Harper woke sprawled half across Brock, cheek pressed to the hard plane of his chest, his arm heavy over her shoulders like he'd locked her there. Her knee hooked high over his thigh, sheet twisted around her calf, heat trapped where their skin had fused in the night's sweat. She shifted and her body betrayed her—hips stiff, thighs aching, that deep, sore burn low inside her, tender and undeniable, the aftershock of him still lodged in her muscles. The breath caught in her chest, pressed against his ribs, and the throb of it seemed to answer the slow rise and fall beneath her cheek.
Her mouth was sour-sweet, copper edging her tongue; head needled where a seam of light cut under the blind. Eyes scraped raw, temples throbbing with whiskey. She swallowed hard, throat dry, skin still carrying him—sweat gone tacky, cologne faded to musk, every breath steeped in the scent of what he'd done to her.
The scrape of her heel against his shin, the catch of her breath—those stirred him before thought did. His chest rose fuller beneath her cheek, a sigh pushing out as his hand found her waist and held there, firm and steadying. He turned his head enough to brush his mouth toward her crown, breath warm against her hair. "Hey," he murmured, voice worn and low, eyes blinking open slow and blurred, like she'd dragged him up out of sleep by lying over him.
"Hey," she answered, hoarse, and nuzzled closer. Her lips found the warm skin just under his collarbone, a soft press more instinct than thought. The steady lift under her ear deepened with his breath, and she felt him answer in the slow curl of his hand at her waist.
His free hand slid Into her hair, fingers slow, combing at the roots before sinking deeper, gentle against the tangles. "How are you feeling?"
She let her body answer first—leaning into the drag of his hand, no flinch, only that tight hold of breath that eased on the exhale, the kind that said ache, but not stop. Her thighs hummed with it, low and insistent, and still she settled closer. "Sore," she said finally, voice steady, the word tasting half like confession. A beat, then softer, truth layered under it. "Good sore."
She shifted and the sheet dragged across her hip, cotton clinging before it slipped free. A low groan slipped out—more drumbeat behind her eyes than hurt below, though her body still hummed sore. Her gaze lifted to his. His thumb pressed once at her waist—saw, understood—and eased back again. Nothing named, but the weight of it moved between them, the unspoken knowledge of what she'd given him last night.
The look between them pulled the night back in one clean thread: his palm braced above her ribs, holding himself off her even when his body wanted to bear down. His mouth at her temple, murmuring breath against skin, his pace set by hers. He felt her shifts before she spoke them—every small flinch, every easing—answered by him slowing, angling, waiting.
Heat kept pushing higher, and every time he pulled it back, leash taut in his lungs. Each motion was asked in him, answered in her, until she found the rhythm herself—hips lifting, breath breaking into his. He kept his face close, finding her eyes, grounding her even as it turned rougher, dirtier, until tenderness and hunger were tangled so tight they were the same thing.
"Head hurting?" he asked, voice low against her hair.
She let a breath go, eyelids heavy. "Yeah. Feels like drums in there."
The hand at her hip slid down, cupping and drawing her closer, while his other hand threaded gentle circles through her hair. "Then we're not moving today," he murmured. "No drills, no running. Just you here."
Her answer came with a shift of her own—knee tightening over his thigh, palm spreading against his chest to feel the slow lift beneath. "Good," she whispered, almost a sigh. "Don't want to move anyway."
Something under her cheek eased; his mouth brushed her hair once, a steadying pass, and the room slid back to the vent's low hum and the clock's quiet glow. He shifted beneath her, thigh firm under her hooked knee, chest lifting slow against her.
Her hand drifted lower, fingertips skimming the ridges of his stomach, tracing the hard planes of his abs as if learning him by touch. The change in his breathing under her palm drew a quiet hum out of her, low into his skin, unthinking.
The hand cupping her from behind stayed there, gentled—thumb stroking along the curve of her hip, easing her closer against him while the other kept combing slow through her hair. His breath caught once, but he steadied it, choosing the slow savor over haste, mapping her with patience and weight.
"You rest," he murmured, fingers lazy in her hair. "If it gets too much, you tell me."
Her thumb traced the inside of his wrist, slow. "If it spikes, I'll wake you. Later we'll argue over coffee and aspirin. But not now." She pressed closer, voice drifting softer. "Now I just need you."
