The city thinned as the convoy moved, the sky bleeding pale at the edges. By the time the cranes of Eastport fell behind, a thin stripe of sun had split the clouds, turning the wet asphalt into a ribbon of dull pink. Harper's gaze fixed on it, the ache in her side dragging her back to the gap—the knife, the weight—and to what came after, the way she'd shoved Brock clear and taken the burst instead.
At the highway split, the big rigs peeled away with a sigh of air brakes, lumbering toward the warehouse sector. Brock held the lead, Nolan's SUV, the WRX, and the Charger strung out behind as they pushed inland. A few minutes later Brock took the exit for the freight viaduct, guiding the convoy toward the Syndicate's perimeter. They rolled past the guard booth one by one, headlights washing over concrete barriers and glass as the gate arm lifted, then dropped again behind the last set of taillights.
The SUVs led down the ramp into the Syndicate's garage, engine noise reverberating off concrete until Brock swung into an open space near the elevator. Headlights snapped off in staggered clicks.
Brock killed the engine and stepped out, rifle slung, boots hitting concrete with a hollow scrape. He walked to the Tahoe's nose and stopped there, shoulders squared, the puddled light from the overheads slicking his vest. He didn't call them in. They came anyway. Doors thudded shut up and down the row, voices dropped to low ground-level noise while men drifted closer until the group formed a loose half circle in front of him.
Harper stayed by the open passenger door, palm light over her ribs, the metal cool against her back. Heat bled off the hoods in wavering bands, curling into the damp air. The concrete hollow caught every trace of sound and bounced it back: engines ticking down, water dripping from wheel wells, the quiet shift of weight as men settled and waited for him to speak.
"Good work out there," Brock said, voice steady and carrying in the garage. "We got both rigs, and we all came home standing." His gaze moved over them, deliberate, never sticking long on any one face. "Clean up. Get food in you. We'll walk it through tomorrow." A small pause. "If you caught anything, get it looked at and keep your heads down."
A low murmur rolled through the half circle, nods and brief glances trading back and forth. Slings were eased off shoulders, buckles popped, Velcro tore as men started to peel themselves out of rain-heavy gear. The group thinned fast—Price, Cole, and Nolan's people cutting toward the side stairs, the overwatch pair drifting off toward the far row of cars. Bootsteps and muffled talk faded into the concrete, leaving the air smelling of oil, exhaust, and wet cloth.
Brock turned back to Harper, jerked his chin toward the elevator. "Medical."
She pushed off the Tahoe and followed, fingers pressed once against her ribs before she made herself drop the hand. The doors slid open with a tired chime. They stepped inside, boots squeaking on metal, rain pooling dark at their heels. When the doors closed, the little box tightened around them, filled with the smell of wet cloth, gun oil, and the copper trace of old blood.
She took the corner by the panel, shoulder turned, gaze fixed on the dull shine of the buttons. The hum of the car through the soles of her boots seemed too loud. This was where he'd let it all out. It was almost a relief, knowing the hit was coming.
Brock faced forward, hands loose at his sides, jaw clenched hard enough that the muscle at his cheek twitched. When he spoke, his voice stayed level. "You left the first truck."
Her chest pulled in on itself. "Yeah." The word scraped out low. "I heard your lane go heavy and I moved before I thought."
"I told you to stay with that rig," he said. He didn't raise his voice, but the words had weight. "You walked off a post I put you on."
"I know." It came out small. Her fingers twitched against the edge of her vest. "I shouldn't have."
"Harper."
Just her name, but it cut the rest of the excuses off clean. She shut her mouth, jaw locking. The car hummed around them, floor shivering under their weight as it carried them down.
He drew a slow breath through his nose, eyes still on the doors. "You don't leave your lane without my say," he said after a moment. "Not for anything you think you hear."
Heat crawled under her skin. She nodded once, more reflex than choice. "Understood." The word felt dry on her tongue. She kept her eyes on the brushed steel and waited for him to keep going.
