The WRX's engine ticked as it cooled, faint heat shimmering off the hood in the dim garage. Brock hauled a paper sack off the passenger seat, grease already seeping through the bottom. He shut the door with his hip, boots striking echoes off the concrete as he cut across toward the stairwell door.
The corridor on the other side hummed with fluorescent buzz, walls painted the same tired gray as every other Syndicate hallway. He keyed the elevator, weight shifting while he waited, the bag warm against his palm. When the doors slid open, he stepped inside, rode up in silence.
The residential floor opened into a narrower hall lined with steel doors and unit numbers etched into plates. The stairwell door at the far end swung open and Kier stepped out, a towel draped around his neck, sweat slick on his skin from whatever drill he'd just finished. He turned toward his unit. Their eyes met, a brief recognition.
"Lawson," Kier said, voice rough but even.
"Kier." Brock gave him a single nod, pace unbroken. The exchange ran on muscle memory, two men acknowledging each other without warmth.
Brock tapped his card to the reader. The lock clicked, and he pushed into his quarters, letting the door fall shut behind him. The smell hit then, garlic and tomato sauce heavy in the air as he set the sack on the island, strong enough to drown out the usual tang of gun oil and leather that clung to the place. He shrugged off his jacket, dropped it over the back of a chair, and stood there a moment, hands loose at his sides.
The door down the short hall waited. For a long time, nights had all gone the same way: plate in hand, bolt turned, door closed again before the food cooled. He'd let that pattern slip once or twice lately, but the room still sat in his head as a cell. Tonight he didn't move right away. Nolan's voice from the track stayed close: let her breathe, give her something human.
Brock lingered in the kitchen, eyes fixed on the hallway. The silence pressed heavy until his shoulders knotted, then he let out a breath and pushed himself down toward the far door.
The deadbolt gleamed as he reached it. He wrapped his hand around the steel and turned. The mechanism slid louder than it had any right to in the close hall, the sound a warning that carried through the room beyond. He didn't knock. Just threw the lock and pushed the door open.
Inside, Harper had nothing to do but listen for that sound.
She sat curled on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, toes hooked under the blanket. The room offered nothing else. A bed. A desk. Four walls the same flat color, air gone flat to match. No books or cards, nothing to put a hand on. Only the pipes groaning in the ceiling and the faint buzz of the hall light bleeding under the door. She'd spent the better part of an hour staring at the seam where the floor met the wall, letting her thoughts scatter and circle back until they went thin.
The scrape of the deadbolt cut through the silence and snapped her upright before she even thought to move. Steel grinding against steel—the sound always carried down the hall, and her body answered it like a reflex, every line of her tightening in the space of a breath.
She dragged her hair back from her face and locked her eyes on the door. He never knocked. He never called her name. The hinges gave a long groan and then the door swung inward, light from the hall slicing across the concrete floor until it brushed against her bare feet.
Brock stepped in. Same as always, except not. His hands were empty. No plate balanced against his arm, no tray dropped on the desk. Just him filling the doorway, shoulders set, the weight of his stare fixed on her.
Her stomach knotted, suspicion lacing through her chest as her gaze traced his empty hands. "What?" The word slipped out tighter than she meant. Her gaze searched his face, looking for the hit she'd missed. "What's wrong?"
Brock's voice came low, rough, like gravel caught in his throat. "If you're hungry, you come out for dinner."
She blinked at him, disbelief flashing quick across her face. "Sorry?"
His answer was his eyes, steady and unblinking. When he spoke again, his tone carried the weight of command, stripped of anything soft. "This isn't a test. It's just dinner. Get up."
Her jaw stayed tight, the silence stretching between them until it felt like it pressed against her ribs. Finally, she eased off the bed, bare feet whispering against the floor. Her arms folded across her midsection, a shield more than comfort, and she moved toward him in careful steps.
Brock didn't shift out of the doorway right away, making her close the distance before he finally gave her just enough space to slip past. When she did, she kept her head angled down, her hair sliding forward to hide the edge in her expression. She brushed close enough to catch the heat of him, then slunk into the hall with the wariness of someone crossing a tripwire.
He felt the hesitation in her gait, saw the way she wrapped herself in like she expected a blow. It made something in his jaw grind. This was dinner, nothing more—the fact she couldn't tell the difference sat heavier than he liked to admit.
He fell in behind her without a word, steps carrying them both back into the open space of the quarters where the sack still waited on the island.
Harper slid into a chair at the island, arms still tucked around herself until her eyes landed on the sack in the center. Grease stains marked the bag, and the corners sagged from the weight inside. Her shoulders eased a fraction, the suspicion in her face giving way to something closer to relief.
Brock caught the change, small as it was. It looked like, for once, she wasn't bracing for a trap or a test. The corners of his mouth tugged, the closest thing he'd shown to a smile in days. He reached into the cupboard, pulled down two plates, and set them on the counter with a solid clack.
"Hope you like Italian," he said, voice still gruff but carrying the faint edge of dry humor.
"I'm not picky," she murmured, voice low but steady.
