Fall in East Halworth carried an edge of restlessness. The heat broke at last, leaving the air brisk enough to hurry breath, clean enough to carry sound. Buses moaned on their stops, vendors shouted from corners, gulls wheeled and claimed rooftops like they owned the skyline. Smoke from food carts drifted low through the alleys, mixing with the dry rustle of leaves underfoot. Jackets came out early, and the sky was never steady—blue in the morning, gray by noon.
Down by the river the noise thinned, pulled wide by open air. Trees along the embankment gave in to the season—crowns gone mottled red, bronze, and yellow, colors drifting loose one by one until the current caught them. The water rolled in broad, unhurried folds, scattering light across its surface before swallowing it again. The benches along the rail had weathered to gray, their slats smoothed by years of shoulders leaning, hands gripping.
"I can't believe you still order it iced when it's cold enough to see your breath."
Harper laughed, low and unbothered, and tipped her head against Brock's shoulder. The bench creaked faintly as she swished the plastic cup on purpose, ice rattling bright in the quiet. "Keeps me tougher than hot coffee ever could," she said into the collar of his jacket, grin tucked there like she knew she'd won.
Brock bent and pressed a quick kiss to the crown of her head before drawing a slow sip from his own cup, steam curling past his jaw. "You're tough enough as it is."
She'd stolen his hoodie—black, sleeves bunched past her knuckles, hood down so the wind could toy with her hair. He'd gone heavier, dark jacket lined in wool, collar turned up against the bite in the air. The contrast made her smile; she looked dressed to sink into him, and he looked built to shield them both.
Harper leaned forward, setting her iced coffee carefully on the sidewalk between her boots. The brown paper bag rustled as she pulled it up from where it rested, folding it into her lap. She reached inside, came out with a croissant, and dropped it into his waiting hand without ceremony before fishing deeper for her own. A raspberry turnover crackled free of its wax wrap, sugar dust catching on her fingers. She tsked at the mess, but her grin betrayed her.
It had been six weeks since she'd stepped foot in the café—six weeks since that morning that started so ordinary and ended in ruin. She remembered the clink of the bell on the door, the smell of roasted beans and butter still clinging to her hands, the way the sunlight cut across the glass cases. That was the last normal thing she touched before the world went sideways. It had taken every one of those days since she woke to feel ready to push past the compound walls again, but she'd known where she needed to go first. Back for the pastries she never carried home to him. Back for the coffee he bought when she had already disappeared. Back, because finishing the errand she lost felt like a way to steal something ordinary back from the wreckage.
Harper bit into the turnover, the pastry giving with a soft crackle, raspberry cutting sweet against the cold air. She chewed slow, eyes on the water sliding past in broad folds, then lowered what was left onto the crumpled bag in her lap. The shift rode the sleeve of Brock's hoodie up her wrist, exposing the pale scatter of scars that climbed her arm. Almost without thought, she tugged the fabric back down, covering the marks before the wind or the light could linger on them.
Brock caught the motion, quiet and certain. He reached across before she could fold her hand away, his grip steady but careful. He eased the cuff back, let the fabric fall, and brought her wrist into his palm. Then he bent and pressed his lips to the pale lines she'd tried to hide, holding there long enough that the warmth sank past skin.
She flinched at first, instinctive, then met his eyes and gave him the softest smile. He let her hand go, sliding his palm up to cup her cheek instead. A kiss landed at her forehead, slow and sure. "You don't need to hide them," he said, voice rough but certain. "Every one's a story of how strong you are."
"I'm getting better," she murmured, leaning in just enough to brush her lips against the bridge of his nose. Then she pulled back, breaking the contact with a small smile, and leaned over for her cup. The ice clinked as she drew on the straw, cold sweetness cutting the air that still steamed his coffee.
They sat with the river for a while, the bench steady beneath them, the wind carrying leaves down in slow spirals to the water. Neither spoke, and the silence wasn't heavy; it felt like something they'd earned.
When Brock finally moved, it was only a shift of his shoulder against hers, his voice quiet. "You think you're up for the job tonight?"
