"Evening," Knuckles told the bouncer, and the velvet dropped like it had been waiting on him; he steered Harper in with a warm hand and a nod that moved the hostess without a word. He wore a black jacket that fit like a decision, collar open, wristwatch low on the bone, boots that drank the light.
She matched him in a dark dress that only moved when she did—clean back, a slit that offered and forgot—hair drawn to one side with a single pin, small studs, a thin chain at her throat. As they walked, she nudged a strap half a finger higher to veil the viper head inked on her shoulder—fangs tucked just beneath fabric, its stare pale against her skin, never gone.
Her heels clicked in tidy measure; his palm settled at the small of her back like it lived there. Glass threw gold across the rail; bass stitched under laughter; citrus peel and perfume braided the air. The room made space the way water does around something that knows where it's going.
The hostess walked them along the rail to the corner banquette; Harper's breath pinched high, small and quick, and Knuckles felt it through the crook of his arm. The line of the room was broken, sightlines messy—staff corridor to one side, camera above, too many angles at once. He dipped to her temple—hair, not skin—and let it sound like affection. "Breathe for me," he murmured, easy as a promise. "I'll do the talking. You just shine."
He steadied the table with two fingers so it wouldn't knock her knees, let her slide in first, then took the aisle seat with his body turned just enough to keep the staff corridor and the EMPLOYEES ONLY door in view while his shoulder screened the lens. Her dress settled clean; napkin smoothed over her thigh; her knee found his under the table—a quiet press that said all clear. He brushed her chain with the back of his knuckle, not to fix it but to mark the gesture for the room, then lifted two fingers for flutes and rolled soft couple talk—wine, weather, where they might go after.
The flutes landed, cold and neat; Knuckles touched his to hers and kept his voice for her alone. "On the refill you say powder room and follow Jensen," he murmured, lips near her hair like he was telling a joke. "Bus tub by the mop sink—your apron's rolled inside. Flats in the clutch. Brock's the vendor in the hall; if anyone wanders, he'll turn them. Mason foams the keg in three. If someone still pushes, 'manager asked for spill forms' and keep walking."
She sipped, eyes on him, and pressed her knee to his again. "How long?"
"Eight, if they behave. I'll hold the floor." His thumb traced lazy calm at the back of her ribs, shielded between them and the booth's curve. "If I say 'hillside' twice, you abort and come back smiling."
She nodded once, smile set for the room, and set her glass where his hand would find it.
The runner came with the refill—Jensen, jacket and apron crisp, bottle caught in a white napkin like he'd worked the floor for years. Harper let the pour kiss the rim, touched Knuckles' wrist like a promise, and tilted her head just enough for the comms tucked in her ear. "Powder room," she breathed, light as air, coded for the channel and bright enough to play as chatter at the table.
Knuckles caught her fingers for a second, thumb easy across the first knuckle—public, fond. "Don't make me drink alone," he murmured near her hair, teasing for anyone listening. Then, he slid out, giving her space.
"Save me the first pour," she answered, soft and sure, letting the couple story carry her as she slipped from the banquette. Heels found tidy time with the bass; she took the arrow at a glide—past the fuss of the wine, into the wake of Jensen and his tub.
The EMPLOYEES ONLY plaque sat at elbow height; the door breathed on its hinges as Jensen shouldered through, and she went with him, one hand to the strap at her shoulder, the other tucking the clutch under her arm. Cold corridor air met perfume and citrus; fryer heat licked from the far end; she set her breath to four and six and let the club forget her.
Under the mop sink a bus tub waited, like it had always belonged; Harper slid the clutch in, pulled the rolled apron free, tied it in one smooth cross-and-tuck, stepped out of her heels into collapsible flats, and snapped a tie around her hair—twist, twist, snug. Nitriles in the apron pocket; the cloned fob on a bar key ring. Tile breathed cold through thin soles; fryer hiss and the walk-in's hum drifted up the corridor.
