosted a pitcher in behind and parked it by her elbow. "Split it," he said, easy, and she did.
Knuckles slid the heel of the bread off the basket onto her plate without looking up. "Best part," he said. "Don't let Vale steal it."
She knocked her knuckles to his arm. "You trying to make friends now?"
His mouth twitched. "One night only." He nodded at the lopsided cake on the sideboard. "I called corner piece."
She snorted. "You'd call the pan if you could."
"If it fits," he said, finally cutting himself a grin that showed and was gone. "Cards tomorrow. No stakes, just noise."
"Deal," she said, and he pushed the salt her way like a period.
Across the table, Jensen lifted his glass in a small tilt. "Not bad for a rookie," he said, voice low, but the flick of his eyes carried respect.
Briggs tore another roll, tossed half onto her plate without comment, and went back to his food. The gesture landed louder than words.
The music ticked up a notch. Stories grew teeth, then softened at the ends. Cole said something dry that made Price snort into his glass; Price answered with a line that made Cole roll his eyes and drink anyway. Gunner argued with the speaker until the track changed to one even older; someone rapped the table in time; the room answered with heels under wood.
Vex held the head long enough to finish his glass and a plate cleaned to the seam, then stood with the quiet that makes its own space. "Tomorrow is tomorrow." A nod at Brock. A smaller one at Harper. The door shut behind him and the night inhaled.
Noise rushed in to fill the space he left. Vale launched into a lie about a warehouse dog that grew with every laugh. Mason started to correct him and stopped, face cracking into something almost like a smile; he shoved the bread basket at Vale like a citation. Onyx slid an old filter back into the speaker and the bass warmed. Keir rolled the crooked candle between his fingers, glance flicking to Harper and back to the cake, waiting.
Her glass touched wood more than her mouth after that; Brock's hand did small work—spinning the bottle past her, parking water inside her reach, a fingertap when the room tipped too bright. She let the heat sit in her cheeks and felt something inside her guard loosen another inch. Three conversations ran at once and she didn't mind not catching every word; the sound held without asking her to hold it back.
"Cake," Onyx announced, verdict clean. The room rallied. Knuckles struck a kitchen match off the table edge and cupped the flame while Briggs planted the candle at a drunken lean. Somebody killed the overheads; the lamps held.
A chant tried to start—"Harp, Harp"—then broke itself into laughter.
"No speeches," Knuckles warned, match close. "Not your night to work."
She leaned in and blew the candle anyway, a breath sharper than she meant. For half a beat the dark held, then heat and cheer hit together. Frosting smeared wrong where the knife fought the crumb; Onyx handed her the ugly corner on purpose. It tasted like sugar and vanilla and the kind of noise you didn't have to survive.
The room loosened a notch at a time—forks slowing, napkins crumpling, music warming—until the candle's stub and the beat-up speaker turned the scene into something her body already knew. For a breath the table doubled: another night layered over this one, cheap cake sagging in the heat, a chorus too loud and off-key, Dante's arm at her waist, a voice in her hair wishing her another year. That life had been hers once. This was now—different faces, different hands passing bread, the same stupid candle tilt. She was celebrating with the crew who'd ended that life and, somehow, built this one. It landed like a knot in her chest and then, strangely, like slack.
She set her glass down and traced a fork tine along the grain to ground. The table blurred a moment, old voices over new, then steadied as fingers brushed the back of her chair—bare, careful. Brock had come around, close enough that his shadow tipped across her plate.
"You with me?" His voice was low, meant only for her.
She looked up, the echo of another arm at her waist pulling tight for a beat. But it was his face there now, his steadiness, his hand holding her to the room. She gave a small nod, enough to answer.
The room took her back In on its own rhythm: Onyx carving a lopsided corner, Keir sliding plates, Vale carving the air with his hands, Mason pretending not to laugh. She let it in and found she could stay.
The bottle started to orbit—not aggressive, an easy drift that found empty glasses and left a little heat behind. Vale tipped a finger's worth into hers; Brock's water followed like a shadow. "Half," he said. She traded, felt the mix settle warm in her chest, and didn't mind how her shoulders dropped another notch.
Vale tried a toast so dumb it bent back into funny. Mason muttered, "God help us," and still knocked his glass to hers. Jensen and Price ran a two-line bit they'd clearly been saving; it landed until Price's straight face cracked, and he drank to hide it. Gunner angled the speaker, found an old track with a dirty bassline, and pretended it had been the plan. Keir stole olives; Onyx saw and let him.
Harper laughed—first small, then the kind that folds you. It surprised her enough to set her back in the chair; she pressed her knuckles to her mouth and let it run.
"You breaking in the new laugh or is that a loaner?" Knuckles asked, shoulder bumping hers.
"Limited run," she said, eyes wet in a clean way.