She didn't answer right away. The job was supposed to be simple—scouting only, no action. Easy. But she knew exactly where they'd been sent. Unit 12 in the East Dockyard. The same address Kato had given Brock in that video, the bait meant to drag them into a kill box while she hung bleeding in the dark.
The Syndicate had been watching it from a distance for weeks, patient, waiting. Nothing had moved, until yesterday. One truck. One shift in the shadows. Enough for Vex to call a team in close. And Vex, with that thin smile that meant he'd already decided, had said it would be a good first job for her—scouting, quiet, no fight.
But the thought of it pressed hard against her ribs, dragging back a rush of memories she'd tried to keep buried: the feel of the nylon webbing, the stink of alcohol and copper, the soft tone of Kato's voice in her ear while he cut her up. She sipped her coffee just to have something in her hands, straw rattling against ice, and tried to breathe around it.
Finally she let out a thin breath and tipped her head a little more against Brock's shoulder. "Yeah," she said. "I'm up for it."
He hummed low, not quite agreement, not quite doubt. His hand shifted, covering hers where it curled in her lap, thumb brushing once across her knuckles. He didn't argue—didn't need to. The weight of his silence said he'd take her at her word, even if he knew she was carrying more than she admitted.
A gull wheeled overhead, calling sharp into the quiet. Brock reached for his croissant at last, tearing off a piece and shaking his head. "Cold coffee, sweet pastry. You'd freeze and sugar-crash yourself out of existence if I wasn't here."
Harper huffed a laugh into his shoulder, brushing crumbs from her fingers. "And you'd starve if I didn't make you eat before noon."
─•────
The Suburban ate the road in a steady hum, big tires sending up curtains of spray from the flooded seams of East Halworth's outskirts. Streetlamps burned dull and far apart, their light smeared across the glass by rain. Knuckles had the wheel one-handed, wipers thudding time against the windshield, his other hand loose on the gearshift. Brock rode shotgun, profile lit in brief flashes when lightning broke low over the river, his coffee cooling untouched in the cupholder by his knee.
In the back, Vale sat angled toward the window, tracking the blur of warehouses and chain-link like he could read them through the storm. Beside him, Harper kept her shoulder close to the door, hoodie zipped to her throat, breath fogging the glass when she leaned too near. Her hand worked restless at the strap across her lap, tugging slack, then letting it fall. Every roll of thunder landed somewhere under her ribs, nerves carrying the weight her body no longer did.
"Five minutes out," Brock said, his voice low enough it rode the storm without straining. He didn't look back, just kept his eyes forward, watching the smear of rain on glass and the stretch of road ahead. "Intel job only. We get to the unit, get in, see what we find. Stay invisible. No noise, no heat unless you've got no choice. Sidearms ready, but keep them under the jacket unless it turns."
"Copy," Knuckles said from the wheel, eyes on the wash of road.
"Got it," Vale added, lifting his cup in a small nod before setting it back down.
"Yes," Harper murmured, just loud enough to carry.
A bolt cracked white across the river, thunder rolling hard behind it. The flash filled the cab, and Harper flinched, shoulders jerking tight against the door. Vale's eyes cut sideways, quick, and lingered a half second longer than he meant to.
A bolt cracked white across the river, thunder rolling hard behind it. The flash filled the cab, and Harper flinched, shoulders jerking tight against the door. When her eyes lifted, she caught Vale watching. He didn't stare long—just let his gaze soften, gave her the smallest nod. It was enough. The tightness in her chest eased by a notch, and she turned back to the window with her breath steadier.
Harper let her gaze follow the rain as it slid across the glass, the drops chasing each other until they blurred into the lights outside. When she looked forward, the side mirror caught Brock's reflection—his jaw set, eyes steady on the road. She held it, staring long enough that her breath fogged the window, willing him to look back and catch her eyes, to tell her not to be nervous, to press his mouth to her forehead and make it all feel simple. But his attention never wavered, scanning the dark ahead.
After a while she eased back into the seat. Her fingers tugged the hoodie higher at her throat until the fabric covered the pale white lines that crossed her skin. Beside her, Vale's eyes flicked down, catching the motion. He didn't say anything—just shifted his cup to his other hand and let his knee press lightly against hers, steady contact in the dark, enough to tell her he'd noticed, and she wasn't alone in the silence.