Brock turned the corner in a vendor jacket, clipboard and a coil of soda line over one shoulder, and planted a WET FLOOR / OUT OF SERVICE tent at the mouth of the lane. Their eyes met—her quick wink, his smallest answer, a crease at one corner of his mouth and the barest nod—then he shifted just enough to take the dome cam's line and leave her corridor clean. From the dish pit, Mason swore at a foaming keg and called for a manager; a barback jogged the other way. Harper palmed the fob and walked for the office door.
The office door sat between the keg room and the dish pit, a Schlage lever under a badge reader that blinked red to green when she slid the fob across on the bar ring. Harper slowed a step to listen—printer ticking, pipe knocking, no voices—then caught the handle with her wrist so the latch wouldn't clap, shouldered the door open just wide enough to slip through sideways, and eased it shut again with the meat of her palm.
The lamp burned low Instead of overhead, the kind of light that made the space feel occupied but never welcoming. Paper dust and toner thickened the air, and the laminate counter ran cool under her fingers as she moved along it toward the credenza. In the corner the safe squatted exactly where intel had promised, paint rubbed down to metal along the lip. She drew a folded towel from her apron pocket, spread it across the top for staging, and let one long breath carry her down to stillness before her hand settled on the dial.
The first number kissed the gate and the safe's lever gave that dry silk of rightness—then a tick came at the door, clean and sharp, not a knock. Harper lifted her hand clear of the dial without letting it backspin, breath caught high where it wouldn't shake. Outside: shoe squeak, a radio chirp, and Brock's vendor voice, calm and bored. "Hold up—CO₂ audit. Five minutes." A second voice started to argue; foam hiss from the dish pit cut it in half, and footsteps pulled away.
She let the breath down slow, set her fingers back on the knurling, and rolled for the second number. Vale had lifted three digits off a vanity photo the manager texted himself months ago, the order unknown, six permutations inked neat along her glove finger. This was two of six. She counted the turns under the lamp's low hum like the room itself had stopped breathing.
The third number landed; the fence felt clean. She tested—the bolt gave—and the safe's door breathed open on dry paper air. Lens up, work clean: pages for numbers and money lines; camera export and comms cards tucked into the apron; side-gate keys photographed and replaced; passes and plates fanned once; cash untouched. She slid the last ledger back into place, towel neat across the safe's lip, when the office handle ticked and a key scraped.
She pinched the cord switch on the desk lamp as the key turned, dropping the room to the hallway's spill of light. She pressed the safe door flush with her knee, slid under the desk, pulled the trash bin into the gap as a screen, phone dark, breath caught high where it wouldn't shake. The door swung and cold air lifted the carpet nap; rubber soles crossed in, a phone beam penciling the floor until it silvered the edge of her flat.
"Spill forms," a voice muttered, low and impatient.
Another shape filled the doorway—Brock, clipboard lifted, body taking the frame. "Need a signature before I restart CO₂. Health is walking the floor." The beam lifted. Paper rustled; a pen scratched. Brock angled a half step deeper as if to point at the form, eyes cutting once to the shadow where she hid; she gave him nothing back.
"Now," he said, easy and final.
Mason's shout from the pit—foam and swearing—broke the pause. The intruder turned; Brock backed him into the hall and eased the door almost shut with his heel. The latch kissed home.
Harper didn't move. The corridor found its ordinary again—dishwasher hiss, keg rattle, bass threading through. Paper rasped over a clipboard, then Brock's vendor voice floated past the jamb, casual and carrying: "CO₂ reset. Back to service." A beat later Mason's call—"Manager front. VIP wants you."—and shoes peeled toward the floor.
A shadow dragged long under the door and stilled, and her lungs cinched tight—had someone stayed? A breath, two. Then it slid away. Two soft knuckle taps brushed the door as Brock walked past—their all-clear since forever.