"Keep it." He snapped a bottle cap and sent it ringing into an empty glass like a trick shot.
When the bottle in her hand crept high, Brock tipped his own to take the overage without commentary. When her water slid out of reach, it returned under her hand. "You good?" he asked once, low.
"Yeah." She grinned at the word and at him. "Maybe better than that."
The music edged up and the table answered. Jensen drummed with two forks; Cole stole one and found the beat; Price kept time with a knuckle. Mason stacked empties into little engineering projects no one dared topple. Onyx coaxed a chorus out of a room that doesn't sing; it missed the key and no one cared.
When someone yelled "Story!" Harper gave them the smallest one she had—the café, the huge food order, the way Brock told her no one was looking for her when she was nervous in the noise, her throwing it back at him when he kept watching the door.
Vale tried to needle; she cut him with a look she'd borrowed from Vex and a line she'd stolen from Vale. The table howled. Vale hid his answer in his glass.
A shift in her tank caught the lamplight—just enough sheen at her ribs to flash the second-skin.
That's new," Vale said, brow cutting up. "Didn't think you'd ever touch that snake."
"Guess I changed my mind." She glanced at Brock; he didn't stop her, only said, "Careful."
She pushed up enough to face the lamp and hitched the hem a couple of fingers' worth. The film caught the light, glossing the ink; beneath it, a single black stroke cut through the serpent coiled up her side. Not an erasure. A mark.
The room thinned quiet.
Onyx whistled under his breath, palms lifted like he wouldn't dare touch. "That's cold."
Mason's mouth pressed flat, something unsettled pulling in his jaw. "Takes steel to cross your own skin like that."
Knuckles gave the faintest grunt, arms folded. "Snake's dead. Message received."
Gunner's gaze lingered longer than the rest. He didn't speak, just nodded once, heavy.
The others didn't need to add to it—eyes flicked, shoulders shifted, the silence doing more than words.
She let the hem fall. The room didn't go solemn; it went sure. Someone rapped the table back into the track, and the noise picked up where it left off, steadier. Brock's fingers found the chair again as she sat, a light touch that said he was with her in the showing—that it counted.
The cake devolved like cake does—corners gone first, frosting skinned with a spoon, someone forking the crater until Onyx swatted their hand with a napkin. Keir produced a bottle of something red from nowhere and doused his slice; Vale stole a bite and nearly choked. "That's not frosting."
"Never said it was," Keir said, pleased with himself. Harper laughed hard enough to lean into Brock's shoulder; he caught the chair back with two fingers and let out a breath that told her to take it.
The edges of time went soft. A song from five years back slid in; half the table knew the words and the other half pretended not to. They were bad at harmony and loud about it. Harper's throat loosened enough to hum a line; it surprised her and didn't hurt. Gunner came back with fresh ice without being asked. Knuckles poured from an amber bottle and didn't bother to ask who wanted it; hands rose and glasses found their owners.
She felt the moment the room tipped from for her to with her: conversations curved so she could slip into any one and be caught; a glass appeared by her elbow and it was just water; a chant tried to start and died because nobody needed it. She let her laugh run all the way out, full and stupid, and no one waited for the edge of it. The night stretched—not like work, but like permission.
The room eased toward done—music nudged lower, plates scraped clean, chairs backing off a half inch at a time. Mason stacked without being asked, Onyx palmed the speaker quiet, Keir blew the candle's stub and let the smoke climb. Goodnights came the way this crew did them: Vale with a ridiculous bow he couldn't hold, Cole and Price in a two-tap of glasses, Gunner's chin lift from the doorway. Knuckles hooked two fingers—cards tomorrow—before he shouldered a tray. Jensen slid his chair back with a scrape, gave Harper a nod sharp as a signature. Briggs took his time standing, reached to squeeze Brock's shoulder once, and left a rumble in his wake: "Solid work."
Brock tipped the last of her water into her glass and watched her finish it. "Ready to call it?" She nodded. He stood, slid her chair back with a knee, and found her hand just long enough to bring her up without making a ceremony of it. Palms to shoulders, a clap to Brock's back, a quiet "congrats," and the room let them go. She felt the weight of it even as it passed through him—acknowledgment of both what she'd done, and who had staked his name on her.
The corridor held only vent hum and the soft tread of their boots, the spill of light behind them swallowed clean. Warmth sat easy in her limbs—steady, not blurred. She smoothed the hem of her tank where it caught against her hip. He matched her pace, hands loose at his sides, eyes forward.
They rode the lift. Mirror-glass gave them back a pair stripped of the day's edge—her hair loose and uneven, his collar open, the faint line of tape still tracing his ear. Numbers slid. The car hummed. His palm found the small of her back because it always did; she leaned the inch the space allowed.