He answered with a low hum, his hand easing through her hair in slow, steady passes. The pounding in her head dulled a notch; the ache low in her hips settled into something she could keep. The room swayed gentle, him the weight that held it steady.
Her face tucked under his jaw, his hand resting warm at her neck, they let the morning wait. His breathing stretched long and even; hers found it and matched. The city's wash behind the glass folded into one harmless hum.
She shifted once, drawing the sheet higher so it caught in the dip of her waist, leaving her back bare to his palm. He stayed still beneath her like he'd promised, thumb grazing her hairline before it went quiet.
The mattress held their heat. Coffee could wait. Sleep came back the way fog crosses water—low, patient, sure—closing the distance between waking and not.
Coffee arrived anyway.
They didn't stir at the latch or the soft run of boots down the hall—hangover sleep held them under. Knuckles came with three coffees steady on a tray, tapped once with his free hand, and shouldered the door open in the same motion. "Caffeine deliv—"
The words cut through first. Brock's chest filled hard under Harper's cheek as his eyes snapped open; in the same beat he surged upright. Harper twisted with him, startled, the sheet already only at her hip—one motion baring her chest before Brock yanked the fabric high across her. Copper hair spilled with the scramble, hot against his skin.
"—ery." Knuckles froze in the doorway, tray squeaking in his grip, gaze ricocheting to the crown molding after that blink-long flash of bare breasts and the Viper ink coiled up her side.
He kept his eyes obediently high and stepped in by muscle memory, tray balanced as he set it on the dresser, steam curling up from the lids. "Brought three because we all feel like roadkill," he said, voice pitched low, brow creased. "Also on the mistaken belief Voss slept in the other room. My logistics are outdated." He gave a helpless lift of his chin toward the ceiling—acknowledgment without ever looking down.
"Appreciated," Brock said, steady, one arm keeping the sheet where it needed to be. "Why are you really here?"
"Vex pulled a job for tomorrow. Noon brief today. Details are thin—just that it's clean hands, quiet, daylight, and no muscle-jam at the point of entry." Knuckles let his gaze dip once, quick, just far enough to check the sheet still covered what it needed to. Then his eyes cut back to Brock, over the spill of copper hair across his chest, and held there a beat too long. The silence did the work: you fucking her? / sure am / later.
He didn't break the look as he reached back to the dresser and nudged one cup closer to Brock. The other he left within easy reach, steam curling off the lid. "Black for you," he said, steady. Then, with the faintest nod toward Harper without daring his eyes down, "Sugar for her."
"We'll make noon," Brock said, steady, as if the sheet and the woman under his arm were incidental. "Send whatever lands before then."
"Copy." Knuckles lifted a contrite finger ceiling-ward. "Intel fits on a napkin: noon brief today, job runs daylight tomorrow. I'll relearn knocking—with volume—and you two can consider signage." Another quick flick to Brock—wry, cautious, confirmation received—then he palmed his own cup and ghosted for the hall. The door sighed mostly shut behind him, leaving a cooler seam through the frame and the curl of coffee steam to mark the intrusion.
Harper made a strangled noise, dragged the sheet over her head like fabric could erase a man's memory, and tried to burrow into Brock's chest. Heat surged up her face so fast it felt like it left fingerprints; she fisted the cotton at her collar like she could make it armor. "Kill me," came muffled into his skin, raw and desperate. "Or move. I'm tunneling to the center of the earth."
Brock's laugh was low and unhelpfully pleased against her hair, a quiet rumble she felt more than heard. "He locked on the wall like it had answers," he said, thumb finding the edge of the sheet she'd barricaded with and easing it back an inch so she could breathe. "Pretty sure he can sketch the ductwork from memory."
"After he saw my entire soul," she muttered into his chest, refusing to emerge. The sheet he'd tugged back was immediately dragged higher again, bunched tight at her temple like fabric could wall her in. "He saw me naked from the waist up. That's it. I'm gone. I live here now—in the mattress."
"He saw more than he bargained for," Brock said, the smile in his voice unhelpfully clear as he smoothed her hair flat. "Blink, that's all. Long enough to haunt him, short enough he'll pretend it never happened. And he did leave coffee—pretty generous hush money, if you ask me."
She risked one eye out from under the cotton. "It's evidence."