She let her shoulders drop a notch. Crawling out from under the desk, she pushed the trash bin back with her hip, smoothed the chair angle, checked the lamp's low spill and the towel fold on the credenza.
She laid a palm flat on the safe to feel it quiet, grounding herself in the metal before she even thought about the knob.
She caught the lever with her wrist and cracked the door to a hand's width, letting the corridor answer back—steam hiss from the pit, keg metal thudding, Brock's clipboard shuffle, no feet holding ground. She slipped out shoulder first, kept the handle from clapping, and the badge light blinked once before going back to bored. Walking the lane like she owned it, she passed Brock as he scrawled nothing on a form; their glance touched and broke, and the pit's racket swallowed her stride.
The bus tub waited under the mop sink. She stripped the apron and rolled it tight beneath bar rags, slid out of flats and back into heels—click, click—and pulled the tie free so her hair fell where it had started. The microSD from the cameras rode down into the clutch's coin pocket; the cloned SIMs hid inside an empty lipstick tube; she rubbed the damp ring off her wrist where the tie had lived. The fob nested back on the bar key ring. She lifted the tub an inch as if to move it, set it back, and slipped into the wake of Jensen, a busser heading for the floor.
Gold light met her at the rail. Knuckles had the floor manager laughing at something that didn't matter; he looked up only when she reached the table, and the smile he gave her sold a long history. She slid back into the banquette beside him, set the clutch down, and leaned so her mouth brushed the heat near his jaw like a thank-you.
"Saved you the first pour," he said, already tilting the bottle.
"Knew you would," she answered, lifting her glass.
His palm found her back for a moment—warm, ordinary—then he touched rim to rim and let the couple chatter cover everything the room didn't need to know.
The hillside poure" lean; Knuckles talked stone and sun just loud enough to keep the floor manager charmed and let the comp land. He signed the check with a lazy flick that left too much ink, pocketed the cork like a souvenir, and let the smile hang as if none of it mattered.
Harper set the clutch beside his wrist and let her hand rest there half a beat longer than manners, then lifted her glass and left a neat crescent on the rim. Foam noise from the back ebbed; the corridor camera caught only Knuckles' profile and the light on glass.
"Walk me," she murmured for the story, already turning.
He rose, jacket settling, hand finding her back again as if it belonged there, and together they let the room see exactly what it expected while the door carried them into the cool of the hall and toward the street.
Valet air lifted cool, cologne-sweet; city noise stitched itself between bass lines. Knuckles tucked Harper in against his side like the night was theirs and tipped his head towards her. "You'll hate the wind," he said for anyone listening, sliding his jacket over her shoulders; under it, low: "Clean?"
She let a laugh thread through the word. "Clean."
They took the steps couple-slow, talking weather and nothing, his hand at her back, her fingers at his wrist, and the club closed behind them like a swallowed secret.
A black SUV eased from the queue on a valet gesture—dark glass, idle a soft purr—with Cole at the wheel in a plain jacket, hands easy at ten and two. Knuckles walked Harper to the rear door as if to spare her heels; the lock clicked and he opened for her—silk to leather, in one motion—then slid in after, palm warm at her spine as he ducked.
From the service side, Brock crossed the curb and took the rear seat behind Cole, vendor jacket zipped, clipboard gone, eyes one quick pass over Harper that found what it needed. Mason, still wearing a borrowed jacket, handed a ticket stub back to the stand with a grin, rounded to the passenger side, and dropped into shotgun like he belonged there.
Cole gave the valet a nod and eased them off the curb; a second black truck peeled out of the lane behind on instinct and distance, Jensen visible in the second row with Vale. Inside, glass muted the street to a hush. Harper set the clutch between herself and Knuckles; his hand rested on it for a moment, then fell away as the city lights began to ladder up the windows.
Cole let the light catch them and the cabin did that soft exhale everyone pretends not to notice. Mason scrubbed a sleeve over his jeans and made a face. "If I smell like a bar mat tomorrow, I'm filing a strongly worded letter to God."