For a few seconds there was only the steady vibration underfoot and the dull throb in her ribs. She could feel his anger sitting there beside her, solid as the wall.
When he spoke again, his tone had shifted, not soft, but less sharpened to a point. "You moved anyway," he said. "And I'm standing here."
Her throat worked. Nothing came out.
"I'm not happy you're hit," Brock went on, quieter. "I'd rather be chewing you out while you were walking clean." His gaze stayed on the doors, but his shoulders eased a fraction. "But I saw what you did out there. I'm not pretending you didn't keep me up."
Something twisted under her ribs that had nothing to do with the graze. "Doesn't change that I left where you put me," she said, voice low.
"No," he agreed. "It doesn't." His jaw flexed once, then again, like he was biting down on the rest. "We'll sort that. Later."
The elevator began to slow. The shift stole her balance for a second; the floor seemed to tip under her boots. His hand closed around her forearm, firm and steady, holding her until she caught herself again. He let go the instant her weight settled back under her.
"Protocol's a conversation for when you're not bleeding through your vest," Brock continued, voice steady but no longer cold. "Right now we fix you."
The elevator doors slid open, hall light spilling in. Brock stepped out first, giving her just enough space to follow. The corridor ran quiet and bright in both directions, concrete and white paint under a low buzz of fluorescent strips.
He slowed until she came even with him, fingers closing around her sleeve just above the elbow to steer her down the hall. Each step sent a dull pull through her ribs, the smell of rain and diesel still clinging to their clothes. A glass-panel door at the far end carried a stencilled MEDICAL across it; Brock pushed it open with his shoulder and drew her in beside him.
Graves looked up from her desk and froze halfway through a keystroke. Her eyes went straight to Harper, tracking the wet bloom at her ribs, the smear under her nose, the set of her shoulders. Her gaze dipped once to where Brock's hand circled Harper's forearm, the way she leaned a little into that hold before she caught herself.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Graze," Brock answered. "Right side. Needs cleaning and stitches."
Graves's attention slid to him and stayed there. For a few seconds she just looked at him, the line of her mouth flattening. "You've got her out on runs already?" The question came quiet, but it carried an accusation all the same.
"She was ready," Brock said, with nothing that sounded like apology in it, nothing that gave an inch.
Something in Graves's eyes said she disagreed, but she let whatever she wanted to say stay behind her teeth. Her jaw worked once before she turned back to Harper, the edge in her expression easing a little.
"Come on," she said, voice softening. "Up on the table. Let's see what he broke."
Harper let Graves steer her forward, boots dragging a little on the tile until the backs of her legs met the table. She lowered herself onto the padded edge. The paper crackled under her, loud in the tight room, the Kevlar vest hanging wet and heavy across her chest.
Brock moved before Graves could say a word. His hands found the buckles with an ease that said he'd done this too many times, fingers working cleanly until the straps gave and the vest slipped free. The weight slid off her shoulders and dropped to the floor with a dense thud that seemed to sink straight into the concrete. Her chest felt strangely bare without it, cooler air touching fabric that had been pressed under plates and rain.
"Shirt too," Graves said, tugging on a pair of gloves as her gaze cut to Brock with intent. "Do you want him to step out?"
For a moment Harper couldn't get her lungs to catch. The room felt smaller, the white walls pressing in while she tried to picture him on the other side of the door and found she didn't want to. The word slipped out before she could shape it better. "No." It came rough, quicker than she meant, closer to a flinch than an answer.
Graves's brows lifted, surprise passing across her face in a brief flicker before she smoothed it away. Whatever she was thinking stayed behind her eyes. She gave a short nod instead, her voice settling back into something steady. "All right. Let's see what we're dealing with."
Graves snapped a pair of scissors off the tray and caught the hem of Harper's shirt, guiding the blades under the soaked fabric. The material clung stubbornly, dark with water and blood, but the steel worked its way through in a slow, steady rasp until the shirt fell open in two uneven halves.