"It's coffee," he said, amused. He shifted her just enough to free his chest, sheet still firm where he kept it, and reached for the sugared lid on the dresser. He guided it into her hand, steadying it under hers so she didn't have to grip. "Knux knows you're hungover, that's all. Don't make it bigger."
She groaned again, all mortification, and let her forehead thump against his sternum. "I hate him."
"You don't," Brock said, amused in a way that warmed more than the coffee. "You just hate that he saw."
"Same thing," she muttered darkly, shifting—and winced when the motion tugged at her thigh, the gauze pulling sore over the graze. He caught it, shifted under her to ease the strain, and the sting settled back to a low ember.
"Better?" he asked, already knowing.
"Better." A pause. "Still dead."
"Noted." He lifted his own cup, took a cautious sip, then set it back down within reach. "We've got time before noon. Drink. Then shower. Then we'll pretend we're the kind of people who label doors."
She shoved her toes under his calf in petty retaliation, smug in the small win. "Signs," she muttered from under the sheet. "Big ones. 'Don't open unless you want scars.'"
"Knuckles would frame it," Brock said, and the smile lived in his voice.
She let the sheet slip to her mouth and blew across the lid; steam curled; her shoulders finally began to unclench. "If he tells anyone, I'm moving into the vents."
"I'll negotiate a bigger duct," Brock said, deadpan, and pressed a kiss into her hair like an apology for the world being louder than it needed to be. "Five more minutes," he added, arm cinching her in as the room found its hum again. "Then we face the signage committee."
─•────
The briefing room carried the stale mix of printer heat and old coffee. Fluorescents droned overhead, the kind of hum that needled her hangover. The wall screen slept in a gray pane; a metal carafe sulked on a side table beside paper cups that had seen better days. Harper had her boots hooked on the table's lip, heels crossed, the cool laminate against her ankles a mercy against the throb running bone-deep. The caffeine had landed but her head still pounded like someone working drywall in the rafters. She tipped her chair back two inches and closed one eye against the light.
Brock sat to her right, posture easy but not lazy, elbows on the arms, hands laced loose. He'd taken the end seat with the sightline on the door, habit more than choice.
The handle turned. She had her feet off the table before the door finished its arc, boots thudding soft against the floor—a guilty-schoolkid reflex that made Brock's mouth tug, half a tilt.
Vex came in with a patch of colder hall air, a folder under his arm, the collar of his jacket still turned from outside. His eyes did the sweep they always did—corners, ceiling, the line of the table—before settling on her like a weight that didn't need sound. He didn't bother with hello. He set the folder down, flipped it open with one fingertip, and spread grim photocopies across the table. A small nod, then he took the head of the table.
The door eased again before the room finished absorbing him. Knuckles slid in sideways, empty-handed, that stupid smirk trying to live on his mouth as his eyes found Harper. Heat climbed her neck; she made herself smaller in the chair—shoulders down, hair dragged forward, like she could erase the morning by hiding in it.
Brock didn't look over. The sound he made could have been a cough, could have been amusement, as his knuckles brushed hers under the table for a second—steady there.
Knuckles took the chair two down, angled to see both door and screen. Vex lifted his eyes; the smirk died. Knuckles said nothing—there was nothing new to say.
Vex tapped one finger on the photocopies until the room stilled.
"Tomorrow," he said, voice flat as the fluorescent hum. "Daylight. Clean cover. You three walk in like inspectors, tag what needs tagging, lift what we need, and walk out the same way. No alarms, no footprints. You're not there to break anything—just mark it so we can follow the flow."
His fingertip dragged across the first sheet: grainy security stills of a warehouse bay, forklifts parked in rows, serial numbers slashed in marker on pallet sides. "Eastbank Produce. Maw's been routing freight through the dock all month. Frozen greens on the manifest, cash under the wrap. We've hit their guns, we've hit their files. Now we hit the money. Tags tell us where the pallets run after they leave the dock. Cashroom tells us how much. Put them together, we own their ledger."
He glanced once at Harper, long enough for the weight to land, then back to the paper. "Two trackers inside. Pallets pre-flagged by Ryker—Bay Six, Bay Nine. Voss, that's yours. Looks like inspection, feels like paperwork. Don't draw eyes."
He shifted the next sheet, showing the cashroom schematic—a gray box with a single door, counters and a terminal sketched inside. "Lawson, you ghost the terminal. Drive's prepped. In, slot, out. Knuckles runs interference—wrong crates, lost manifest, whatever buys seconds."