Knuckles snorted without looking over. "Tell Him you were acting."
Brock twisted a cap and put a cold bottle in Harper's hand, close enough their fingers brushed. "You good?"
She drank, nodded. "Phone light nearly kissed my shoe."
"Saw it," he said, voice low, the corner of his mouth giving. "You ghosted well."
"You blocked well," she answered, tucking the bottle between her knees.
They let the street climb the windows for a block. Harper tipped her head against the seat. "Cork monologue was ridiculous," she told Knuckles, soft but smiling.
"Please, that was theater," he said. "We saved the city from a tired vintage."
"Next time you're doing the smile," she said.
He tried one, brief and real. "There. Growth."
Cole drifted them a lane like it was a thought. "Home," he said.
"Home," Brock echoed, lighter now. He tapped once on his knee and let it go.
"Shower, then bed," Mason muttered.
Knuckles made a content noise that wasn't quite a laugh. "Now that's a cause I can support."
─•────
The door hadn't finished catching the latch before Harper was toeing her heels off by the mat and reaching back for the zipper, breath still high from the cold and the night. The dress had other ideas—lining caught on skin, metal tab shy under her fingers—so she muttered something unladylike and shook her shoulders once to loosen the fabric.
She bent at the waist to fish for the pull, hair slipping forward in a dark fall while the room filled with the soft sounds of home: the bowl pinging empty, the hum of the fridge, Brock's low laugh as he stepped in behind her and set a steadying palm at her spine.
"Hold still," he said, voice rougher than the laugh. His eyes traced the line of the dress before he found the zipper; it slipped under his fingers with the sound of a good decision. "For the record, I hate that Knuckles got to be your date."
She glanced back over her shoulder, hair falling to one side, mouth turning into the smile she only spent at home. "For the record," she said, "I came home with you."
His palm flattened low at her back, heat and claim in one gesture. "Noted."
She tipped her chin at him, daring. "You going to keep being jealous or be useful?"
He huffed like it was a close call, slid the fabric down another inch, and said, softer, "Useful."
"I needed you on the back hall in case it went sideways," she said, working the last inch of zipper as his hand stayed warm against her. "Couldn't have my 'date' abandoning the table to tackle a manager."
The dress sighed and puddled; she stepped free in one clean shift—nothing under it.
Brock missed a breath and half a step, heel clipping the keys that had slipped from his pocket so they skittered across the floor, jacket sliding half off his shoulder before his brain caught up. His eyes snapped up like he'd touched a hot pan.
She laughed, pleased with herself, tugged his lapel straight with two fingers, and pressed her palm to his chest just enough to keep him exactly where he was. "Useful. Remember." She turned away, leaving him with words he couldn't quite find and the dress still pooled at his feet.
He scooped the keys with his heel and came after her quick, shoulder clipping the jamb as he caught her at the bedroom door and drove her back hard enough her squeak jumped high in her throat. She barely had time to brace before the mattress caught her knees and dropped her onto it, hair spilling wild, laugh tangled with the breath he'd chased out of her.
Brock followed down over her, jacket dragging wide, forearms braced to pen her in, weight heat-heavy against the cool sheets. His mouth took hers once—hungry, claiming—then again with teeth in it, a scrape that made her answer sharp into him. His hands gripped high on her ribs, not anchors now but clamps, keeping her where he wanted until the adrenaline in both of them burned down to something rougher, hotter, impossible to mistake.
"You scared me," he breathed into her mouth.
"You were there," she returned, and that settled it. He mapped his way down: a kiss at the hinge of her jaw, another at the hollow of her throat, a slow pass along the bright line of collarbone—counting pulse with his mouth—until he found the black line that split the viper's ink along her side where her waist dipped.