The wound lay bare: a raw groove along the line of her ribs, skin torn and darkened at the edges where the round had kissed through. Blood had matted down her side, streaks running into the waist of her pants. A bruise was already blooming outward, purple and blue spreading fast under the pale wash of the lights.
"Lay back," Graves said, voice even.
Harper shifted stiffly, easing onto her spine. The paper crinkled under her shoulders, ribs jolting at the change in angle. Brock stayed near the head of the table, his frame steady in the corner of her vision, arms folded but eyes never leaving her.
Graves leaned in with gauze and a saline-soaked pad, the sting of antiseptic cutting through it as she pressed to the wound. The burn hit instantly, dragging a hiss through Harper's teeth.
"I know," Graves murmured, clinical but softer than before. She dabbed again, stripping blood and grit away, her gloves already streaked. She watched Harper's chest rise and fall, fingers testing lightly along the ribs above and below the groove before she spoke. "Surface damage. Ugly, but it didn't dig deep. No sign you cracked anything."
The gauze came away dark, dropped into a tray, replaced by another. Her hands moved steady, methodical, the rhythm of long practice.
From a small case Graves drew a syringe, the liquid inside faintly cloudy. She thumbed the plunger, a bead welling at the tip, and glanced to Harper. "Local anesthetic. It'll numb you enough for the stitching. Burn first, then it fades."
Harper's eyes tracked the needle, throat tight, but she gave a small nod.
Graves steadied her side. "Hold still."
The needle went in just above the torn skin. Harper's body jerked once at the sting, a hot flare spreading under her ribs before it sank into a deeper warmth. Graves withdrew, dropped the syringe into a tray, and set gauze lightly over the spot.
"Give it a minute," she said, snapping off her gloves for a fresh pair.
Harper's breathing evened bit by bit, each exhale catching less against the pain along her ribs. She tipped her head back against the paper, watching the ceiling lights smear at the edges of her vision.
Graves moved higher, gloved fingers catching Harper's chin and turning her face into the light. "While we wait—your nose."
Harper stiffened, breath snagging. The bridge still throbbed from the headbutt, blood dried in a rusty line across the swell.
Graves's gaze tracked the damage, then lingered lower, where a faint yellow-green shadow clung along Harper's cheekbone and under one eye. Older bruising, just at the point of fading. Her eyes narrowed a fraction. For a moment she cut a sidelong look past Harper toward Brock, then smoothed her expression and went back to the exam.
Her touch was careful but exact, fingertips running along the line of bone beneath the swelling. Harper hissed when pressure found the ridge.
"Swelling," Graves said. "Tender, but the alignment feels good. I'm not feeling a fresh break." She shifted to the other side, checking the angle under the glare. "You've got some healing bruising under there already, but it's holding. You'll ache for a while, maybe bleed again if it takes another hit. Nothing to set."
She let Harper's chin go, peeled the gauze back from her ribs, and gave a light press along the edge of the groove. Harper barely flinched.
"Good," Graves said with a small nod. "It's starting to take."
She reached for a sterile pack, a curved needle glinting in the light. "Let's close it up."
The first puncture bit quick, followed by the slow pull of thread—pressure and drag, skin drawing together in a rhythm that made Harper grit her teeth. Each pass burned faintly under the antiseptic still clinging to the raw edges. Her hand curled tight against the side of the table, knuckles blanching as she watched Graves work.
"Eyes on me," Brock said, low and steady.
Her head turned almost before she decided to move it. He filled her vision, immovable, weight set in that stance that left no room for collapse. The lights, the sting of chemical, the tug and cinch of thread—all of it slid to the edges while his attention pinned her breathing to something steady.
Graves didn't comment, but a flicker crossed her face as she caught it—something between surprise and recognition—before her eyes dropped back to the needle in her hands. She tied off the last knot and pressed gauze firm over the line. "Done." Tape smoothed into place, gloves stripped and dropped.