The folder snapped closed under his palm. "You'll have thirty minutes, tops. In uniform. Out before the foreman finishes lunch. If you look like you belong, they won't ask twice. If you don't—" His eyes went back to Harper, not blinking. "—they'll remember your face."
Silence swelled behind it until the hum filled the gap again. Vex leaned back, jacket creaking at the shoulder. "That's the work. Questions?"
Knuckles leaned back in his chair, arms folded loose, the faintest twitch at his mouth like he already saw the angles. "Day job with a clipboard," he said. "Finally in my wheelhouse."
Brock didn't smile. He gave the single nod Vex expected, steady and contained. "Drive loads clean, tags ping, we're out before they count heads. Understood."
Harper tapped the back of her pen against the folder edge, caffeine still drumming under her ribs. "So I plant the tags, walk casual, and that's the job," she said, more statement than question.
Vex's eyes cut to her again, flat. "That's the job.
The hum filled in after, louder than before.
─•────
Cold air rolled off the racked produce and pooled low, fogging thin around Harper's shins as she came down the service corridor. The fluorescents buzzed overhead, washing everything the same gray-white, but the vest on her back was bright enough to make her look official. Clipboard easy in the crook of her arm, pen ready, she carried the tired authority of someone paid by the hour, the kind of gait that didn't invite questions.
She paused at an extinguisher, slapped a red inspection tag on the handle, flipped the work order like the page bored her, and kept moving. Bay 6 loomed ahead, stencil numbers flaked to pale corners. She crouched there as if to reseat a loose strap, boots squeaking faint against concrete. One hand braced the floor; the other slid the coin-size tracker under the rack, adhesive warming under her thumb until it took.
The compressor's long exhale swallowed the press, a forklift horn giving her cover. She straightened, QR code scanned to justify the stop, jotted a note on the form, and moved on again—ordinary as an inspector running behind schedule.
Brock took the cashroom like he'd done it all month: clipboard up, vest unzipped, the practiced indifference that made him forgettable. The hum of the counter filled the space, spitting neat bricks while the kid on duty kept his eyes glued to the money. Bay 7 crackled outside where Knuckles was still turning a misdelivered crate into a minor crisis.
"Fire-code check," Brock said, already inside the threshold, pen tapping the placard by the door, his other hand testing the sprinkler cage like that was the whole reason he'd come. The clipboard stayed loose in his grip, posture bored, presence forgettable.
Beneath it, his hand found the counter's underside by muscle memory—port tucked past a knuckled bracket. The scuffed thumb drive slid in, fake firmware label catching the light. The diode breathed once, then went still.
Outside, someone swore about signatures. Inside, Brock jotted a perfunctory line on the form, eased the drive free, and let the door kiss his heel as he stepped back out.
"Battery swap," Knuckles murmured on comms, tone easy, buying another thirty seconds for nothing at all.
"All set," Brock answered, voice low and sure. "On your left in two."
Harper drifted toward Bay 7 with the clipboard loose, scanning a QR at the aisle's edge before letting her pace slacken. The dockhand in the orange beanie was already watching; she let his glance hook hers and didn't look away until she was in reach. Then she gave him the kind of smile that promised nothing and suggested trouble anyway. His pallet jack squealed to a lazy halt. "You checking sprinklers or hearts today?" he tried.
She tilted her head, pen already tapping the corner of his badge like a metronome, eyes holding his just long enough to make him shift. "Depends—are you up to code?" She tipped the clipboard toward him so he could see the blank line labeled OCCUPANT WITNESS, then drew it back at an angle where she could still write. Her nail traced the margin slow, as if weighing whether he qualified, mouth tugging at a smile she didn't give.
He laughed too quick, leaning closer to spell his name like she hadn't already read it. She wrote each letter at half his pace, pen dragging deliberate while her shoulder almost brushed his.
"Hold this for me?" She slid the tag punch into his hand, her knuckles grazing his like it meant something, lingering just long enough to make him blink. "Count to thirty, then tear the yellow tab and slap it on Bay Eight. If anyone asks, tell them I'm testing water pressure—" she let the smile bloom this time, slow and deliberate, and tipped him a quick wink—"and I'll come back to check yours."
