Harper drifted up through a haze, her body heavy, thoughts refusing to fall into place. Something soft pressed under her cheek, not the thin mattress she was used to, but smoother, cooler, with a faint give that didn't belong. A blanket clung crooked across her shoulder, sliding when she shifted, and the pull of stitches along her side tugged her further awake.
She blinked, lids sticking, the room around her blurring into view in pieces—the stretch of floor, the edge of a low table, muted light spilling across walls wider than her own. Confusion pricked at her, slow but insistent, until the pieces settled into something undeniable. The couch. His living room. She was sprawled where she had no business waking up. The realization slammed through her and she bolted upright, the blanket falling into her lap, heart thudding as if she'd been caught.
She scrubbed a hand over her face, trying to chase the sleep from her eyes, and glanced around the room. Empty. The kitchen sat still, the hall quiet, nothing moving. Her gaze snagged on the door, and for a breath her chest clenched, then loosened as she spotted the boots left neatly by the frame. He hadn't gone anywhere. He was still here. The truth crept in as she blinked, mind stitching the pieces together. She'd fallen asleep, and instead of waking her, instead of sending her back behind the bolt, he'd left her on the couch and gone to his own bed. The thought sat strange in her chest. She was in his living room. The door out to the hall stood just feet away, nothing on this side to stop her hand from turning the knob. No lock. Nothing but choice.
Harper pushed herself up, the blanket slipping off her shoulders, her feet bare against the cool floor. She stood there for a long moment, eyes fixed on the door. The compound waited on the other side—hallways, boots, gunmetal, every route she couldn't take sitting just an arm's length away. Her chest tightened as she stared at the knob, at how nothing barred her from touching it. But her hand didn't move. Instead she turned, gaze drifting down the hall toward the spare room she still thought of as hers. The bed sat there waiting, narrow and familiar, and the thought came that maybe this was an accident. Maybe he hadn't meant to leave her out here at all, hadn't realized she'd stayed under until morning. Maybe if she just slipped back, tucked herself in before he woke, it would all slide past unnoticed.
She moved toward the hall, but the glow on the stove caught her eye. 6:45. Early for her. Not for him. Her jaw feathered as she paused, gaze sliding down the corridor. His door was closed, hers still open, the room inside waiting like nothing had shifted. The difference pressed against her chest, stark and plain. She drew a breath through her nose, slow and tight, then turned back into the kitchen. The fridge gave under her hand with a low suction pop, spilling cold light across the counters as she leaned into it.
Her mouth pulled in as she stared into the open space. He hadn't been lying—he really didn't like to cook. Half a pack of eggs sat crooked on the shelf beside a tub of margarine and a bag of shredded cheese. A stack of takeout containers leaned against the back wall, grease bleeding through the cardboard, one of them old enough that the sauce inside had gone solid. Cold cuts sagged in their plastic wrap, corners curling where the seal had split. A couple bottles of beer crowded the bottom shelf alongside a single protein shake, dust of frost clinging to the plastic. Condiments cluttered the door—mustard, hot sauce, an open jar of pasta sauce half-forgotten.
She lingered there a moment, frowning at the mess, before pulling the eggs, margarine, and cheese out onto the counter. When she shut the door, her eyes caught on a loaf of bread perched on top of the fridge, slouched against the wall in its sleeve. She rose onto her toes, reached up to hook it down, and dropped it beside the rest.
She didn't reach for the eggs right away. Instead her gaze flicked to the hall, to the closed door at the far end. The thought snuck in, that he could wake and catch her digging through his kitchen like she belonged there. Her jaw worked once, then she blew out a slow breath and tugged open the nearest cabinet. A jumble of mismatched dishes crowded the shelves. She pushed past them until her hand closed on a squat toaster, cord coiled around its base, and set it on the counter beside the loaf. The next cabinet gave her chipped mugs and a dust-coated colander. She dug deeper, fingers knocking against metal, until she wrestled a skillet out from where it was wedged behind a pot. The scrape rang too loud in the stillness, but she laid it down with the rest, pulse climbing in her throat.
She twisted the knob on the stove, the burner clicking before a blue flame curled to life. The skillet clattered into place over it, metal warming under her hand. As she turned back, her eyes caught on the coffee maker tucked in the corner. She stepped closer, studying the machine like it might betray her, then lifted the carafe and filled it from the sink. Water sloshed soft against the glass as she set it back in place. A cabinet above gave her rows of expired spices and, shoved to the back, a canister of grounds. She pulled it down, peeled the lid, and scooped dark coffee into the filter before pressing the button. The machine hummed to life, a low gurgle rising as the first thin trickle poured through.