Another syringe came out of the case, capped with clear plastic. She drew it up, tapped the barrel, then slid the needle into Harper's arm. "Pain relief," Graves said. The cold sting gave way to warmth spreading slow under her skin. "It may make you drowsy. Rest the day. No strain on that side." She set a small amber bottle on the tray. "One of these if you need more. They'll slow you down."
A second syringe. "Booster." A quick jab to the deltoid. "You're covered."
On her way to the cabinet, Graves pulled a plain black scrub top and set it by Harper's side. "Yours is ruined."
Harper worked the fabric carefully over her head. The stretch tugged at the fresh stitches and stole her breath in a tight gasp. Brock didn't move in, but his eyes stayed on her, steady, ready if she faltered.
Graves lingered just outside the pool of the exam light, stripping her gloves. Her eyes swept Harper's frame, pausing at the lines of her face, the set of her shoulders. "You've put weight back on," she said quietly. "You look stronger."
Harper went still for a moment, caught by the words. The corner of her mouth pulled faintly, not a smile but close—something like relief breaking under exhaustion. She lowered her eyes, voice rough but sure. "Feels better than the other way."
Graves gave a short nod, the faintest softening at the edges of her expression. Her gaze brushed past Brock for a heartbeat, then came back to Harper.
Harper eased down from the table, boots hitting tile with a muted thud. The motion tugged the line of stitches raw, a wince cutting through her composure, but she stayed upright. The scrub top clung damp against her spine, smelling faintly of detergent instead of rain and gunpowder.
Brock was already there, close enough that his presence filled the space between her and the door. His hand found her elbow, firm without force, guiding her into motion. Graves watched them go, something unreadable flickering in her eyes before the med bay door whispered shut behind them.
The elevator hummed around their damp clothes, rain drying to salt streaks on fabric. Harper let her shoulder rest lightly against the wall, the scrub top loose over her waistband, ribs throbbing under the fresh pull of stitches. The painkiller had taken the sharpest edge, but each sway of the car sent a slow, heavy warmth through her limbs.
Brock stood beside her, feet planted, eyes on the closed doors. He didn't speak. His gaze cut once to her side, to the place he knew the stitches sat under the fabric, then went forward again, jaw shifting like he was holding the rest behind his teeth.
When they stepped out, the corridor was quiet in the pale wash of early morning. Fluorescent strips threw long bars of light down the hall, glinting off concrete and metal. They walked past a row of closed doors, their footsteps dull against the floor, until they reached his near the far end. Brock swiped his card without looking at her and pushed the handle down, holding the door open until she crossed the threshold. The latch clicked soft behind them.
He didn't slow in the main room, just brought her through with him, hand settling at her elbow again. The contact was light, an easy pressure that steered instead of pushed. Her feet carried her on autopilot, the familiar path to her room blurring past in a haze of white walls and fatigue.
"Sit."
The mattress gave under her, the frame creaking softly. The warmth threading through her veins from Graves's shot was dragging at her now, turning her limbs thick and slow. The pull in her ribs flared as she folded at the waist, a short breath catching in her throat. She reached for the laces of her boots out of habit, fingers clumsy on wet cord.
Brock crouched, one knee to the floor, his shoulder close to her knee. "I've got it." His hands worked the knots clean with practiced fingers, leather creaking as he loosened each boot and slid it free. He set them aside in a neat pair instead of letting them topple where they fell.
She blinked down at him, disoriented for a second by the sight of him there on the floor in front of her, not standing over her with a command, but working quietly at soaked laces.
When her boots were gone, she fumbled at the button of her cargo pants, nerves not quite matching the signals she sent them. Her fingers slipped once, twice. Brock's hand came down, moving them away with gentle pressure.
"Harper," he said firmly. "Let me."
She let go.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband and eased the fabric down over her hips. The movement was slow, measured, his attention fixed on keeping her side as still as he could. The pants slid past her thighs and knees, heavy with rain, and he gathered them clear so they didn't drag across the edge of the bed. They hit the floor in a wet heap by his boot.
