"Christ, this coffee tastes like it was scraped out of an engine block," Kier muttered, nose wrinkling as he shoved the mug away.
Knuckles gave a low chuckle, leaning back in his chair. "Better than the tar you brewed at the compound. That shit could've stripped paint."
"Still kept you awake," Kier shot back, tipping his chair onto two legs like he had nothing to lose.
"Barely. Another week of that swill and I'd have been pissing black."
Across the table, Onyx didn't look up. The medkit lay open in front of him, gauze and bandages spread in neat rows, each packet turned over and stacked with quiet precision. "Put all four on the floor before you crack it. We don't have spares."
Kier smirked, rocking the chair a little harder just to prove he could. "Relax. I've got balance."
Onyx snapped an alcohol swab flat between his fingers. "Then use it sitting down."
The clatter of mugs and low laughs rolled on, filling the cabin with something close to easy noise. Brock only half-heard it. His mug cooled in his hand as his eyes drifted to the stove. Harper stood barefoot on the warped boards, hair loose down her back, the flannel she'd picked at the store hanging over a plain shirt. Steam curled up around her, caught in the morning light, and the pan hissed as she worked the spatula. Bacon, eggs, toast gone uneven at the edges—ordinary food, ordinary motions—but he felt the pull of it like a weight.
She brought the pan over a minute later, handle wrapped in a ragged towel, steam rising from the eggs and the strips of bacon she'd managed to crisp without burning. She set it down in the center of the table and scooped portions onto each plate—Knuckles first, then Onyx, Kier, and finally him—before dropping a crooked stack of toast beside it.
Knuckles was the first to spear into the eggs. He chewed once, gave a low grunt that sounded close to approval. "Haven't had 'em come out right in a long damn time."
Kier shoveled in bacon after him, grease shining on his lip. "Could get used to this," he said, tone lighter than the words, but the look he cut her was real enough.
Onyx slid the medkit aside, reached for a slice of toast. He gave the smallest nod. "Thank you," he said, quiet, but steady.
Brock caught her eye as she set his plate down. Thanks wasn't something he knew how to say here, not with the others watching, but it was there in the look—steady, unflinching—before he dropped his gaze to the food.
She didn't sit straightaway. She turned back to the counter, fixed a smaller plate for herself—just a slice of toast and a strip of bacon—and finally pulled out the empty chair at his side. The scrape of wood across the floorboards cut through the noise. She sat quiet, head bent, breaking the toast into neat pieces between her fingers.
Brock shifted, angling his leg until his knee pressed hers under the table. The nudge lifted her head. Her eyes met his—startled for a breath, then steady—and he gave her the barest smile. Rough around the edges, but real. His arm slid across her shoulders and drew her in. She didn't flinch, didn't pull away. She leaned toward him, let him press his lips to her temple. Not a performance, not possession. Just thanks. Quiet. Plain. She softened into it, toast forgotten in her hand, her weight settling against his side like it belonged there.
Knuckles saw it from across the table. The scrape of her chair, the way she edged close, Brock's arm going around her. He let a smile slip before he dropped his eyes back to his food. He'd been clocking the changes since they came here—Harper moving steadier through the cabin, speaking up when asked, her hands sure again when she held a knife. Small things added up. This—cooking for them, sitting with her own plate, leaning into Brock—was bigger. Harper coming back. That was enough.
The food settled them. Forks scraped against plates, knives dragged across toast, mugs thudded soft against wood. The earlier back-and-forth had burned itself out, leaving only the sound of eating. No one tried to start it up again.
Brock let it ride a while longer, his arm still around Harper's shoulders while she picked through her plate. Across from him, Onyx was already tucking the medkit closed, Kier chewing hard through the last of his bacon, Knuckles steady in his seat. The quiet sat heavy, but it held.
When the plates were near empty and there was nothing left but the scrape of cutlery slowing to a stop, Brock set his fork down. He wiped his hand across his mouth, glanced the circle once, and broke it.
"We need to talk about what's next."
Knuckles wiped his plate with the heel of bread and nested the fork in the enamel curve, metal ticking once. "We've still got five inside," he said. "Mason. Cole. Price. Gunner. Jensen. Can't pretend they don't exist just because we can't see 'em. We need a read."