Brock snorted, pulling the sack open and lifting out the warm aluminum pans. "I've seen what you eat at the cafeteria. I'd beg to differ."
Her eyes followed his hands as he worked the crimped lids loose, steam curling out in faint wisps. "If they made better food, maybe I'd eat more."
"That's why I get takeout so much," Brock muttered, setting a portion of pasta onto the plate in front of her.
She arched a brow at that, the faintest flicker of challenge in her expression. "You've got a whole kitchen here. Don't you cook?"
Brock glanced at her as he scooped pasta onto her plate. "I cook your breakfast, don't I?"
She huffed, arms folding tighter around her middle. "Oatmeal, protein bars, and sometimes scrambled eggs isn't what I mean."
His mouth twitched, but he didn't bite back. He set her plate down with a soft clink, reached for the second container, and started plating his own. "No," he said finally, voice flat. "I hate cooking."
She didn't answer, just watched him finish scooping his own portion. Brock reached into the bag again, pulled out foil-wrapped garlic bread, and split it between the plates with a quick toss.
He grabbed two forks from the drawer and slid one across to her, then set his plate down on the countertop. Finally he lowered himself into the chair beside her, posture heavy but settled, and something about the way he sat made it feel like this wasn't getting taken back.
She took the fork, fingers brushing the handle like she wasn't sure she should. The pasta sat steaming on the plate, richer than anything she'd been handed out of the mess. But it was the seat—the island, the way their plates sat side by side—that made her throat tighten.
She'd eaten with him almost every day. Lunch in the cafeteria, surrounded by noise and steel eyes and the shuffle of boots. That had felt like duty, part of training. This was different. His space. His table. The quiet here carried farther, magnifying every small sound until it seemed to press at her skin.
Brock dug into his serving like it was nothing, shoulders loose in the chair. He didn't look at her, just started eating, as if to show her this was ordinary—even if she couldn't quite believe it yet.
Harper twirled a small bite, the motion deliberate, like testing whether it was allowed, and lifted it to her mouth. She chewed in quiet, eyes on the plate. Brock ate beside her without comment. For a while, the only noise in the quarters was the muted clink of metal on china, both of them working through the meal as if the wordless stretch between them was another course they had to finish.
They kept at it until the plates sat nearly clean, the weight of the meal matching the weight in the air. When Harper set her fork down, Brock rose without a word, gathered both plates, and carried them to the sink. The clatter of ceramic on steel broke the quiet for the first time.
She slid down from the chair, bare feet touching cool tile, and lingered just long enough to find her voice. "Thanks," she murmured, "for letting me out to eat."
Then she turned, moving toward the hall.
Brock's voice cut after her, flat but firm. "Not yet."
Her steps faltered at his words, bare feet halting on the floor. She half-turned, eyes narrowing slightly, that old defiance bumping up hard against caution.
Brock nodded toward the open space of the quarters. "Sit. You're not going back in yet."
The bluntness left no room to argue, but it didn't land like an order on the mats. It sat heavier, quieter, like something he'd already set in his head and wasn't going to walk back.
Harper hesitated, then padded toward the couch, wrapping her arms tight across her middle again as she lowered herself onto the edge of the cushion. The leather felt foreign under her, softer than anything in her room, and she sat stiff-backed like she didn't know what to do with it. Her toes dug into the floor as if she might have to move fast if he changed his mind about letting her sit here.
Brock crossed the room and dropped onto the opposite end of the couch. The frame dipped under his weight, leather sighing, and the gap between them felt wider than the space itself. He leaned forward, rubbing a hand down his face once before letting it fall loose. The silence sat between them, thick enough that it pulled her attention outward.
Harper's eyes flicked around the room — the books stacked unevenly on a shelf, the TV sitting dark, the clutter of takeout menus in a drawer left cracked. Her gaze came back to him, cautious, almost searching.
Neither of them spoke. The quiet didn't dig under her skin the way it had at the island. It still felt awkward, but the longer it held, the more it thinned into something she could sit inside without bracing for impact.
Brock reached for the remote resting on the arm beside him. One press, and the TV blinked to life, the Netflix logo flaring red across the screen before rows of shows filled it.
Harper squinted at the sudden glow, then at him, suspicion flickering back into her eyes. "You watch Netflix?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Brock's mouth twitched, the faintest edge of amusement crossing his face. "Sometimes."
He set the remote on the cushion between them without looking her way. "Pick something."
Harper looked down at it, suspicion tugging at her mouth. "What, I get to choose now?"
"You're the one watching it," he said, voice even.
She picked the remote up slowly, like it might vanish if she moved too quick. The list of shows rolled under her thumb, choices blurring past. "Not much point if I don't know half of these."
"Figure it out," Brock said, dry but edged with something that almost sounded like amusement.
Her eyes flicked across to him, then back to the screen. "You really watch this crap?"
"Sometimes," he said. "Beats silence."
That drew a breath out of her — not quite a laugh, but lighter than the air had been. She sank back against the cushion, scrolling slower now, as if the tension had loosened by a notch.
Harper scrolled in silence until a bright cover caught her eye. She hovered there, studying the blurb.