His grin widened, already picturing the return visit. Harper gave him one last flash of teeth and turned, pace unhurried but hips swinging just enough to leave him staring. The clipboard rode easy against her thigh; she knew he was still watching and let him.
A forklift brake squealed across the bay, and she used the noise to slip into the open stripe. She paused at a riser cabinet, keyed a QR like she was logging pressure, and scribbled a number on the form without breaking stride. By the time she drifted past Bay 7 again, the orange beanie was still half-smiling, tag punch loose in his hand, eyes fixed where she'd been.
She kept the momentum, cut into the long aisle behind the pallet rows, and dropped into a crouch at Bay 9. One palm braced to concrete, the other slipped the wafer under the crossbar, the metal cold against her fingertips. A pallet jack rattled past, noise masking the click as it caught.
She rose, smudged a red tag she'd "forgotten" to punch earlier, and moved on with the clipboard high and the look of someone already behind schedule.
She came out of the long aisle into Bay 7 and the beanie was still where she'd parked him, yellow tag pinched between his fingers like a trophy. "Tell me I passed," he said, rolling his shoulders as if there were anything worth flexing under the vest.
"You're enthusiastic," Harper said, letting the smile come slow, almost lazy. She tipped his badge with the pen, close enough that the clip brushed his chest, then slid the tag punch against him, dragging the edge of the plastic slow like she was tracing him into memory. "Placement's off. Here."
He leaned in, breath quickening. "Show me."
Her lashes lowered; her voice dropped half a register. "Hold it there and think clean thoughts," she murmured, close enough for her words to stir the fog on the chrome extinguisher box.
He was already swallowing a grin, waiting on the payoff, when the air shifted—Knuckles arrived at her shoulder with that lazy, unavoidable gravity, tool pouch tapping his thigh, eyes taking in everything and granting nothing.
"Inspector," Knuckles said to her, dry as gravel. Then, to the guy in the orange beanie: "Appreciate the assist, champ. Keep Bay Eight pretty for us."
The grin collapsed. He gave a quick, awkward nod, knuckles whitening on the pallet jack handle as he stepped back a half-pace, suddenly fascinated by its worn rubber grip.
By the time Harper peeled off the dockhand, the cashroom door eased shut a few bays down. Brock slid out already tucking his clipboard, falling in at her six without drawing an eye. A foreman lifted a pen; Knuckles turned the form and signed the vendor line with a flourish nobody would check. Harper keyed a QR to justify the pause, and Brock took the torn carbon copy on the move, their arc already angling for the service stair as the warehouse noise swallowed the moment.
She carried the momentum past the foreman and let the aisle noise escort her toward the service stair. In her peripheral, the beanie was still where she'd left him, yellow tag pinched in his hand like a prize she had no intention of collecting. She didn't slow.
The stairwell smelled like wet cardboard and steel; Brock's tread settled a pace behind hers, Knuckles' tool pouch ticking the rail, and they came out into the loading lane where exhaust hung in a silver sheet. A clipboard thrust in from the side—another box to tick—and Knuckles met it without breaking stride, scrawled the fake vendor, pressed the page flat so the man felt finished. Price bumped the van closer to the curb; doors opened just enough for bodies and paperwork and then it was motion again, the warehouse sliding into mirrors like a place they'd never touched.
Cole had the thrift-store laptop up on a milk crate, screen glow cutting through the van's dim. Two pings blinked steady in their boxes—both wafers live, signal clean. Beside it, the scuffed thumb drive opened into neat rows of count and denomination.
"Got it," he said, flat, no performance.
Brock clipped the drive under the paperwork and Price eased them onto the river road, window cracked so cold air and diesel cut through the van.
Harper took the bench by the slider and braced a boot to the wheel well, the hum running up her shin. Glue from the tracker left a tacky ring on her thumb; she worried it off with a nail, rolled it small, and flicked it to the floor.
She uncapped the dented bottle in her vest, wet her mouth, then wrote two useless fragments of serial at the top of the clipboard out of habit. She scratched them out just as quick—the job was already done. The braid at her nape pulled; she eased the elastic until her shoulder let go.
Cole's keys clicked a tempo that made counting easy. She let her breath find it, eyes on the laddered light under the bridge, until the aisle-noise in her bones gave up.