She caught the look he gave her and managed a small smile. Vale's mouth twitched into one of his own, brief but real, and he shaped the words you're good without sound before turning back to the rain-smeared glass.
The Suburban banked off the main road, tires hissing through standing water before settling onto rougher ground. The storm thinned to a steady drizzle, enough that the wipers squeaked against the glass instead of thudding. Ahead, the glow of the riverfront cut through the dark—floodlights on tall poles, their halos blurred by mist, casting long shadows over stacked containers and skeletal cranes. Chain-link fences rose on either side, barbed wire coiled along the top like a warning no one had ever obeyed.
Harper shifted in her seat, feeling the change in the air before she saw it—the way the city noise dropped away, leaving only the hum of the engine and the drip of rain on steel. They were close. The East Dockyard waited.
Knuckles eased the wheel, guiding the Suburban off the access road and into the shadow of a stacked line of empty shipping crates. The engine dropped to a low idle, then cut with a turn of the key. Rain ticked against the roof, loud now without the hum of tires beneath it. He shifted in his seat, one arm draped over the wheel as he looked back.
"Out," he said, voice flat but steady. "We go on foot from here."
Doors clicked open in sequence, the night rushing in cold and damp. Vale slipped out first, coffee cup left cooling in the holder, his boots hitting puddled gravel without a splash. Harper followed on her side, the hoodie pulled close as she ducked into the rain. Brock was there as soon as her feet found ground, door still open behind him, his hand brushing her back like he was steadying without making it look like he was.
"You good?" he asked, low, just for her.
She pulled the hood tighter against the drizzle, gave him a quick nod. "Yeah."
He held her eyes a beat longer than the word lasted, then nodded once and fell in beside her.
They moved out as one, boots crunching wet gravel, the chain-link fence looming higher the closer they got. Knuckles set an easy pace at the front, shoulders loose, hands shoved in his jacket like he had nowhere to be.
"Try to look normal," he muttered without turning, voice dry. "Just four folks out for a night stroll."
Vale snorted under his breath. "Uh huh. Real normal. Midnight stroll in a dockyard nobody's supposed to be in."
"Normal enough if we don't give anyone reason to look twice," Brock said, voice quiet but even, his eyes already scanning the pools of light ahead.
Harper tugged her hood higher, rain dripping from the edge as she slid her hands into the pouch pocket at her front. She kept tucked close to Brock, their steps in quiet sync, his presence steady beside her as the dockyard lights swelled ahead.
They slipped deeper into the dockyard, the silence of the place broken only by the drip of rain on corrugated steel and the distant groan of a crane chain left to sway in the wind. The units rose in a line along the service road—long blocks of concrete and siding with metal shutters, each one stenciled with a number in fading paint. Rust bled down from the hinges of some; others looked freshly greased, the tracks clear.
Unit 12 sat halfway down, half-hidden behind a crooked wall of stacked containers. Its black siding was slick with rain, dock doors streaked with rust that ran orange into the cracked pavement. The stenciled number was barely legible under grime and layers of spray paint, old tags ghosted by fresher ones. A single floodlight buzzed above the man door, its guttering glow throwing the entry into a stuttering swing of shadow and sickly light.
Knuckles lifted a fist and brought them to a stop a few doors short of Unit 12, pressed into the shadow of a downspout where the rain pattered instead of poured. He scanned the bay, then leaned in just enough for his voice to carry. "Here's the split. Vale and I take the door—quick breach, eyes only. You two hold the perimeter." His gaze cut to Harper, then back to Brock. "Anything moves, anything feels off, you call it. Even if you think it's nothing."
Harper gave a small nod, fingers brushing up to adjust the earpiece at her temple before she even thought about it. Brock mirrored the motion beside her, steady and sure.
Knuckles didn't wait for more than that. He tipped his chin at Vale and they peeled off together, boots rolling quiet over wet gravel. They hugged the container line, checking angles, pausing at each seam of shadow before moving again. At the man door, Vale crouched low, scanning the hinge while Knuckles leaned in over him. A cutter glinted once in the weak light, jaws closing with a muted snap. The lock gave, and a moment later both men ghosted through the narrow gap, swallowed by the dark inside.