The hall outside his quarters was the quiet kind that felt owned. He keyed the lock. The bolt seated with the sound she knew. He didn't speak; he just held her eyes a moment, that small pause he always left for her to take or leave. She held it, then stepped forward.
Dim, familiar air met them—coffee and linen still clinging soft. Boots tapped grit to the mat. The door drew shut on the day and sealed them in, and the night belonged to them.
The door settled and the quiet felt owned. Brock turned a lamp low and walked his small circuit—shades, bolt, a quick look through the peephole—habit bleeding off his shoulders as he came back to her. He didn't reach first. He just stood close enough that she could feel the heat off him and let the room decide.
She closed the step.
Her hands flattened to his chest through the fabric, tracking the slow rise and fall. His thumb brushed along her jaw; she leaned into it. The first kiss was unhurried—warmth and the faint bite of whiskey—then he drew a breath's width away, eyes holding hers, and went back in deeper. His other hand came to rest high between her shoulders, steadying her in the lamplight while they stayed with the slow of it.
He answered slow with heat—angling, breath deepening, the kiss shifting from careful to claimed. The hand at her back firmed; the other caught her hip and guided her a half step, then another, steering without hurry. She gave to it, weight leaning in, fingers knotting in his shirt. He walked her backward through the dim, knuckles grazing her jaw as his mouth broke and returned, hungrier now, the burn of whiskey riding his breath between them.
Her spine found the wall—a muted thud, a caught breath that spilled into him. He braced an arm to either side, not pinning, just holding space; his mouth traced cheekbone, the corner of her lips, the line of her jaw. "Okay?" low against her skin, more reflex than question. She rose into it, chin tilting, hands sliding to the back of his neck. He took the answer in her movement, deepened it, then eased her off the wall with a palm at her waist and turned them toward the hall.
They moved in close steps, shoulders brushing the jamb as they turned the corner. He caught her mouth once more in the doorway—longer this time, rougher at the edges—and she answered with a sound that pulled him deeper. His hand slid firm at her hip, guiding her back into the bedroom on the slow insistence of his body against hers. The lamp in here burned lower, shadows softening the edges until there was only heat, breath, and the steadiness of his hands—careful where it needed to be, decisive everywhere else.
Her calves met the bedframe. She tipped back half a breath, lips parting against his, not pulling away but yielding the space. He didn't force her down; he just stood close enough for her to feel the choice waiting between them. She gave it, leaned into his hand, and let the mattress take her. The bed sighed under her weight.
He followed on a slow lean, braced on a forearm beside her shoulder, knee wide to keep from crushing her leg. His mouth found hers again—deeper now, hungrier—and she met it full, fingers slipping into the short hair at his nape and tugging him closer. The creak of the frame carried once like a secret, then held, the quiet thick with their breath and the heat between them.
He broke for air at her cheek and traced down—jaw, the hollow beneath her ear, the slope of her throat. Heat followed where his mouth had been. He lingered at her collarbone—one kiss just inside the bone, another lower—then the light scrape of teeth that stole her breath. His hand spread at her back, anchoring her, steering clear of the film at her ribs without needing to name it.
"Tell me," he murmured into her skin, not a question so much as a command edged with need.
Her answer came first in sound—a soft, caught noise that betrayed her before words. Then, roughened by the catch of her breath: "Keep going."
He obeyed. A kiss in the dip at the base of her throat, a slow climb back to her mouth, then lower again, to where her pulse ran wild. Her hands moved over him in turn—mapping the rasp of his jaw, the hard plane of his shoulder, the give beneath muscle when her grip tightened. When his mouth found the place that sent every nerve sparking, her breath snapped into a broken sound; he stayed there, patient, unrelenting, until her fingers curled into his hair and held him to it.
He laced her fingers for a breath, thumb pressing the quick at her wrist, then set her hand above her head, palm to the sheet—a gentle pin that asked and waited. She curled into the fabric, the smallest nod holding the moment steady. He kissed the inside of her wrist, followed that line back to her mouth, and never hurried.
Then he eased back enough to catch the hem of her tank, hands warm at her sides. "Tell me if anything pulls." She lifted into him, breath catching, and he drew the fabric up slow—skimming over the fresh film without a snag, baring skin inch by inch until the air turned cool and her body rose to meet it.
His palms followed, smoothing heat where it left, mapping her as if he meant to memorize every line. His mouth traced shoulder into neck—one kiss, then another lower—then a slow breath down the ridge of her collarbone, into the shallow line of her sternum. She tilted her chin, giving him space, and her hands fisted in the sheet as his mouth closed over the swell of her breast, tongue flicking once before he drew at her skin; the sound that broke from her was helpless, pulled straight out of her chest as she arched up for more.