** ** **
The smell dragged him out of sleep before the light reached him, bitter and slow as it threaded through the walls and curled under his door. Brock pushed a breath through his nose, eyes cracking open to the dim wash of morning pressing past the blinds. The room resolved in familiar lines: dresser drawers closed tight, shirts stacked in rigid folds; a handgun on the nightstand, spare magazines lined precise on the shelf above. Everything sat where it belonged, bare and orderly, just the essentials. The only softness lay under him, the wide bed layered in dense quilts, heavy and plush, the one luxury he let himself keep.
He pushed to his feet, the quilt sliding off his legs, sweatpants slung low on his hips from the night. He hitched them higher with one hand, the other dragging across his chest in a thoughtless scratch before raking back through his hair. Bare skin prickled in the cool air, muscles stiff from sleep, and he kept moving anyway.
Harper had still been curled on the couch when he finally shut down the TV, breath even, lashes sunk against her cheeks. He'd stood over her for a long moment, weighing whether to wake her and send her back down the hall to her own bed. The way she looked—still, at ease in a way he rarely saw—had tipped him toward leaving her where she was. It was a risk, leaving her in the open like that, with nothing between her and the door. Even if she did make it through, the gates downstairs would've stopped her before she got far, and some quiet part of him doubted she'd even try.
Now the faint smell of coffee in the air carried its own answer; she wasn't just awake, she was moving in his kitchen.
He twisted the handle and eased the door open, stepping into the dim corridor. The air outside was warmer, laced with the same edge that had pulled him from sleep, and his steps carried him toward the kitchen, the low hum of the coffee maker filling the silence.
Harper stood at the stove, turned slightly side-on to him, shoulders set tight under the thin fabric of her shirt. The skillet hissed where it met the flame, her hand steady on the handle as she worked the eggs. Hair mussed from sleep fell loose around her face, a few strands brushing the line of her jaw each time she moved. Her bare feet pressed into the tile, toes curling against the cool surface, and steam from the pan lifted into the morning light. For a moment she seemed carved into the space like she'd always belonged there.
She didn't notice him. He lingered in the doorway, silent, watching her move until the quiet stretched thin. Then he cleared his throat, soft but deliberate.
She froze. The spatula hung in her hand, breath caught, before she turned toward him.
"What are you doing?" His voice came from the doorway, steady, not unkind.
Her mouth opened, faltered, then she managed, "Making breakfast."
His brow lifted a fraction. "I make breakfast."
Color rose faint across her cheeks as she turned back to the stove, nudging the eggs with the edge of the spatula. This had seemed reasonable when she was alone in the kitchen. With him here, it felt reckless. "You said you hate cooking."
He started to speak, mouth parting, but the words stalled. His jaw flexed once before he shut it again, silence pressing in where a reply should have been.
The quiet between them grew dense, heavier in her chest than the hiss from the pan. Heat climbed up her neck, the spatula suddenly clumsy in her hand. She looked down at the skillet, the eggs already firming, every part of her straining to bolt back to her room and pretend she'd never walked out here.
He caught the shift in her shoulders, the hesitation in her movements. His jaw eased, the edge in his posture softening as he finally spoke.
"It's fine," he said, low and steady. "You're not in my way."
Relief loosened something tight in her chest, chased quick by a flicker of surprise. She hadn't expected him to read her that easily, let alone answer it. Her eyes cut toward him, a quick searching glance, before she turned back to the pan.
Brock pushed off the doorway and stepped into the kitchen, brushing past her. The faint heat of him grazed her shoulder before he reached the cabinet, pulled down a mug, and filled it from the pot she'd started. He didn't say anything more, just settled into a chair at the island, the scrape of wood on tile breaking the quiet as he took his first swallow.
She slid the pan off the flame and reached for the toaster, dropping two slices of bread inside with a soft click. "Hope you like fried egg sandwiches," she said over her shoulder, voice low but steady enough. "Didn't have much else to work with."
Brock leaned back in the chair, mug balanced in one hand, eyes steady on her. "I don't mind that at all."