Kier dragged a hand through his hair. "On what line? If the Syndicate wants it, they'll pull our trail off anything tied to us. You dial from a personal, they trace it back fast."
Onyx snapped the medkit closed, palm settling on the lid like he meant to hold the room still. "No personal lines," he said. "Not from here. Not from anywhere."
Harper's fingers paused over the last piece of toast. "We're not limited to personals," she said. "There's the burner from the Suburban. I pulled it out yesterday with the rifles and cash." She looked up once. "Charge was good."
Four sets of eyes swung her way; Brock felt her lean a fraction tighter into his side and kept his arm where it was.
Knuckles snapped his fingers, the sound cracking through the room, and pointed at her. "That's what I'm talkin' about," he said, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Good eye, Firefly. Should've guessed you'd be the one paying attention." He sat back, nodding like the problem had just cracked open. "That's ours, then. One call, short and clean."
"To who?" Kier asked. He leaned forward now, chair legs flat on the floor, worry tightening his voice. "We pick wrong, we hand them our heads. Mason's loyal but Vale was his brother—he might not see straight. Gunner talks too much. Jensen bends whichever way the win—"
"Price or Cole," Knuckles cut in without hesitation. "Price first. He doesn't rattle, he doesn't run his mouth, and he sure as hell doesn't panic. He'll listen and he'll move it quiet. Cole's solid too—he's got our backs, always has—but he runs hotter. If the floor's buzzing, he'll want answers, he'll want to dig. That's time we don't have on an open line."
Onyx shifted, arms folding across his chest. "Price is the cleanest channel," he said flat. "He hears it, he'll carry it. Cole too, if it's him. Right now, I think the risk is too high with the others."
Brock looked between them, weighing the circle before he spoke. "We keep it clean. They can know we're alive, they can know we're still together—but nothing about where. No cabin, no ridge, nothing that puts a pin on a map. That line's just to check the story on the inside. We hear what they've been told, line it up with what really went down, and figure out next steps from there. One call, that's it."
Knuckles gave a short nod, solid as an oath. "Yeah. That works."
Kier rubbed at the back of his neck, restless. "Except if anybody gets a whiff of who Price is talking to, they're gonna chase the trail. They put ears on that burner, even for thirty seconds, and they'll start triangulating. We don't want the signal pointing straight here."
Onyx's gaze flicked to Brock, steady. "He's not wrong. Call can't happen in this room."
Brock's jaw worked as he thought. "So we move. Different ground, somewhere with a signal strong enough to carry but nowhere that leads them home if it gets dirty."
Knuckles drummed his fingers once on the table, already picturing it. "There's a pullout past the creek crossing, couple miles south. Signal comes through if you stand near the mile-marker post. Nobody uses it unless they're lost. Quick in, quick out."
Brock nodded once. "That's where it happens. We keep the cabin dark, line short, nothing more than a check-in. Then we wait for Price to move the next piece."
Knuckles leaned back, decision already made. "Then we don't wait. We move now. Before noon hits and the floor at the compound shifts guard."
Kier nodded, jittery with nerves he didn't bother to hide. "Yeah. The longer we sit, the more they cement their story. We need to hear what they've been told."
Onyx slid the medkit to the side, already tucking loose supplies back into place. "All of us go. If it's clean, Knuckles speaks. If it's not—" his eyes flicked between them, steady, "we end the call, and every one of us hears it with our own ears."
Brock's hand flexed on the table, thumb rubbing slow across the grain. "Agreed. We keep it tight. Knuckles does the talking. The rest of us stand by. If Price bites, we know it. If he doesn't, we cut the line and burn the SIM. Either way, the decision's made with all of us present."
Knuckles gave one sharp nod, already reaching for his jacket. "Then let's roll."
─•────
The pullout was nothing more than a gravel cut into the slope, mile-marker post leaning crooked at the edge of the road. Pines crowded thick on both sides, branches whispering in the wind, the air colder out here than back at the cabin.
Harper sat on the hood of the Suburban, arms looped around her knees, the metal chilled beneath her. Kier leaned against the grill beside her, restless foot scuffing at the dirt, eyes never leaving the two men a few yards out. Onyx stood off to the side, weight planted, arms folded, scanning the tree line like he was waiting for it to twitch.