By the time he stood, she was down to the scrub top and briefs, skin cooling in the air, exhaustion hollowing out the lines of her posture. His gaze tracked over her once—face, the pale stretch of thigh, the dark line where Graves's work sat hidden under the shirt. His jaw flexed, but whatever passed through his eyes didn't linger. He turned it back into motion.
"Lie back," he told her, voice even.
Harper braced one hand on the mattress and twisted, easing herself up the bed until her shoulders found the pillow. Muscles along her side pulled tight in protest, a deep ache rolling under the fresh bandage, but the softness under her head dragged at her all the same. She drew her knees in, curling on her uninjured side, and pulled the blanket toward herself with clumsy fingers.
Brock caught the edge and helped it along, shaking it out once before settling it over her. The fabric slipped down in a smooth fall, covering her legs, her hips, the line of her ribs. His hand paused at her shoulder, a brief press through the thin scrub top—enough to steady, not enough to linger—then lifted away. He flicked the lamp down to a low glow, letting the corners of the room blur.
"Rest," he said. "That's all you're doing today."
Her eyes were already heavy, lids dragging as she tracked him across the room. Part of her waited for the other tone—the cold one, the lecture about lanes and orders, the sharp edge she knew as well as his silhouette in a doorway. It didn't come.
He reached the threshold and paused, one hand on the door. For a second he just looked at her, something unreadable in his face.
"I'll be outside if you need me," he murmured.
The words landed oddly in her chest, at war with every locked latch and hiss of the old bolt she'd heard in this frame. The door swung in, hinges quiet.
She listened for the solid click of metal driving home, the muted snick of the lock engaging.
It didn't come.
The door settled against the jamb and stopped there, left resting a hand's span open. A slip of hallway light drew a thin line across the floor, carrying the faint sounds of the corridor into her room.
Harper stared at that gap longer than she meant to, sleep tugging at the edges of her vision. Her body ached, ribs pulsing under the bandage, the painkiller pulling her down. Her mind kept snagging on the quiet fact sitting where the lock should have been.
He left it open.
Her eyes finally slid shut, but the knowledge stayed, bright and strange behind them as she let the mattress take her weight.
** ** **
A soft scrape of wood over paint tugged her up out of sleep. Harper's eyes stayed closed for a moment, caught between the weight of the mattress and the dim press of the room, mind taking a few extra seconds to find its place. The low lamplight still glowed on the dresser, throwing a dull band across the ceiling. Air moved against her face, carrying antiseptic under something warmer—salt, spice, heat.
She blinked toward the doorway. The panel had swung a little wider. Brock slipped through the gap, shoulder cutting across the faint spill of hall light. He eased the door back to where it had been, resting against the jamb without sealing it, a takeout container hooked in one hand. His gaze found her in the bed first, then tracked to the nightstand to make sure the water and pill bottle were still where he'd left them.
"Evening," he said, voice pitched low so it didn't bounce around the room. "Brought dinner. Graves would string me up if I let you sleep through the day without food."
The mention of Graves nudged her the rest of the way awake. She shifted, trying to push herself more upright. The motion pulled hard along her side, a hot line of protest that stalled her halfway. She flattened her palm on the mattress, breathing through it until the worst of the heat eased, then forced herself the rest of the way up against the headboard.
Brock crossed to the bed and set the container on the nightstand, watching her settle without stepping in. When her shoulders finally hit the wood and her breathing evened out again, he reached past her to tug the pillow higher behind her back, a quick adjustment more practical than gentle.
"Water first," he said, picking up the glass he'd left there earlier and passing it into her hand.
She took a long sip. Cool water cut through the grit in her mouth, waking her throat.
"It's evening?" she asked, voice rough.
"After nine." He shifted his weight, giving her space but staying close enough to catch her if she tipped. "You've been out since we got back."