The toaster popped, and she caught the slices on their way up, setting them flat on a plate. She smeared margarine across the surface, quick strokes that melted into the heat, then coaxed the eggs from the skillet onto the bread. A scatter of shredded cheese followed, softening as it touched the yolk. Without glancing up, she slid the plate across the island to him, the scrape of china low against the counter, before reaching for two more slices to start her own.
Brock bit into the sandwich, the crunch of toast and the run of yolk cutting through the quiet. He chewed once, twice, then asked, "What made you decide to cook?"
"Like I said," she answered, sliding her own eggs onto toast, "you don't like to cook. And I wanted to feel useful." She rounded the island with her plate in hand, sliding into the chair beside him. The offer sat there, thin and a little raw, but it was what she had. After a bite she added, almost tentative, "If you want, I can do breakfast every morning."
He blinked at her, mug paused halfway to his mouth.
She rose before he could answer and crossed to the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee. Behind her, his voice followed, low. "You don't have to. But I won't stop you."
She pulled the carafe back, went to the fridge for cream, then rooted through the cupboards until she found sugar. "I will," she said, shaking a packet into the mug, "if you stock the fridge better."
Her words lingered in the air as she stirred cream into her cup, then carried it back to the island. She slid into the chair beside him again, pulling her plate close and lifting the sandwich to her mouth like nothing else needed saying.
Brock watched her from the side, the crunch of bread, the easy set of her shoulders as she settled back into the seat. He let his gaze drop to his own plate, kept his posture steady, but the truth was closer than he'd admit—he hadn't expected her to cook, hadn't expected her to move around his kitchen like it was hers to claim. The surprise sat in his chest, quiet, leaving him with nothing but the taste of egg and the faint curl of steam between them.
They ate without words for a while, the low hum of the coffee maker filling the room. Harper kept her eyes on her plate, chewing slower than she needed to, the silence carrying farther than it ever had in this place. For once it didn't bite; it just sat between them, steady.
Brock finished his sandwich, brushed a crumb from his hand, and leaned back in the chair. His eyes cut to her, steady, deliberate.
"There's a job tonight."
Her head came up, the crust of her sandwich forgotten in her hand. "I'm on it?"
"You are," he said. His voice stayed flat, without any edge to it, just fact. "It won't be like the last one. Cleaner. We've got an office staked out—front's empty, real work happens in a locked room at the back. The Maw is keeping data there. Vex wants it."
She set the sandwich down, wiping her hand on her thigh. "So what's my part?"
"You get us in." He folded his arms on the table, shoulders broad, voice quiet but firm. "Ceiling duct runs over the room. You drop through, pop the lock from inside, and open it up for Nolan and me. In and out. No firefight unless something goes sideways."
Her mouth tugged, uncertain. "That's it? Just open a door?"
"That's it," Brock said. He held her gaze, steady. "You can handle it."
Something twisted under her ribs—half relief, half dread. First of the last two jobs, and all he wanted was a lock opened. If she stumbled on something this simple, Vex wouldn't need a third call. She reached for her coffee instead of answering, letting the steam rise between them while she worked the math in her head.
She finished the sandwich in a few quiet bites, then rose and carried both plates to the sink. Water hissed against porcelain as she rinsed them down, her hands moving fast and careful.
Brock watched her from the island, coffee cradled in his hand. "The job's not until late tonight," he said at last. "You've got the day off until then."
She glanced over her shoulder, brow ticking up. "Day off?"
"I've got prep to handle," he went on, steady. "I'll be in and out. But you can move around in here. Free rein. I'm trusting you to stay put and not pull anything stupid. If you break that, it's back in the room until Vex decides if you're in or out."
"I understand," she said quickly, almost too quick. The word stuck for a second on her tongue, wrapped around the fact that he was saying trusting and leaving her loose in the same breath.
The corner of his mouth tugged, a faint smirk breaking through. "Good. Then make sure you get some rest in. Don't need you nodding off in the middle of a job."
Her eyes narrowed, the ghost of a smirk answering his. "I don't fall asleep on the job."
"Good thing watching TV isn't a job," he returned, his voice low, dry amusement flickering through.
She huffed under her breath and reached for her mug, fingers curling around the warmth. Day off. One job tonight. Another after that if Vex let her have it. And a full stretch of hours in his quarters with the hall door on the far side of the room, nothing between her and it but what she chose.