Knuckles palmed a wrapped mint from the cup holder and tossed it without looking. She caught it against her ribs, cracked sugar into her cheek, and felt hunger arrive like a practical thought—lunch might actually taste good.
As the lane narrowed, Brock steadied her with a brush of knuckles to the ridge of her boot—there and gone—and she let the clipboard settle to her thigh, ordinary as the city slipping past.
The guard raised the barrier on sight, scanning their plate and waving them through. The garage gave them back to concrete and machine oil, and then it was the short walk to maps where Briggs already had a monitor up.
Brock dropped the scuffed thumb straight into his hand. Briggs caught it with gloves already on, fed the port, and the screen blinked alive with tidy rows—count, denomination, timestamps—already cleaner than Cole's milk-crate check in the van. A second pane lit with the two tracker IDs, signal strength steady.
"Clean clone, live tags," Briggs said, eyes narrowing as he started logging windows. "I'll stitch route maps, push to Vex."
Knuckles hooked a thumb toward the door like he'd been waiting on permission that was already his. "Lunch. River place. Eggs all day."
"Ten minutes to change," Brock said. Briggs was already bent to the monitors, drive humming in the port, pings steady on his screen. Harper dropped the clipboard onto the discard stack, the prop gone as quick as it came, and the room seemed to let go of them with it.
They took the corridor quiet and stepped into the elevator, vests still on, gloves stuffed in pockets, the day's noise sealed out when the doors slid. Cable hiss, a wash of cool air from the grille. Knuckles leaned a shoulder to the panel and declared he could smell cantaloupe ghosts; Harper huffed once, worked the elastic at her nape so the braid stopped tugging, and glanced at Brock's reflection where he stood with one hand on the rail, counting floors like he always did.
"Ten," he said when the light blinked for their level. "Swap clothes, meet back here."
The doors opened on the residential hall. Knuckles went ahead, two doors down, and keyed in without a word; Harper and Brock kept past him into their own. The air was softer up here, carrying none of the dock's grit, and the quiet settled around them quick.
They keyed in and let the living room fall past—sofa, low table, the hush of the vent—then took the short hall to the bedroom where the blinds threw a narrow pane of light across the floor. Vests hit the chair by the window, jackets slid off shoulders; Harper peeled her work shirt and rubbed the tack of adhesive from her thumb with the corner of a folded tee from the dresser, then dropped the scrap in the bin.
Brock reached for the clean cotton and didn't hand it over—set it on the dresser instead—already close enough that the answer was obvious. "Ten minutes," he said, voice roughened by how near he was.
"So don't waste any," she answered, and he closed the last inch, guiding her back until her spine caught the wall beside the dresser, his weight claiming the space, the hum of the vent the only thing moving.
He kissed her like they'd earned it, palms finding her—one at her waist, the other sliding over bare skin to the warm plane of her back. He pulled until the line of them turned into pressure that told the truth. She hooked a knee high, dragged him in by his shirt; care quit pretending.
Her mouth opened; his went rough; she shoved his shirt up and off to get skin. His fingers caught her bra strap, tugged it down, then freed her; his hand cupped the weight of her breast, thumb circling until her breath faltered. She scraped her nails down the muscle at his lower back, felt the shiver hit, and smiled into it.
Her hand slid from his ribs to his belt, popped the buckle, then slipped inside. Heat and hard length filled her palm; his breath broke on a low, rough sound against her mouth. She held him there, pressure exact, while her other hand hooked his waistband and dragged him closer. His answer came as a growl he didn't bother to swallow.
He set a knee between hers and pressed; she rolled to meet it with a helpless, breathy gasp that tightened his grip. His mouth found her throat, teeth grazing before he bit down just enough to pull a whimper out of her.
Her hand stayed Inside his pants for one last squeeze that tore a groan from his chest; then she slid free, fingers hooking his waistband instead, pulling him closer. He caught her under the thighs, lifted, and she rose with him, legs locking around his waist as he pinned her back against the wall. Plaster shuddered with the impact, her nails raking his shoulders as his mouth came back to hers, rougher, hungrier, until the sound in her throat was all need.
Two hard raps landed on the outer door—Knuckles' knock, unmistakable. "Let's go, kids. I'm starving," floated in, easy as a grin and not waiting.