He bowed and kissed It like a prayer, slow and sure, again, again, each press a promise he didn't know how to say any other way. Her fingers slid into his hair, not to stop him but to keep him, breath catching for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. "Mine to guard," he said against the ink, the words thrumming there before he lifted his head and came back up to her like the answer he'd been carrying since the moment the door shut.
Her fingers tightened in his hair, then stilled. "Wait," she murmured, breath still uneven. "I need to brush my teeth. Wash my face."
He lifted his head, looked at her like she'd lost her mind, then groaned and pushed himself back, rolling off her. She slipped out from under him in one smooth slide, bare and unhurried, opened a dresser drawer, and snatched something small he didn't catch before padding naked into the hall. He watched her go, hungry in silence, the room emptier for every step she took away.
The door clicked shut and he stared at it like it might change its mind, chest still hot with the sight of her walking out. A sigh broke loose; he shoved up, shrugged out of the jacket and shirt, toed off his jeans, and pulled on a pair of sweats. The mattress dipped under his weight as he flopped back, shoulders to the headboard, phone in hand. Screen glow lit his face while his thumb started its idle scroll, the quiet of the room pressing in where her laughter had been.
Harper stood at the sink with the mirror throwing a slim bar of light across her, toothbrush working slow, mint cooling her tongue while the compound settled into hush. She spat, rinsed, dabbed the corner of her lip with a fingertip, and set the brush down.
The nightgown she'd snatched from the dresser on her way out of the bedroom waited on the counter; she lifted it now, the skimpy thing she'd dared herself into earlier in the week. It had come off a clearance hook on a sanctioned supply loop after she convinced Knuckles to take her out while Brock was stuck in a meeting with Vex. He'd parked himself outside a corner boutique like a surly usher, tapped his watch, and muttered, "One morale item. Not tactical," while she slipped this skimpy piece over her shoulders in a mirror that smelled of perfume and dust. She'd paid cash, bagged it herself, and he'd carried it back without comment except, "Do not let Lawson blame me."
She lifted the nightgown from the counter and slipped it over her head, the fabric cool as it slid down her arms and whispered across her skin. Black satin, cut so thin it almost gleamed blue under the bathroom light, clung to her like poured ink. The straps were narrow as ribbon, loose enough that one slid instantly, baring the curve of her shoulder until she tugged it back with a thumb. The plunge of the neckline left little to the imagination, gaping just enough that any wrong move might turn suggestion into exposure, and the hem was no better—cropped high, skimming the tops of her thighs, scandalous in how shamelessly it refused to cover.
Her bare feet shifted on the tile, hair unbraided and loose over one shoulder, the silk settling against her body like it had been designed for sin. She caught herself in the mirror, a flash of pale skin under black sheen, and the thought of Brock seeing her in it put heat high on her cheekbones, the kind that no cold water could rinse away.
Harper killed the bathroom light and let the hallway frame her for a moment before she moved. The nightgown shifted scandalous over her hips, hem skating high with each slow step. By the time she crossed into the bedroom's softer dark, Brock was slouched against the headboard in sweats, phone glow under his jaw—until his thumb stopped dead. The screen went face-down without him looking. His breath hitched sharp enough to break the quiet, jaw locking as his gaze dragged helplessly up her legs, her hips, the plunge of silk over skin. "That standard issue?" The words came rough, low, like he had to tear them out.
"Morale item," she said, mouth curving as one strap slipped to the notch of her shoulder. She caught it with a fingertip, slow, dragged it back into place like a secret meant only for him. She stopped just shy of the bed, tilted a hip, pinched the hem as if she might bare more—and didn't, the denial deliberate, a dare hanging in the air.
He sat forward an inch, then another, one hand braced, the other knotting in the quilt; the mattress dipped like it couldn't hold him steady. His eyes dragged up her thighs, caught on the thin fall of silk, then higher. "I need to inspect that," he said, voice rough, like it cost him.
Her smile was small, merciless. She let one strap slip until it hovered at her arm, traced the bedpost with a knuckle, and kept her eyes on him.