** ** **
The lot behind the office building ran on sodium orange and long shadows. Brock cut the engine, and the Charger sagged into stillness, dash clock freezing at 01:28. For a moment no one moved, the air inside holding steady and close.
He looked back at them—Nolan sitting broad-shouldered beside Harper, both shadows in the rear seat. His voice stayed low, clipped. "South service entrance, blind spot in the exterior cams. Briggs tested the door yesterday—easy to jimmy."
Nolan lifted the hooked wire from his lap, coiled in a figure-eight, and gave a short nod.
"From there we take the stairs to eight. Room's just off the stairwell—no cameras in the stairs or hall, but there's a dome cam inside."
Brock reached down, pulled a slim bar of steel from the floorboard, and set it across Harper's knees. "Vent bar. I'll get the closet panel open and boost you in. Once you're in the ducts, you crawl it out yourself. At the far end you'll use this to pop the grate above the room."
Her hand closed over the bar, cold weight biting into her palm.
"Soon as you drop, camera's on your right. Tape it fast. That's our window."
His gaze cut to Nolan. "We'll hold at the stairwell door. Glass panel—we'll see you hit. You open up, Nolan pulls the data, I cover the hall. Then we're gone."
Brock leaned back, eyes steady on both of them. "Should be quick. Quiet. Clean."
Cold air rolled in when the doors opened; concrete breathed cleaner and old rain. Brock stepped out first, boots hitting the lot, Nolan following from the far side. Harper slid out after them, tugging the vent bar from her lap and slipping it up her sleeve where the steel rested cool against her arm. No vest tonight—just leggings, a fitted long-sleeve, sidearm at her hip and the knife she never left behind. Brock and Nolan moved heavier, vests cinched, carbines slung tight across their chests.
Brock lifted a palm—hold—then two fingers—move—and they ghosted along the edge of the lot toward the south service entrance where the cameras didn't bother to look.
The door was an old steel pair with a tired crash bar and weatherstrip chewed to felt. Nolan set his shoulder to the jamb, slipped his hook between the leaves, and worked the latch until the bar gave a muted hiccup. The seal burped, and gray stairwell opened beyond. Brock caught the edge with two fingers and eased it just wide enough to pass. Inside smelled like concrete and lemon cleaner. The stair light was off. He let the door whisper shut to the catch without a click, lifted his hand, and started them climbing.
Their boots carried soft on concrete, the stairwell swallowing each step into the hollow dark. Harper kept her breathing steady, eyes fixed on the broad backs ahead, Brock's vest a block of black just above, Nolan a shadow at his side. Floor numbers ticked by in peeling paint until the landing opened on eight. Nolan raised a fist and they froze. He pressed his ear to the steel, listening, then leaned his weight into the crash bar. The latch gave with a quiet click, and he eased the door a hand's width.
Linoleum stretched pale under the hallway lights. Just a few paces down sat their mark, a heavy steel door with the top half reinforced glass. Inside, the fluorescents were already humming, throwing hard light over a server stack that rose like a black spine against the far wall. The red blink of the dome camera burned steady from the corner.
Brock leaned close to the door, voice kept to a whisper. "Stay here." Nolan gave the smallest nod, and as Brock lifted two fingers to Harper—with me—Nolan's gaze slid to her. A quick look, steady, almost reassuring, before he turned back to his post.
Brock eased into the corridor, Harper on his heels, and together they moved silent past the target room until he shouldered open the narrow janitor closet further down the hall. The door whispered shut behind them, the air inside stale.
The closet was barely more than a square, linoleum underfoot, a mop bucket shoved into the corner, shelves lined with rags and bleach. Overhead, a ceiling panel sagged slightly, dust clinging to its edges.
Brock held out a hand without looking at her. Harper slid the vent bar from her sleeve and set the steel across his palm. He rose onto the tips of his boots, shoulders brushing the shelving as he braced the bar under the lip of the panel. Muscles bunched through his arms as he levered upward, the square shifting with a faint groan before it gave. He caught it, lowering the panel aside with a careful twist, then handed the bar back to her. The weight settled cold against her palm, the tool hers again, while he steadied the open gap above.
Harper slid the bar back under her sleeve, tucking the steel snug against her arm. When she looked up, Brock had already turned toward her, one hand still braced on the open gap. His eyes caught hers, steady, and he gave the smallest nod. "You've got this," he said quietly. "Ready?"
A breath hissed out through her nose, tight with nerves, but she managed a nod.