Knuckles was out front, burner balanced heavy in his hand. He turned it over once, thumb brushing the buttons, then let it hang loose at his side. Brock stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, close enough that the shape of the two men looked like one figure braced against the ridge.
Nobody spoke. The stillness of it made the cheap plastic phone look heavier than steel.
Knuckles finally lifted it, eyes cutting to Brock. "One call. You ready?"
Brock gave a single nod. "Make it Price."
Knuckles thumbed the speaker key and set the burner on the hood. The cheap plastic buzzed once in his hand, then rang out into the still pullout. He kept his eyes on the gravel until the line clicked alive.
"Yeah," a voice answered, rough with static. "Who is this?"
"Price," Knuckles said, steady. "It's me."
Silence held; somewhere down the grade a truck groaned and fell away. Then—"Knuckles. Jesus Christ. You with the others?"
Knuckles glanced to the side where Brock stood. "They're here."
"What the fuck's going on?" Price snapped, words quick now, pressing. "Do you know the shit being said here—"
"Listen," Knuckles cut in, voice flat as steel. "I don't know what spin they're feeding you. But listen. Vale, right?"
On the hood, Harper's fingers locked at her shins. Kier rolled a pebble under his heel until it clicked off the gravel.
A dry crackle rode the line. "Yeah. He's fucking dead, but—"
"No." Knuckles' voice hit hard. "No buts. He's dead. Harper almost went with him. I almost went with him trying to drag him out. Brock almost went down getting Harper out of the box. I did fucking CPR on Vale the whole way back to the compound and it didn't mean shit. Gas pocket in a wrapped pallet, Price. No one knew. Could've hit any of us."
Silence stretched. Price started, "But Vex—"
"Stop," Knuckles snapped, heat cutting through. "You let me talk."
The pullout seemed to hold its breath. Onyx shifted just enough to sight past the trees. Brock's shoulders went still, hands loose at his sides.
"Next morning, Vex pulls me, Brock, and Harper into his office. He's got Onyx and Kier posted at the door like wolves, like we're walking to a fucking execution. And he spins it. Spins what happened to Vale on Harper. Shows us a clip from the weigh station—a Maw greaseball giving her a salute on his way out. She ignored him. He was flirting. We were there. There was no communication. None."
Onyx's mouth tightened once. Kier's jaw worked; he fixed on the paint flaking off the mile marker.
Knuckles went on before Price could cut in. "Brock tried to tell him that, but Vex had her phone—had her phone—and pulls up this bullshit exchange with the Maw. Texts. Lined up perfect, like a script. He told Brock it was on him to put her down quick, clean, or else they'd drag her downstairs and make it slow. And fuck, Price—I thought he was gonna do it. We all did."
Brock's eyes flicked away, then back.
"—but Brock saw through it. Knew Harper was right there when Vale split that plastic, knew she could've taken that blast herself. It didn't add up. So he made the call. Put Vex down." Knuckles' voice hit hard, no apology in it. "That's why your boss is in the ground. Not because we flipped. Not because of the Maw. Because he set one of ours up to die and thought he could break Brock into pulling the trigger."
Price didn't speak. The silence dragged. Harper's throat worked as she swallowed hard, eyes locked on the burner in Knuckles' hand.
Knuckles lowered his tone, kept the spine in it. "After Vex dropped, the whole room came apart. Onyx had Harper by the hair, gun to her head. Brock had his weapon on Onyx. Kier swung on Brock. I was on Kier. It was seconds from a bloodbath. And then I got the phone. Looked at it myself. Those texts? Photoshop. Fake. Stitched together garbage. Vex built them to frame her, to bury her, because he couldn't stand having her under the same roof anymore."
Static hissed again, broken by Price's breath catching.
"That's the truth," Knuckles said, steady. "Vale died in an accident. Vex framed Harper and tried to make Brock kill her. Brock wouldn't. That's why we're out here. That's why he's dead."
There was a long pause. Then Price's voice came back low, ragged.
"Fuck… fuck. Are you serious?"
Knuckles' answer came clipped, no give in it. "Dead serious, Price. Every one of us was in that room. You want proof? Pull the cameras from Vex's office. You'll see how it went down, minute for minute."