He reached; she slid half a step aside, still standing, still making him wait. "Ask," she murmured.
His throat worked. "Please."
"Lay back," she commanded. He did—spine to the headboard first, then down to the pillows like gravity had finally gotten a vote.
She took the long way to the foot of the bed, lifted the hem with two fingers as if it weighed more than it did, and set a knee to the mattress. The springs gave a quiet word as she crawled up the line of him—palms bracketing his ribs, hair slipping forward, the nightgown brushing his stomach as it skimmed—until her knees found either side of his hips and she settled there with slow, deliberate weight. His breath broke loud; his hands hovered off the quilt, knuckles whitening, before landing tentative at her waist.
She leaned in and kissed him—slow, mint-cool from the sink, hair tickling his cheek until he made a helpless sound into her mouth. "You may inspect," she murmured.
He moved like the words unlocked him. Palms mapped the nightgown where it draped her, sliding silk from hips to waist, thumbs circling as if he meant to memorize it. Fingers caught the hem, dragged higher, flattened along her ribs. His breathing roughened, chest lifting hard under her, and when she deepened the kiss he answered with a grip that turned careful into firm, anchoring her to him like he couldn't bear to let her shift away.
She sat up slow, hair sliding back over her shoulders, and looked down at him with that teasing officer's calm. "Commander—does it pass inspection?"
His eyes swept once, exact as a verdict. "No." He let the silence hang. "It failed."
Her mouth tipped, unimpressed.
"Means you can't keep it," he said, the smirk finally breaking through as his fingers found the hem. She lifted her arms—unhurried, sure—and he drew the nightgown up and over, fabric shivering past her ribs and throat before he let it fall to the chair. She was bare in the spill from the hall; his hands closed at her waist, holding there a moment, heat pressing into heat like he was deciding whether to move or savor.
She shifted in his lap and the sound he made was low, helpless, his hand catching at her thigh before he even knew it. She tipped forward to his throat, speaking into warm skin between kisses. "Then this doesn't pass either." A gentle bite at the hinge of his neck, a smile against it, and she rose on her knees just enough to hook her thumbs in his waistband. He stilled, breath caught sharp, then lifted to meet her when she tugged; she drew the sweats down slow, cotton giving under her hands, his breath breaking rough as the fabric cleared his hips and slid away.
She pressed her palms to his chest and rose, hips hovering a breath above him before she sank in one long, unbroken slide. The stretch stole her breath, forced a moan up her throat; his sound came rougher, raw, as she took him to the hilt, thighs closing tight, the heat of him filling every inch. The mattress cupped and shuddered; the headboard ticked once like it couldn't keep their secret.
His hands clamped at her waist, grip too tight for a second before he forced it looser, fighting the urge to drive up into her. Her hair slipped forward across his jaw as she bent and kissed where his pulse thundered, whispering his name into the skin between her lips. She rocked slow, savoring the drag, and his hips jolted helplessly under her. The groan that broke from him shook through her chest, deep and unguarded.
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, smile curling with wicked patience. "Mine now." Her hands pinned his to the mattress, her thighs tightening around his hips as she set the rhythm—slow, merciless, every movement hers to give or deny. His head tipped back against the pillow, throat bared, breath gone ragged while she rode him at her own pace, owning every shudder that ran through him.
─•────
Harper waved as Doyle swung the outer gate wide, his coffee steaming in one hand, the other hooked on the chain-link like he owned the morning. "Back in twenty," she called, jog already warming her shoulders.
His brow creased. "Don't you usually have an escort for this?"
She smiled, easy as anything. "Not always. Small excursions, I'm fine."
He didn't look convinced, but the corner of his mouth tipped as he pulled the gate wider. "Make it fifteen."
She slipped past, the lock clanging shut behind her, the compound shrinking to fences and steel in her periphery as the road opened up ahead.