Brock and Harper held still, watching until the quiet swallowed them, then shifted closer to the bay. The yard felt wider for their absence, the storm hissing steady on steel and concrete. Brock's eyes tracked the face of Unit 12, then caught on a ladder bolted to the bay wall, leading up to the roofline slick with rain. He touched Harper's elbow and tipped his chin toward it.
"Up top," he murmured. "Broad eyes. Call anything you see. I'll stay ground-side for the close work."
The rungs gleamed wet in the floodlight, black steel running to the edge of the roof. Harper's throat tightened, but she nodded once and set her hands to the ladder, rain sliding cold along her wrists where the sleeves rode back. Brock stayed close, eyes on the yard, his hand brushing her back like a tether before he shifted the comm to his mouth.
"Voss is moving to the roof," he said, steady and calm. "Any noise up top's her. No cause for concern."
A faint crackle answered, then Knuckles' voice, just as clipped: "Copy. Inside's clear so far." Vale's breath followed in the line, short and quiet, then nothing.
Harper pulled herself rung by rung, the metal slick under her grip, rain needling her hood. By the time she hauled over the lip of the roof her breath had gone shallow, chest working harder than she liked. She crouched low on the slick surface, steadying her hands against the tar and gravel, reminding herself she wasn't all the way back yet.
From the roofline, the yard stretched open in every direction. The Suburban sat tucked in shadow where they'd left it, rain streaking its dark windows. Beyond, rows of containers stacked high cast deep seams of black between the floodlight cones, the cranes at the river edge hanging like skeleton arms in the mist. Unit numbers faded into grime down the line, nothing moving but the sheet of rain sliding off steel.
Harper lifted her comm close. "I'm up," she whispered, breath still tight in her chest. "Nothing out of place. Yard looks quiet."
Below, Brock kept to the shadows along the bay wall, boots finding the quiet spots between gravel and puddle. His eyes traced the seams where siding met concrete, the corners where water pooled dark, the tracks pressed into the mud near the loading lip. The floodlight above flickered, throwing everything into brief flashes and deep shadow again. Nothing moved, but the weight of the yard pressed in like it was holding its breath.
Harper shifted her weight, eyes sweeping the stretch beyond the floodlights. For a long minute the yard held still, only rain sliding silver off steel. Then something shifted at the edge of sight—a figure slipping between container stacks three rows out, too far for detail but enough to pull her focus. She blinked hard against the rain, watching until the shape vanished again into shadow.
She leaned forward, squinting through the rain, trying to catch it again. Nothing but the steady curtain of water and the glow of the floodlights flattening everything into gold and black. Whatever moved was gone—slipped into a seam of shadow she couldn't see past. Her stomach tightened, a beat of doubt holding her still before she pressed the comm close.
"Movement," she whispered. "Three rows out. I've lost sightlines."
The reply came quick, Brock's voice low in her ear. "Copy. Get down to me." A pause, steadier than the rain. "I'll check it out, but you're on the ground for this."
Harper frowned, eyes cutting back across the yard. She swept the rows again, slower this time, willing the shape to show itself. Nothing—just the steady wash of rain and the drone of the floodlight above her. Her jaw tightened. She pressed the comm close.
"Copy," she whispered.
Turning, she set her hands to the slick rungs and began her descent, boots careful on the wet steel as she worked her way back down to him.
Her boots hit gravel with a dull scrape, knees bending to take the drop. She turned, rain dripping off her hood, just as Brock closed the distance between them, his shoulders squared, eyes already searching past her.
"I thought I saw—" she began, but the words died as movement tore out of the rain behind Brock.
A figure surged out of the rain, pistol jammed into the small of Brock's back before he could react. The metal drove hard enough to dimple his jacket—and in the same instant Harper's pistol cleared her hoodie pocket, arm snapping up, sights locked on the intruder's face.
Brock went still, weight coiled but checked by the muzzle grinding into him. His hand hovered a breath from his own sidearm—close, but not close enough. His jaw ticked once, restraint holding him in place while the storm hissed around them, thunder rolling far off, silence between the three of them tight as wire.