Beside him, Brock stood rigid, hands flexing and settling again at his sides. Harper hadn't moved on the hood, her knees drawn tight, her face half-hidden in her hair. Kier tapped restless fingers against the grill, a rhythm he couldn't stop.
The line went quiet long enough that the wind in the trees filled the space, needles shivering against one another.
When Price spoke again, his voice had changed—flatter, edged with something heavier. "It's already been pulled away." A beat. "No one's seen it. Roth and Dane locked it down. They're running the floor now."
Knuckles' eyes narrowed. "Two lieutenants."
"Yeah," Price said. "First thing they did was pull the office footage. Locked it down. No one else has laid eyes on it since. They told the floor what it showed, and everyone's running with it." His breath came rough, like he hated even repeating it. "Their story is this: Vex found out Brock was sick of his leadership, that he'd been working with the Maw for months behind his back. Said when he realized you, Knuckles, Onyx, Kier—and Harper—were in on it too, he called all of you into his office to confront you. And that's when Brock grabbed his gun, put him down, and you all ran."
The weight of it hit the group like a fist. Kier let out a thin hiss through his teeth. Onyx folded his arms tighter across his chest. Brock didn't move at all, jaw clenched, eyes fixed out past the ridge as though he could burn Roth and Dane alive through the pines. Harper's shoulders drew in; she tucked her chin and watched the dust sliding on the hood.
Knuckles' jaw bunched, voice snapping hot across the line. "You believe Brock would be colluding with the Maw? After they took Harper hostage and left her bleeding on a basement floor for hours? After Brock and me coordinated the hit on their warehouse that gutted half their stock? You'd fucking believe that?"
There was a rush of static, then Price's voice, urgent, shaken. "No—no, I believe you. It makes more sense. I knew it didn't add up. Just… fuck." His breath hitched, low and ragged. "If Roth and Dane saw that footage, if they know what really happened and they're still spinning it—"
His words trailed, breaking against the silence. Harper flinched on the Suburban hood, arms tightening around her knees. Kier spat into the dirt, a curse buried under his breath.
Price's voice came back, harder now. "They're throwing everything into finding you. Every set of eyes, every truck. I know you can't tell me where you are, but understand me—Roth and Dane are going to make an example out of you. They'll burn the city down to do it. And I don't know how the fuck to stop it."
Knuckles froze, throat working. For once, he didn't have words. The weight of it pressed over the pullout, settling on all of them. Onyx's jaw flexed, the tendons in his neck standing out. Brock's hands closed into fists at his sides, his face locked in stone. Harper pressed her forehead to her knees for a moment before dragging her palms up to her eyes, pressing hard like she could block it all out. Kier's hand rose and settled on her shoulder, rough, uncertain, but steady.
Static hummed again, Price filling it. "Look. Let me see what I can do from the inside. Let me feel out the others. I'll find out what Roth and Dane are really playing at. Then we talk again tomorrow—same time. We go from there and figure the next step."
Knuckles exhaled slow, forcing the grit back into his tone. "Deal. We'll lay low, keep our backs covered. You feed us whatever you can."
"Okay." Price's voice was hoarse now. "Tomorrow, same time. Knuckles—make sure everyone knows I believe you. I'm on your side. And I'm sorry. For Vale. For all of it."
Knuckles swallowed, thumb hovering over the end key. "They'll know. Talk tomorrow."
The line clicked dead.
Knuckles let the phone sag in his hand, eyes lifting first to Brock. Then across to Harper, still pressing her palms into her face, shoulders hunched. Kier rubbed her back, slow and uneven, while Onyx's shadow loomed steady over them all.
Brock turned away hard, boot scuffing gravel. He drove his toe into a loose chunk of rock and sent it skittering off the lip of the pullout. "Fuck!" The word ripped out of him and kept going; he paced three strides down the grade, scrubbed both hands through his hair like he wanted to tear the roots out, turned, and paced back.