His mouth left her breast and traced lower, down the warm plane of her stomach. He paused at her side where the healing graze ran faint and pink—skin pulled thin where the bullet had kissed too close. His lips pressed there once, deliberate, reverent in a way that made her breath hitch. She felt the mark claimed, not pitied, and the sound that left her carried both ache and want. His hand steadied at her waist as his mouth lingered low, the heat of him pulling her open. Her knee slid higher, bracketing his hip, urging him back up. He followed, mouth catching at her ribs, then climbing again in patient lines until his weight hovered close and she could drag him into her with her hands in his hair, her back arched and offering all of her.
He stripped his shirt in one clean pull, lean muscle and heat replacing fabric. The rough of him brushed her forearm as her hand crossed to learn him, fingers tracing the slope of shoulder into chest. He kissed her—deep, sure—and the sound she let slip into his mouth tightened his breath.
His palm tracked the outer seam of her hip, finding the metal at her fly. He paused, eyes on hers. She lifted into him in answer, wordless but clear. The button gave, the zipper unspooled tooth by tooth. His hand flattened at her waist, thumb just inside the band, skin to skin, mindful of the second-skin gloss over her ribs.
He eased the denim down with steady hands—one leg, then the other—fabric whispering over her calves until it was gone. She arched under him as if to fill the space it left, breath breaking against his shoulder. He stayed close, mouth finding hers again—hungry now, like thanks and claim in the same breath.
He sat back long enough to work his belt and fly. Metal clicked soft; cloth shifted; the last of the day slid away. When he stripped the rest, the space between them changed—no layers left, nothing buffered. Heat radiated off him, heavy, certain.
Her gaze caught before she could stop it. The sight of him—strong, scarred, aroused—snapped something taut in her chest. Her breath snagged; her hand, mid-trace on his shoulder, went still.
He felt it. Stilled, too. Lowered only far enough that his mouth hovered a breath from hers, eyes fixed steady on hers. The weight of his body held, but not pressing, waiting.
Her chest rose fast under his, breath caught sharp. She swallowed, eyes locked to his. "I haven't," she said, low but steady. "Ever."
Everything in him stilled. His breath checked; heat still ran off him, but his body froze above her, muscles tight as if someone had just pulled a trigger. His eyes searched hers—once, twice—reading if she meant it, if she was telling him to stop.
"Harper…" His voice dropped rough, caught between disbelief and care. He shifted his weight back to his forearm, easing what pressed on her, his other hand cupping her cheek like she might break. "Okay. Then we don't. We can just stay here."
But she shook her head, sharp, certain, her nails curling into his shoulder, holding him there. "Don't stop." Her hips tipped up against his without thought, the heat between them too real to deny. "I'm scared—" her breath hitched, words riding it "—but I'm not changing my mind."
For a breath he just held her eyes. Inside, it hit like a round to the chest—the shock that it was him, that no one else had touched her this way, that she was handing him the first and trusting him not to break it. Want coiled sharp through him, but under it sat the weight: don't ruin this, don't take more than she's giving. He made himself breathe, jaw tight, centering.
Something eased and hardened in him at once, a decision locking in. His thumb traced her cheekbone, tucking a strand of hair back slow, steady. "Then slow," he said, voice like gravel made gentle. "I lead. You say stop, I stop. You need a breath, we breathe."
"Okay." Her grip steadied, nails grazing his skin. "I trust you."
"I've got you." His palm slid high between her shoulder blades, firm and warm, drawing her in. He lowered his forehead to hers, breath measured, and kept her there until her chest fell into his rhythm. The tremor left her on the exhale, caught against his mouth as he kissed her—slow, anchoring. His pulse thudded against her jaw where his wrist brushed, every beat saying he meant it.
She answered with a kiss she claimed, fingers fisting at the back of his neck; he let her drag him that last inch. His hand slid under her thigh, lifting, parting, guiding her open. The lamp dimmed to a hush under his reach.
Her yes broke against his mouth, then fractured into a gasp when he pressed forward—slow, steady, every inch a stretch she'd never known. The sound tore out of her throat, half-whimper, half-moan, nails sinking into his shoulders like she needed him to anchor her through it. He hushed her with his mouth, swallowing the noise, patient but unrelenting.
Her body clenched tight around him, instinct resisting the intrusion; he stilled, breath harsh at her temple, jaw locked as he forced himself to wait. Her thighs locked around him, pulling, urging him deeper, wordless but clear: don't stop. He obeyed, easing in, her body yielding inch by inch until his weight settled flush, his heat filling her in a way that left no space at all.
Her breath broke against his chest, sharp and uneven, but the sound that followed was pure want. His own control frayed at the edges, every muscle drawn taut to keep from breaking her open too fast. The world narrowed to the stretch, the heat, the shudder of her body giving to him, and the first rhythm they built together.