Then his eyes went to Harper, steady even now, and what he saw was her already locked: stance set, pistol unwavering, calm where his couldn't be. She wasn't looking back at him. Her focus was past his shoulder, pinned on the man with the gun.
The figure smiled in the half-light, teeth flashing under the hood of a rain-dark jacket. His pistol jammed harder into Brock's back, hard enough that Brock's jaw flinched and his shoulders tightened against it. He was broad through the chest, wiry through the arms, the cut of his jacket patched with a painted vulture skull that the rain hadn't yet worn away. Scruff shadowed his jaw; water ran in lines off the brim of his cap, dripping steady down to his collar. His eyes, narrow and pale, stayed on Harper's sightline—like the pistol in his hand and the pistol in hers were the only two real things in the yard.
"I'd advise you to lower that," Harper said, voice thin but hard. "And fast."
The man's smile widened, rain streaking off his chin. He tilted his head like she was a joke told too loud. "A little girl with a gun," he drawled, voice rough with mock amusement. "That's cute." His eyes swept over her once, quick and dismissive, like she'd already been measured and found wanting. The pistol in his hand drove harder into Brock's back, forcing a tight wince from his jaw. "Why don't you drop it, huh? Ain't no use in petty little street thugs sticking their noses in business over their heads."
Harper's stance locked, shoulders square, the pistol rock-steady even as rain slicked down her arm. Her finger slid firm to the trigger, pressure set, no bluff in the line of her knuckles. When she spoke, her voice didn't rise; it cut clean through the storm like a knife.
"You think we're in over our heads?" she said. "You just stepped into business over yours. If you want to live to see tomorrow, you need to walk away. Now."
The man didn't move. A humorless laugh scraped out of him, close enough to Brock's ear that it made his shoulders tighten against the barrel grinding in. "Little girl," he said, voice low and mocking, "you and your boyfriend picked the wrong place for date night. This yard isn't for petty thieves and street thugs." His head tipped toward Unit 12, rain streaking down his jaw. "You may not realize it, honey, but the Black Maw rents that unit. You know who they are?"
Harper's eyes cut to Brock for a heartbeat. Rain streaked his jaw, tension hard in the lines of his shoulders—but his gaze found hers, steady as bedrock even with the muzzle in his back. It was only a flicker, no more than a breath, but in it she saw the same thing he did: calm, unbroken. Then her focus snapped back to the man behind him. Her pistol didn't waver.
"You're Maw?" she asked, flat but edged like a blade, daring him to say yes.
The man's smile thinned, pistol still jammed hard against Brock's back. "That's none of your business," he said, voice dropping harder now, the humor gone.
Harper shifted slow, every motion measured, her pistol never dipping. She eased her free hand out to the side, palm open, showing she wasn't reaching for anything. Then, deliberate as breath, she hooked her thumb into the collar of her hoodie and dragged it back far enough to bare the tank top clinging underneath. Over her heart, stark in the floodlight, the Syndicate's S marked the fabric black on gray.
Her chin lifted, eyes locked on him. "Are you Maw?" she asked again, harsher this time, no room left to duck.
The man's eyes widened, surprise cracking straight through the sneer. For a heartbeat his grip faltered, pistol pressed into Brock's back but no longer driving hard. His breath slipped out ragged, a curse lost under the rain. "You're… Syndicate?"
"Yes," Harper said, steady, her gun leveled square.
He swallowed, words tumbling fast now, the edge gone from them. "No. Not Maw. Iron Vultures. We've got units rented here. Got word the Maw was moving—"
The rest never came. The man door to Unit 12 banged open, rain spilling light around Knuckles and Vale as they stepped back into the yard. Both froze for half a breath at the sight—Brock pinned with a pistol to his back, Harper leveled out front—then muscle memory took over. Steel cleared leather in the same instant, two barrels snapping up, sights locked on the intruder. In a blink he was caught in a triangle of guns, the balance of power bleeding out of him with the rain.
That half-beat was all Brock needed. His hand shot back, clamping the man's wrist, and in one brutal twist he tore the pistol off line. The intruder grunted, thrown off balance, before Brock wrenched the arm forward, turned the stumble into momentum, and slammed him hard onto the gravel. The crack of impact vanished into the storm, but the air punched out of his lungs in a ragged groan. Brock dropped with him, a knee grinding between his shoulder blades, his weight sinking in until the man's wrist bent to the mud and the pistol slipped loose. His voice came low and furious, close to the intruder's ear.