Harper flinched at the shout. Her hands fell from her face. She looked at Knuckles first, eyes red and steady, then at Brock. "I'm… I'm sorry." The words were thin and stubborn, like she'd been holding them in her mouth since the call started. "If you'd just killed me in the yard—if you'd just done it there—none of this—" Her voice broke, and she forced it back together. "I wouldn't be here, fucking all of this up, putting you—"
Brock closed the distance in four hard steps. He caught her shoulders—firm, not rough—and bent until his eyes were level with hers. "No." The word was low and iron. "Don't you ever apologize for anything. You hear me?" He didn't blink. "This isn't your fault. You showed him for what he was. He did this. Not you. Do not pin it on yourself."
Harper shook her head once, breath hitching. "But if I hadn't—"
Knuckles spoke first, angled in so she couldn't avoid his eye. "Hey. Don't do that. You didn't put us here. He did."
Kier's hand stayed on her back. "You didn't break anything," he said, rough but careful. "You kept us from walking blind into his bullshit."
Onyx didn't move, but his voice lost its edge. "Vex made the choice. Not you."
Brock's grip eased; his thumbs smoothed once at the tops of her shoulders. "You hear me?" he said, quieter. "You being here is how we saw him clean. That's the only truth I care about."
Harper's mouth worked; she dragged air in, nodded once. "Okay."
─•────
Midnight had thinned into the kind of dark that made edges go soft. Harper sat the top step with her flannel pulled tight and her boots planted on the lower tread, breath ghosting in front of her. The cabin behind her settled once and went quiet. The yard was a smear of shapes—the Suburban a dull hump by the shed, the woodpile a lopsided shadow—and beyond that the treeline stood black and crowded, crowns combed by a wind she could hear but couldn't feel. Leaves let go one by one from the canopy, soft ticks on needles and dirt, a slow, irregular patter that kept her company more than the crickets did. She kept the rifle across her thighs and counted off minutes in her head until the numbers ran together and left only the creek working stones in the dark.
Brock had laid it out before lights went low: nobody sleeps the whole night, not out here, not with the Syndicate running hot—two-hour blocks, eyes on the yard, rotate till dawn. Just in case. She'd relieved Kier at midnight—handed-off whisper, a nod, his eyes ringed and wired—then settled in with the rifle and the quiet. Onyx would spell her at two, Knuckles would take the deep-hours after that, and Brock would shoulder the last stretch before the day would start. A simple list on the table, names in order, and the kind of silence that follows rules everyone agrees to because the alternative is worse.
The door eased open on a slice of lamplight and shut again without a click; Knuckles stepped out into the chill, hoodie thrown on over a T-shirt, socks shoved into boots, hair mashed flat on one side like the pillow lost a fight. He took the far post of the porch without speaking, leaned a shoulder to the beam, scanned the yard once the way men do when they've been doing it too long. Harper glanced back, lowered her voice. "Couldn't sleep?"
Knuckles let out a low chuckle, the sound more breath than laugh. "That's nothing new," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Figured I'd check on you. See how you're doing." He tipped his chin toward the yard. "How's it been?"
"Quiet," Harper said. "Every once in a while a barred owl throws one out. Keeps me from thinking I'm the last thing breathing out here."
"Who-cooks-for-you," Knuckles murmured, like reciting a drill, eyes still on the treeline. "Good company. Means the small stuff's still moving." He shifted his weight against the post. "You warm enough?"
Harper's shoulders twitched at the word, a quick shiver she tried to hide. "I'm good," she said anyway.
Knuckles didn't call her on it. He pushed off the post and dropped onto the step beside her, knees wide, forearms braced across them. He sat there a breath, close enough that their sleeves brushed. "How are you really, kid. With all of it."
She didn't dress it up. "Terrible." The word fogged and broke. "I can't stop running it in my head—every second where I could've said something different, done something different. Feels like it's all my fault. I keep wishing I could wind it back and kill the whole chain before it started."
Knuckles let out a long breath and looked straight at her. "You can't change what's behind you," he said. "And you don't camp there, either. You look forward. It's the only thing that pays."
She huffed a small laugh. "Funny. First months, I didn't think you—or Brock, or anyone here—had feelings to begin with."
He flinched, a quick, honest wince that said he remembered every wrong turn of those days. She went on, quieter.
"I used to lie there and wonder why he didn't just end it. Why keep me breathing at all. My name mattered, sure, but the Syndicate isn't exactly known for mercy."