Brock bent under the gap, lacing his fingers together. "Foot here."
Harper set her boot into his palms, the vent bar snug against her sleeve. One hand braced on his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt warm under her palm, while he dipped and then drove upward. She rose with the push of his legs, steadying herself on him until the frame came within reach. Then her grip shifted, fingers catching metal as she pulled while he lifted, carrying her chest to the lip. Dust sifted down as her knees scraped over the edge and she wriggled into the dark run above.
From below he watched her vanish, boots scuffing once against the frame before the duct swallowed her whole. More dust drifted down, catching in his hair, then the space settled into quiet, just the dark opening overhead. Brock steadied the panel against the wall, gave the gap one last glance, and slipped out of the closet. His steps went soundless back down the hall until Nolan came into view at the stairwell door, waiting in shadow.
Nolan's eyes cut to him. "She's up?"
Brock nodded once. "Moving."
Nolan turned back toward the hall, gaze fixed on the heavy door down the way. "Then we wait."
Through the crack of the stairwell door, Brock kept his eyes fixed on the target room. Fluorescents glared steady, server stack harsh in the light. For a moment nothing moved. Then a figure slipped out from behind the rack, head bent to a tablet, steps easy, like he belonged there.
Brock's gut iced. Not security. The jacket was wrong, the gear cut different, the weapon carried low in a style he knew too well. Maw.
His chest clamped tight. Fuck. He should've put a comm in her ear, given her something. Now she was blind in the duct, heading straight toward him.
Nolan froze too—just a breath. His shoulders eased, eyes narrowing. When he spoke, his voice stayed low, steady where Brock's wasn't. "She's kitted. Sidearm, knife. She'll see him and adjust."
The duct pressed close on every side, metal popping faintly under her weight. Harper dragged herself forward on her elbows, the vent bar slipping against her sleeve, breath loud in the tight space. Each pull scraped grit under her arms, grit coating her tongue when she swallowed it back.
The glow ahead resolved into lines, light leaking through the slats of a grate. She slowed, pushing inch by inch until her face hovered over the opening. The room lay below, fluorescent wash hard against her eyes. From this angle all she caught was the top edge of the server stack, cables threaded like black veins down its back.
She steadied her breath, then slid the vent bar free. Awkward in the narrow crawl, she worked it against the lip of the grate. The steel squealed faint, the sound scraping along her nerves, before the corner gave. She wrenched harder, levering the frame until the screws loosened in their sockets and the panel sagged.
Harper caught the grate with her free hand before it could drop, holding it steady, her pulse racing as the opening yawned under her. She shifted the grate aside and set it gently in the duct behind her, heart hammering. She wriggled forward until her waist cleared the opening, then twisted onto her stomach. Seven feet down. Too far to drop without sound, too far to reach without help.
She braced her forearms on the duct's lip, boots sliding out into the empty air. For a moment her body hung half out, the bar clutched tight against her sleeve. She bent her knees, searching, until the toes of her boots found the server stack below. Slow. Careful. She let her weight settle onto it, crouching into the metal frame before easing herself the rest of the way to the floor.
The fluorescents hummed overhead, harsh light glaring on linoleum. The door lay hidden behind the black column of servers, only the glass panel's glow bleeding through. Harper's gaze snapped to the dome camera fixed in the corner, exactly where Brock had said it would be. Red light steady.
She yanked the tape from her pouch, tore off a strip, and leapt onto a chair shoved to the wall. One slap, firm and sure, the adhesive sealing over the lens. The red blink vanished under gray tape.
She dropped back to the floor, the tape still clinging to her fingers, and slipped around the bulk of the server stack toward the door. Her boots carried quiet on the linoleum, eyes already fixed on the crash bar she needed to hit.
Then a shape came out from the far side, sudden and close.
Harper stopped dead, lungs seizing. The man did the same, eyes going wide. She knew him in an instant—height, the easy set of his shoulders, wavy black hair falling into his eyes—and her mind still tried to throw it out as impossible. Her hand was already moving, snapping down toward her holster, fingers closing on the grip of her sidearm.
"Harp?"
His voice landed before the gun cleared leather, same rough edge, same cadence from another life.
The sound of her name in his mouth ripped through her. The room narrowed to him, fluorescent hum blurring under the rush in her ears.
Her fingers stayed locked around the grip, too tight to draw or let go. "Skiv?"