They didn't move for more than a heartbeat. Their mouths dragged once more, breath hot and uneven; he swallowed a curse, caught her wrist where it hooked his waistband and held it there like he couldn't make himself let go. Then he eased it free with knuckles that shook, lowered her down slow until her feet found the floor, and braced her steady against the wall. "Later," he said, rough and wrecked.
"Later," she breathed, fingers lingering at the button of his jeans long enough to feel the tremor before she let him finish it. He yanked the denim shut, belt buckled with a sharp tug, and adjusted like the ache wasn't going anywhere soon.
Clothes went back together fast and graceless: she pulled on the clean tee he'd set aside, he dragged his shirt on, holster settling where it wouldn't print. She retied her braid with hands that didn't want to be steady yet; he checked wallet and radio by touch.
They crossed back through the living room; his hand found the nape of her neck in passing—a promise disguised as habit—and then he opened to the cool hall, the elevator light already waiting.
Knuckles was already posted by the elevator jamb, thumbs sunk in his hoodie pocket, phone dark, eyes not. Brock fell a half step behind Harper; while they closed the distance, he shifted his belt with a quick, necessary tug, jacket dropping back into place like nothing had happened.
Knuckles' gaze caught it anyway, flicked to Harper. Heat shot up her neck; she locked her eyes on the floor numbers, willing them to change.
He could have grinned. Could have said something. Instead he let it die, tapped the call button with one knuckle, and said only, "We're walking. Fresh air. All of us."
The doors slid open. Knuckles stepped in first; Brock fell in beside Harper, hands in his pockets, and the car hummed down to the lobby. River glare hit the glass when they came out, the air below sharper, washed clean.
"Left," Knuckles said without looking back, already angling for the street. Brock's wrist brushed Harper's—steady, not secret—and they followed him out into daylight.
They cut the yard at an easy clip. The tower guard lifted a palm; Knuckles returned it with a salute that wasn't regulation anywhere. "You three on foot?" the booth guy called as the side gate rolled.
"Doctor's orders," Knuckles said. "Sunlight and sarcasm."
"Fresh air costs extra," Harper added, and the guard laughed, waving them through.
Street noise met them—bus brakes sighing, a gull griping like it had a case, a dog in a cone doing its level best to look dignified. Knuckles drew a lungful like a wine critic, hoodie strings brushing his chin. "Still getting cantaloupe ghosts."
"That's your hoodie," Harper said, sidestepping a trash bag split open on the curb. "It's a biohazard with sleeves."
"It's a signature," he argued, spreading his arms as if the city should admire.
"It's evidence," Brock said, sliding to the curb side without making it a thing, one hand brushing Harper's elbow to steer her clear of a low-hanging sign.
"Look at us," Knuckles went on, weaving between a stroller and a sandwich board. "Cardio and couture."
"Short loop," Brock warned. "No side quests."
"Define side quest," Knuckles said, all innocence, flicking a gum wrapper off his shoe.
"Anything that ends with your photo on Briggs' 'what not to do' board," Brock said. "Again."
They passed a sidewalk fruit stand; Knuckles pointed like a prosecutor at the neat row of melons. "See? Cantaloupe. I'm vindicated."
"You're scented," Harper said, pushing her braid back.
"Admissible in court," Brock added, voice flat, which made Knuckles grin wider.
"Speaking of court," Knuckles said, chin cocked at Harper as they crossed with the light. "Your adoring fan at Bay Eight looked ready to testify."
Harper kept walking, mouth crooked, eyes on the far curb. "He passed inspection."
"Of what?" Knuckles pressed, laughter tucked under the words.
"Morale," she said, not breaking stride.
"We're not going back," Brock said, entirely deadpan, which made Knuckles laugh for real.
They slid under the rail bridge where sunlight broke into steps across the water, steel beams dripping with condensation. Knuckles sniffed like he was already in line. "Coffee order. Lawson black, Voss two sugars, and I'm doing the thing with the cinnamon."
"You're not doing the thing with the cinnamon," Brock said, eyes cutting up to a passing train as if it mattered.
"I am if I say it with confidence," Knuckles replied. "That's how we got through Bay Seven."
"That and your creative spelling," Harper said, stepping over a cracked grate slick with runoff. "You signed 'Vendor' as 'Vender.'"
"It's phonetic," Knuckles claimed. He gestured grandly at the air as they walked. "Ancient dialect. Look it up."