"You need to walk out of here. Now." Brock's knee dug deeper between his shoulders, weight grinding him into the gravel. "We're not starting a war with the Vultures over a case of wrong place, wrong time. We don't need it—" His voice dropped harsher, teeth bared as he forced the man's wrist further into the mud. "And you sure as hell don't need it either."
The man coughed against the gravel, rain plastering his hood to his skull. "Alright—alright," he rasped, voice stripped of its earlier swagger. "No harm meant. Just… bad timing." His free hand lifted, palm open, like he thought that might soften the weight still pinning him. "We don't want trouble with Syndicate."
Brock held a moment longer, the snarl still carved in his jaw, then shoved the man's wrist deeper into the mud before finally letting go. He rose slow, deliberate, stepping back only when he felt the gun slip clean out of reach.
The intruder scrambled upright, dripping and unsteady, chest heaving. He froze at the sight waiting for him—three barrels steady and unblinking, Harper's tracking him like a shadow while Knuckles' and Vale's hadn't wavered once.
"Walk," Knuckles said, flat as stone.
For a heartbeat the man teetered, eyes darting between muzzles, but bravado drained quick as rain off his hood. He dipped his chin once and slipped backward into the dark, boots splashing until the storm swallowed him whole.
Harper kept her pistol trained on the dark until the last ripple of the man's footsteps vanished into the storm. Only then did she lower it, breath easing out as her eyes found Brock.
He was already looking at her. For a long second the rain filled the silence between them, neither moving, both steady in the other's gaze.
Then Brock turned, voice rough but controlled. "Anything inside?" he asked Knuckles.
Knuckles shook his head once, rain dripping from his hood. "Nothing important. Looks like they kept it mostly empty. Probably cleared it out soon as they realized the trap didn't work—and that we'd come looking." His mouth tightened. "Dead end."
─•────
The mirror threw back the low amber of the bathroom light, catching the fire-red spill of Harper's hair as she worked the brush through it. Each pull loosened another knot, strands falling over her shoulders with a soft shine that shifted toward copper when she leaned close. Satin whispered against her skin with the movement, a strap slipping down until she caught it absently with her thumb and drew it back into place. The hem of the gown barely kissed her thighs when she bent toward the sink, fabric clinging as though the air itself wanted to hold her there.
Harper paused with the brush mid-stroke, eyes catching her own in the mirror. The light traced every pale mark scattered across her skin, tiny white lines and freckles of memory she couldn't unsee. For a moment she let herself stare, caught between recognition and resentment, until the weight of it pressed too heavy. She shook her head hard, as if the motion alone could break the spell, then set the brush down on the counter. The fabric tugged faintly as she turned, her bare shoulders catching the last strip of light before she flicked the switch and slipped into the dark hall.
The hall gave way to the bedroom's softer dark, broken only by the lamplight pooling low at the nightstand. Brock was already there, leaned back against the headboard, bare above the waist with nothing but a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips. His eyes found her as she stepped in, steady and warm, and something in his mouth eased when she smiled at him. She crossed the room in quiet strides and climbed onto the mattress beside him, the satin of her gown whispering against the sheets.
His arm came around her at once, drawing her in against his chest like she'd always belonged there. He bent, lips brushing the crown of her head in a kiss that lingered longer than habit, heat and breath sinking into her hair. "Thanks for having my back today," he murmured, voice low. "Out there in the yard."
Harper nuzzled into the curve of his neck, her breath warm against his skin as her nails traced a light drag across his abdomen. "Always," she whispered, the word soft but sure, a promise given without hesitation.
A shiver moved through him, quiet but undeniable. He pressed his mouth to her hair once more before drawing back just enough to meet her eyes. "I've got something for you," he said, voice low but carrying a thread of intent.
She lifted her head, curiosity tugging her upright, eyes fixed on his. Brock's mouth curved, subtle and warm, before he twisted toward the nightstand. One arm braced on the mattress, he slid the drawer open, drew something small from inside, and turned back to her.