She let her head rest against the wood for a second, eyes shutting, then opened them again. "Guess I needed it."
He flipped the lid off the container. Steam curled up into the lamplight, carrying the smell of rice and something savory underneath. "Here." He set the glass aside, gave her the fork, then sat on the edge of the mattress near her feet. The dip of his weight tilted her hip a fraction in his direction.
They ate without talking. Plastic scraped lightly against cardboard, the only sound between them. The food sat warm and solid in her mouth, heavier than she expected. She paced herself on instinct, chewing and swallowing because Graves would ask and Brock would know if she lied.
The quiet settled around them, thick as the air, pressing in around the edges of the bed, between this room and the steel lane she couldn't stop replaying—her shoving him into the truck's side, the drag of the rounds across her ribs instead of his. Her fork slowed. Metal tapped once against the container, then stilled.
"I shouldn't have left the truck," she said, barely above a murmur.
He didn't answer right away. She kept her eyes on the food, pulse creeping up, waiting for the edge she'd been braced for since the gunfire stopped.
"I defied you in the office at Riverside," she pushed on when he stayed quiet, the words thinning as they came. "And then first time we're out, I do it again. You tell me to stay put, and I still—"
"Harper."
Her name cut through the spiral. She looked up. His eyes were already on hers, steady, weighing.
"You walked off a post I gave you," he said. There was no slide around it. "That happened."
Her fingers tightened on the fork. "Yeah."
He watched her for a breath, then let some of the tension leave his shoulders. "You also shoved me into cover and took the burst meant for me," he went on, quieter. "That happened too."
The fork felt unsteady in her grip. She set it carefully in the container so she wouldn't drop it.
"I'm not pretending the first part isn't a problem," he said. "We're going to talk about it when you're not half-drugged and held together with thread." His jaw shifted once. "But I'm not going to let you sit here and rewrite today like you just wandered off and made nothing but bad calls."
She searched his face, uncertain. "So you're… not mad?"
"Mad you're hurt?" he said. His gaze dipped briefly to her side under the scrub top, then came back. "Yeah." Another breath. "Mad at you for stepping in and pulling me out of it?" His head moved, barely. "No."
The words dropped into her chest and settled there, heavy and strange. No one had ever put it like that for her—two pieces of the same action held up side by side instead of crushed into one failure.
"Feels like I still did it wrong," she said, barely voicing it.
"You did," he answered, and the honesty didn't sting as much as she thought it would. "Next time you move like that, you say it into comms as you go. One word's enough. I can't protect you if you disappear." His attention held on hers a moment longer. "But I'm not going to make you wish you'd let me take that hit. That's not how this works."
A slow breath moved out of her, deeper than the ones before. Some of the tightness in her shoulders eased into the headboard. The ache along her ribs was still there, muffled by the meds, but the knot in her chest loosened a fraction.
"Okay," she said quietly.
He watched her for a second longer, something considering in his stare, then pushed himself up from the mattress and reached for the empty container. Cardboard rustled as he folded it down smaller than it needed to be and dropped it into the trash. On his way back past the nightstand, he straightened the pill bottle so the label faced her and nudged the glass closer to her hand, lining it up with the edge of the table before he drew his fingers away.
"You need anything tonight," he said, "call out. I'll hear you."
He didn't wait for an answer, just crossed to the door and stepped through the same narrow gap he'd used coming in. The panel stayed where it had been, resting against the jamb, the thin strip of hall light still cutting across the floor.
Harper's gaze stayed on that sliver for a long moment, the echo of his words and that unchanged opening sitting together in her chest. The painkiller tugged at her, dragging weight into her limbs, loosening the fight out of her muscles. She eased herself down from the headboard, turning carefully onto her uninjured side until the pillow caught her cheek and the blanket settled along her ribs.
Her eyes slipped shut, but the narrow line of light at the door stayed clear behind them, the simple fact that he hadn't locked her in bright and steady in her mind as sleep finally took hold.