"I know why," Knuckles said.
She turned her head.
"I saw you in the yard," he said. "Cornered, bleeding, still looking for an angle. You put steel in Brock—a lot of men fold before they even think to try. You came at him anyway, knowing you were outmuscled and boxed in. The name's one thing. But that spine?" He shook his head once. "He clocked it. Didn't see it in half his men. Did I think it was a stupid call right then? Yeah. Thought it'd burn us all down. But it changed everything."
Harper nodded, eyes on the black mass of the yard. "I always figured it was some cruel thing. Keep me breathing just to make it worse. Make an example." She wet her lips. "I think about Silas. How they tortured him in that warehouse and just… walked. Left me alive. I never understood that. Vex showed what he is in that office. Why not do the same to me the night my dad died? Why not finish it then. Why leave me."
Knuckles went still, the kind of still that meant he was choosing his words. "Vex did want you dead," he said. "Tortured, raped, throat cut, left in a heap to bleed out with your old man. That was the plan walked in."
Harper turned to him, searching his face.
He gave her a small, tired smile that never made it past his mouth. "You didn't recognize me in the yard the night we brought you in, did you?"
She stared, throat working, and said nothing, confusion clear on her face.
"I was there that night," he said, voice dry. "With Silas." He let that sit. "I argued to let you walk because you were a kid. Didn't win it clean—nothing with Vex is clean—but I got enough. A nod. A don't-touch stamped on you for that hour."
He rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. "I was one of the ones holding you. My hand on your shoulder, my knee at your hip. When you fought, I covered your mouth for a breath so you wouldn't give them another reason to turn on you. I put myself there on purpose so if he changed his mind I'd be in the way."
He looked past her into the dark. "I couldn't stop what they did to him. I could make sure it didn't land on you too." His gaze came back, steady. "I'm not calling myself a good man. But I wasn't letting them do that to a kid."
It hit her like a drop through rotten boards. Whatever breath she had left went thin; her mouth opened and nothing came. "I—" The sound snagged, useless. She stared at him, trying to drag a face up out of a night she'd spent years shoving into a box, and found only noise and hands and light on concrete.
Knuckles' expression eased, a tired almost-smile. "Don't tie yourself in knots," he said. "Brock wasn't there." He let that settle, then added, "The other guy holding you that night though—Keller. Big brute. You got your lick back on him. He's the one you put a round through."
Harper blinked hard. The porch, the trees, the damp in the air—all of it felt a half step away, like she could see it and not touch it. Words didn't come. She just sat, floored, hands tight on the rifle across her thighs, the name Keller ringing in her head like metal struck and left to hum.
Knuckles let the quiet sit, then nudged it. "You and Brock… how's that landing?"
Harper dragged a thumb along the rough edge of the step, splinters catching skin. "I don't know." She kept her eyes on the dark and not on the window where his shadow lay. "Every time I look at him I see his face in Vex's office. The gun on me, and those little flickers that kept breaking through before he shoved them down—his mouth trying not to shake, the way his eyes went wet and hard at the same time." Her fingers tightened on the wood until her knuckles blanched. "'Close your eyes,' he said." The words came out thinner than she meant, like they'd been living in her throat all day. "I can still hear it. I know he was trying to spare me. Two bad doors and he picked the one with less pain. But that second—his face right before he turned it all off—I can't shake it. It sits behind my eyelids. I blink and I'm back there." She pulled a breath that stuttered on the way in, jaw locking to keep it steady. "It keeps coming like it never ended."
Knuckles nodded once, slower this time. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and looked out into the dark before he spoke. "It's gonna stick for a while." His voice dipped. "And he's carrying the same picture. Different angle, same room."
He shifted, forearms braced on his thighs. "I've known Brock a long time, Harper. I've watched him take hits that would fold other men and not blink. I have never seen him falter like he does with you."
He dragged a thumb across his palm, a nervous habit that didn't fit a man his size. "First time I ever saw him cry was when you were laid out in the med bay—tubes everywhere, gone to the world. He didn't make a sound, just… cracked."
Knuckles' gaze cut to the window, then back to her. "In Vex's office, when that gun was in his hand and it was pointed at you, I watched his face and thought—for a second—he might turn it on himself before he'd put it on you."