Resting in his palm was a phone—scuffed at the edges, wrapped in a purple silicone case.
Harper froze. Her eyes locked on it, unblinking, the room thinning to just the shape of it in his hand. She knew that case, the nick at the corner where she'd dropped it once on the steps of the Viper Den, the faint clouding on the back where her thumb had worn the plastic smooth.
Her phone.
Memory slammed in hard and disjointed—Knuckles' hand slipping it into his pocket that night while Brock held her by the back of her neck against the chainlink, the world blurring in and out. She'd written it off as gone with everything else she had lost.
And now it was here.
He held it out to her, steady. "You need a phone," he said, voice even, almost casual but with weight under it. "Dragged it out of the equipment room. Figured you might as well have your own back."
Her hands shook as she reached for it, fingertips brushing his before she drew the phone into her lap. The plastic was familiar under her touch, every scuff a memory she hadn't asked for. She pressed the side button with her thumb. The screen blinked awake, and the lock gave without hesitation.
Her home screen bloomed into light.
The photo hit her like a punch.
It was her birthday—the night they'd all crowded on the Den's steps like the world was theirs. Dante sat tight against her, his cheek pressed to hers, both of them grinning so wide it almost blurred their faces together. His arm was looped over her shoulders, pulling her in close. Wedge leaned from the other side, mouth open mid-laugh, as if he'd just delivered the line that set them off. Lena crouched in front, chin on her hands, eyes rolling up at the camera with mock exasperation, while Skiv half-turned away in the back, flipping the lens off with a grin that still caught the light.
Her face on the screen was bright, easy, unscarred. A girl pressed close to someone she thought would always be there.
Brock let her stare, gave her the beat, then spoke into it—low, steady. "Cole set it up. Loaded in numbers. You can get a hold of any of us, any time."
Her thumb twitched, dragging the screen open with a swipe. She hit Contacts fast, almost desperate, the list spilling out in clean white letters.
Jensen.
Knuckles.
Vale.
Gunner.
They were all there, present, reachable. Anchors.
But threaded between them were ghosts. Ollie. Juno. Wedge. Ash. Names that shouldn't light up but still lived in the memory of silicon, each one a knife. Her breath snagged; she scrolled, fingers trembling harder now.
Then she saw it.
Dante.
And above it—Brock.
Her thumb froze on the glass. The names blurred for a second, one stacked over the other, wrong in a way that stole the air from her lungs. Dante—gone, but still glowing in pixels. Brock—here, real, steady at her side. The past and present pressed into one list, and for a heartbeat she couldn't breathe around it.
She swallowed hard, jerking back as if she could erase what she'd seen. The photo filled the glass again—her and Dante mid-laugh, faces tipped together. She'd almost forgotten how striking his eyes were, that vivid blue set against the deep brown of his skin, the way they always looked lit from the inside. She stared until the edges of her own smile in the picture blurred, a ghost she couldn't reconcile with the girl holding the phone now.
"Harper."
Her name came quiet, steady, pulling her out of the spiral. She blinked, dragging her eyes from the screen to find Brock watching her. For the first time she noticed what she'd never lined up before—the near-match in color, the steel-blue of his eyes against the vivid brightness Dante's had carried, the dark hair that both of them shared. Dante's face in the photo was open, kind, the boy she'd once thought the world would never take from her. Brock's was harder, edged by years Dante never lived to see, but there was something in it she had learned to lean on—solid, unshakable, the kind that kept her here.
He held her gaze, unflinching. "I asked Cole not to change anything else on it," he said, voice low, almost careful. "That's yours. Only if you want to."
Harper swallowed again, throat tight, and let the phone slip from her hand. She set it face-down on the far side of the bed like distance alone could soften the weight of it. Then she turned back, edging closer until Brock's arm opened and pulled her in. She settled into his lap, the warmth of him grounding, the steadiness undeniable.
"Thank you," she whispered, the words catching but clear. Her hands lifted, cupping his face on instinct, thumbs brushing the rough line of his jaw. She leaned in, pressing her mouth to his—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that carried both gratitude and need.
"Always," he murmured into the kiss, steady as his hands at her back.