The road stretched empty in front—cracked asphalt edged with frost and weeds, pale sun dragging itself over the horizon. Her breath steadied into rhythm, four in, four out, gravel snapping under her soles. For the first quarter mile it was nothing but air, lungs, the thrum of blood in her ears.
They'd left her to her own devices that morning—Brock and Knuckles heading to the garage to pick up the two Tahoes finally repaired and ready to bring back to the compound. She'd had no interest in tagging along, crawled back into bed instead, and only later rolled out with the restless urge to run. The roads were clear, the air cool, and she figured she could loop a mile, maybe grab pastries from the café, and be back before Brock was done smelling like motor oil.
The city carried its morning on a low hum—delivery vans nosing along the curb, shutters rolling up on corner shops, the hiss of a bus brake bleeding into open air. Coffee smells drifted from a bakery she passed, warm and yeasty, sweet under the sharper tang of exhaust. Her shoes kept tempo on the pavement, steady, weaving her through streets that still felt half-asleep.
A boy on a bike cut across the intersection in front of her, backpack bouncing, and an old man swept the stoop of his barbershop, pausing to glance up as she went by. Harper let herself take it in—the simple quiet of a city not yet awake.
The streets bent toward the river, where the asphalt gave way to a path pressed flat by years of runners and strollers. Trees leaned over in places, their leaves shivering in the thin wind, and the water carried light in restless ripples. She wasn't alone—an older couple walked hand in hand, their small dog nosing the grass, and a runner in a red windbreaker passed with earbuds in and a quick nod. Up ahead, a fisherman leaned against the railing, line dropped lazy into the current, a thermos at his feet. The scene had no sharp edges, nothing but the gentle clutter of a city morning.
She slowed at the bend where the path climbed back toward the street, lungs drawing deep before she took the incline. Pavement replaced gravel, car tires hissed over wet asphalt, and the smell of bread came stronger, warm enough to make her mouth water. A block on, the café's striped awning came into view, windows fogged from ovens working overtime, door propped to let the air out.
Harper smiled as she cut across the crosswalk, already picturing Brock's face when she dropped a bag of still-hot pastries on the table between them.
The bell over the café door gave a cheerful ring as Harper slipped inside, warmth and butter-sugar scent wrapping around her. The glass case was crowded with choices—rows of croissants stacked like golden shells, sugared knots dusted white, turnovers so glossy they caught the light.
"Morning," she said, soft and polite, as the barista glanced up. She leaned close, eyes running over the trays like she meant to get it right. Brock would want simple, she knew—one croissant, warm enough to flake in his hands, no fuss, nothing too sweet. He'd bite into it, hum low in his throat, and she'd feel smug for knowing. For herself, she liked the raspberry turnover—tart edge, sticky glaze, something indulgent to balance the run.
"I'll take a croissant and a raspberry turnover, please," she said with a small smile. She dug exact change from her pocket, slid it over the counter, and added coins to the tip jar like it was habit. "Thank you—these look amazing."
The bag came folded neat, warm in her hands, paper almost damp with butter. Harper grinned, holding it like treasure, already picturing Brock's face when she set it down in front of him.
She stepped back onto the street with the bag in her hand, the paper warm against her palm. She didn't pick up her jog again, just let herself walk, shoes tapping easy on the pavement. The air carried yeast and coffee, sweet enough to make her smile, and she breathed it in slow without thinking.
Her arms swung loose, body settling after the run. The city moved around her in small, ordinary ways—an engine turning over, a door shutting somewhere down the block, a burst of radio from a passing car. She let it all pass like scenery, the warm pastry bag soft in her hand as she drifted to the corner.
She waited at the light, cars rolling past in lazy succession, sunlight flashing on their roofs. She shifted her weight, thumb brushing the fold of the bag, already half-smiling at the thought of Brock.
"Hey, Voss!"
Her head began to turn, surprise flickering up her spine—then white heat exploded at the back of her skull. The world lurched, tilted, and vanished before she could even draw breath.