Brock let out a low groan. "Not that."
Her head turned, eyes narrowing. "I thought I could pick?"
"You can," he said, the corner of his mouth tugging. "Just not something shitty."
She stared at him for a few seconds, then hit play with deliberate pressure. The screen shifted, theme music spilling out. "Well, now that you said it, this is what we're watching."
His groan deepened, half protest, half amusement. Harper settled back against the cushion with a faint, satisfied tilt to her mouth, as if she'd won something small but worth keeping.
The episode rolled on, bright voices spilling into the room. Harper sat angled toward the screen, remote balanced loosely in her hand. A gag landed, so dumb it almost didn't qualify as humor, and a laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it.
Brock shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Ridiculous."
Her mouth pulled into a smirk. "You're just mad I picked it."
"Because it's terrible," he shot back, though there wasn't much heat in it.
"Too late. You said I could choose." She tipped the remote toward him like proof.
He leaned back against the cushion, stretching his legs out, and didn't argue. The quiet that followed loosened, settling in the glow of the screen.
Harper's arms uncurled from around her middle. She sank deeper into the couch, shoulders dropping, hair slipping loose against her neck. Brock noticed in his periphery, the shift small but telling, and felt his own posture loosen without meaning to, something in him bristling at how easy it was.
The show went on, louder in some places, then quieter, the kind of noise that filled the edges of the room without needing either of them to speak.
Then another gag landed — worse than the last — and Harper let out a laugh, quick and unguarded. It wasn't much, just a bright slip of sound, but it caught Brock like a punch. He turned his head before he thought to stop himself.
For maybe the first time, she didn't look like a recruit or a captive or a fighter holding her ground. She looked like a girl watching TV, shoulders loose, eyes lit with something lighter than he'd ever seen on her.
As if she felt his gaze, the smile fell fast, erased as if she'd never let it slip at all. She straightened against the cushion, eyes locking on the screen like the laugh had been a mistake.
Brock dragged his attention back to the glow in front of them, jaw tight, the sound of her laugh still lodged somewhere he couldn't shake.
The show kept rolling, one episode sliding into the next. Harper stayed upright at first, posture stiff again after the slip of her laugh. But the longer the voices filled the room, the heavier her eyelids grew.
Her arms folded tighter, then loosened again. She shifted, curling slowly toward the far arm of the couch, legs drawn up, shoulder braced against the cushion. Her hair fell forward as she blinked against the pull of sleep.
Brock kept his eyes on the screen, but he caught the movement in his periphery. The small way she folded into herself, the weight in her head dipping lower each time she fought it. For once, she didn't have that ready-to-spring tension, that look of someone expecting a blow. She just looked tired.
The next round of dialogue from the TV faded into background noise as Harper slumped deeper against the couch, sleep pulling her under. Her breathing evened out, lashes still against her cheek, her frame curled toward the armrest.
Brock sat still, eyes fixed forward, until the faintest shiver ran through her shoulders. Subtle, but there. He let out a low breath, pushed himself up without a sound, and moved behind the couch. A folded blanket lay draped over the back. He pulled it down, circling back with a hand angled toward the remote on the cushion near her hip.
He laid the blanket across her as he reached, but her eyes snapped open the instant the weight touched.
She stirred, voice rough with sleep. "What're you—"
"You're falling asleep," Brock cut in, steady.
Harper pushed herself upright, the blanket sliding from her shoulder into her lap. "I can go to bed."
"No." His tone stayed flat, unbending. He settled back at his end of the couch, eyes on the TV. "It's fine. Stay here for now. I'm not tired."
Harper pushed herself higher against the cushions, dragging the blanket around her shoulders. Her jaw tightened, as if sheer will might keep her upright now that he'd caught her drifting. She kept her eyes fixed on the screen, posture rigid, forked light painting across her face.
Minutes stretched. The dialogue blurred. Her shoulders eased without her meaning to, head tilting until the blanket brushed her cheek. She shifted, curling in under the fabric, knees tucking as her body angled more comfortably into the couch. After a while her head settled closer to him than she'd meant, the nearness quiet but undeniable.
Brock didn't move. He sat in his corner, gaze locked on the TV, every sense wired to the faint weight of her there — the slow pull of her breathing, the warmth pressed under the same blanket.
Her stubborn fight to sit upright didn't last. Sleep dragged her down inch by inch until she slumped against the cushion, head drifting nearer his leg. By the time she stilled, a loose strand of hair brushed his thigh, feather-light, maddening.
Brock looked down. The flicker of the TV caught her face in flashes — lashes resting dark against her cheek, mouth softened, all that hard-edged tension bled away. She was right there, so close he could feel the ghost of her breath against his skin.
His chest cinched tight. His hand twitched, aching to sweep the stray hair back, to touch just once. Instead he curled his fingers into a fist against his knee, nails biting his palm, and dragged his gaze to the screen. The laugh track rattled thin in the room, wrong against the steady rhythm of her breathing.
He sat motionless, every nerve pulled taut, the distance between them no more than the width of a breath — and for him, an entire fault line.