He blew a slow breath through his nose. "Since then he's been off-balance. He knows you're hurt, knows this bent you up, and every instinct he's got is to throw his body over you and take the hit. None of us are good with this part, not here. But he loves you—so much it makes him stupid sometimes—and it kills him watching you fold in on yourself, blaming yourself for every crack."
Knuckles flattened his hands, like setting something in place. "He doesn't know how to fix it. He's trying to stand between you and everything, and this is the one thing he can't shoot, can't drive, can't fight. You tell him where to stand, he'll stand there. But he's not gonna find that spot on his own."
Harper didn't answer. She sat with it, eyes shining in the low light, breath slow and careful until it steadied. After a long minute she nodded once, small but sure.
Knuckles leaned in and ruffled her hair like she was the kid he'd never admit he worried over, then hauled her into his chest with an arm around her shoulders. He held there a beat, solid and warm. "We'll get through it," he said against her temple, voice low, certain. "All of us. Have a little faith."
─•────
The bedroom was a gray wash, moonlight cut into bars by the blinds. Harper eased the door shut with her hip, fingers already working the buttons on her flannel. She peeled it off, dropped it over the chair with the rest of the day, shucked out of her jeans, and tugged one of Brock's shirts from the back of the chair. It hung soft and familiar, his scent baked into the cotton. She pulled it on and crossed to the bed.
Brock lay half on his side, the blanket low on his hips, face turned to the window. The light caught one cheekbone, the rest of him lost in shadow. She lifted the covers and slid in slow, careful not to jar the mattress, but he stirred anyway—blinked once, then rolled toward her.
"How'd it go?" His voice was sleep-rough, quiet.
Harper smiled, close enough now to see the cut of his mouth in the blue light. "Quiet," she whispered. "Onyx is up."
He made a low sound that was halfway to a word and didn't get there. She inched closer, slid a hand along his jaw, and pressed her mouth to his forehead, holding there. "I love you," she breathed into his skin.
His hand came up, warm on the back of her head, fingers slipping into her hair. "Love you too," he answered, voice rough but sure.
"I'm sorry," she said, not pulling back. "I'm sorry I've been… gone. Sorry I didn't think about what this did to you, too."
He drew back enough to find her eyes, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "Hey," he murmured. "It's okay. You don't owe me an apology." He searched her face like he was making sure she heard it. "It's been a fucked-up few days. I don't fault you for any of it. I don't fault any of us." He dipped his head once, a quiet vow. "We're still here."
She smiled and found his mouth, a soft press that barely moved the sheet. "Still here," she murmured against his lips.
He drew back again, eyes open now, catching what little light there was. "I need you to hear me," he said. "I would never have pulled that trigger." His throat worked. "I'm sorry I scared you like that. I was pinned between a rock and a wall—being forced to choose how you died." He shook his head once, hard. "I couldn't do it. I wouldn't. Not to you. Never."
"I know," she whispered. "I know. And I'm sorry you had to stand there and choose."
She kissed him again, deeper, the kind of kiss that didn't ask for anything and still gave him everything. He answered like a man who'd been holding his breath. Her palm traced from his jaw down the warm line of his throat and over his bare chest, feeling the hitch beneath her fingers as she pressed closer. The shirt she wore—his—was too much and not enough; she gathered it at her hip to get him nearer, to feel skin meet skin.
His hand was already at the back of her head, steady, drawing her in; the other smoothed over her ribs like he was relearning a map he refused to get wrong. She caught that wandering hand, flattened it where she wanted, held it there until he understood. The kiss turned hungry. Fabric rasped, sheets whispered, the soft weight of him settled her like a palm on a trembling glass.
She made a small sound against his mouth when he found the stretch of skin he was searching for, and he swallowed it like a promise. Moonlight cut them into halves and left the rest to touch—the warm slide of his palm up her back, her fingers biting into his shoulder, the way his mouth softened when she hauled him closer by the nape. He said her name once, rough, and she answered with his, pulling him over and into her until the world narrowed to breath and heat and two people choosing each other on purpose.
Outside, leaves fell in ones and twos. Inside, the hour slipped its leash.