The river smell rolled in—cool, metallic, edged with diesel. A block ahead, the hiss of steaming milk carried from the corner diner. "Eggs all day," Knuckles said, because ritual. "Hash extra crispy, I'm stealing—"
"—no you're not," Harper and Brock said together, which made Knuckles grin like a kid who'd just learned a magic trick.
They paused at the crosswalk. A city truck rattled through, cones stacked and loose chains clattering. Harper rocked on her heels; Knuckles drummed his fingers on the rail; Brock's eyes tracked a reflection in a side mirror, held a beat, then let it go. "Clear," he said, only for them.
"We were clear in the lobby," Knuckles said, smirk tugging, but he didn't push it.
The café's black tile caught the light at the corner, letters stenciled half-faded above the door. Knuckles pulled it open like the place had been saving him a seat. The bell gave a small sound; steam curled from the wand; the air smelled like coffee and butter warming on a grill.
He steered them to a corner booth, the one that put Brock's back to the wall and left Harper the clean line on the door. Brock's eyes did their circuit—faces, exits, kitchen pass-through—quick, efficient, the kind of check Harper had stopped mistaking for nerves. Satisfied, he slid in.
She followed, not across but beside, hip to his. His forearm went to the back of the bench; under the table his hand found her thigh, thumb idling slow just above the seam. She let it stay there, and knew Knuckles saw her choice when he dropped into the opposite bench with a grin he didn't bother to hide.
A server with a sun tattoo set down waters. "Coffee?"
"Black," Brock said.
"Two sugars," Harper added, pushing her hair back.
"Drip," Knuckles said, grin bright with menace. "And if you've got a cinnamon shaker, leave it. Science experiment."
She returned with three mugs and the shaker balanced on the tray. Knuckles dusted a reckless halo over his cup, sniffed like a connoisseur. "Notes of victory."
"Notes of cookie," Harper said, dry.
"Notes of chemical warfare," Brock muttered, and Knuckles snorted into his first sip.
"Food?" the server asked, pencil poised.
"Two eggs, over; sausage; rye," Brock said, closing his menu with a fingertip. "Add sliced tomatoes if you've got them. Extra toast."
"Soft scramble with herbs," Harper said, eyes on the chalkboard like it might disagree. "Side greens with lemon, and throw two strips of bacon on there so Knuckles stops pretending he isn't going to steal from me."
"I would never," Knuckles said, affronted. "Country hash, extra crispy. If it clinks when the fork hits it, we're friends. Short stack on the side so I can practice restraint. And your smoky hot sauce, please."
"Anything else?"
"Water keeps coming," Brock added.
"And raspberry jam, if you've got it," Harper said.
"Raspberry happens," the server said, smiling as she backed away.
Menus stacked into a pile. Steam hissed from the wand; silverware clinked at distant tables like weather. Knuckles leaned back, arms sprawled. "Strategically, you two have overcommitted to toast and undercommitted to pancakes."
"Your stack is communal?" Harper asked, all innocence, crossing one leg over the other under the bench.
"It is if you can take it," Knuckles said, wagging his fork like a gavel.
"She can," Brock said without looking up, sliding salt and pepper to the middle like he was drawing borders. "Hot sauce stays on your side."
"I reject arbitrary borders," Knuckles countered, grin softening it. He flicked a glance toward the bar—habit, not nerves—then back to them. "Hash strategy: I eat mine, then I eat yours, and if you glare at me I claim diplomatic immunity."
Harper nudged Brock's knee under the table, a small press that felt more ordinary than anything else that morning. "We'll see how your diplomacy holds up when the bacon lands."
"It never does," Brock said.
Plates arrived like a parade—hash that actually clinked, Brock's rye stacked neat with red tomatoes shining on the side, Harper's soft scramble folded glossy beside lemoned greens, the short stack steaming like a dare. The smoky hot sauce came down with the raspberry jam and a top-off for all three coffees.
For a while, the only conversation was plates and cutlery—the scrape of fork through hash, the drag of jam across toast, the soft knock of Harper's spoon against the side of her coffee. Outside, a bus hissed and rolled on; inside, steam hung low and sweet with butter. Brock ate steady, methodical, as if the meal was just another drill; Harper leaned into the lemon tang of her greens, letting the quiet settle in her bones; Knuckles worked through hash with the kind of reverence that left no room for commentary. The booth held their warmth, and for once the world didn't press.