They reached the diner's door—a squat brick box with fogged windows and a neon sign half burned out. Brock caught the handle and shouldered it open, a brass bell overhead giving a tired jingle. Heat and smell hit Harper first—grease that clung to the walls, old coffee, sugar burnt onto the griddle. The place was narrow, the kind of diner that had been there too long to care about fashion, and for a second she felt like she'd stepped sideways into somebody else's morning.
A counter ran down one side, stools bolted to the floor, red vinyl patched with tape where the seams had split. The booths along the windows sagged in the middle, laminate tabletops etched with initials and knife scars. A jukebox leaned in the corner, lights dead but coin slots still taped over with handwritten OUT OF ORDER.
Two men in work coats hunched over plates of eggs at the counter, not looking up. A waitress in sneakers darted between booths with a carafe of coffee, bracelets clinking as she poured. Somewhere in the back a fryer hissed, threading through the low murmur of voices and the scrape of forks. Harper's shoulders stayed tight under her jacket, every clink and scrape landing a little too loud after months of Syndicate concrete and steel.
A hostess in a black apron stepped out from behind the counter, smile worn thin but professional. "Two?" she asked, already reaching for menus.
Brock gave a single nod.
"Right this way." She led them down the line of booths and waved to one near the back, out of the glare from the windows.
The hostess dropped two laminated menus on the table, edges curled and corners worn soft. Harper slid into the booth first, pressing against the vinyl that gave a tired creak under her weight. Brock followed, setting himself across from her, broad shoulders filling the space until the table looked smaller than it was. He pulled off his cap, dragging a hand back through his hair before setting it on the seat beside him.
The hostess flipped open her order pad, pen ready. "What can I get you to drink?"
Harper leaned forward, smile bright and unguarded, the kind she hadn't shown anyone in months. "Iced tea, please. If it's sweet, even better. And extra ice if you don't mind." She tilted her head a little, softening the words with a warmth that made the hostess' expression shift from routine to genuine for the first time all morning.
"Of course," the woman said, scribbling it down, a small smile flickering back. She turned her gaze to Brock.
"Coffee," he said. "Black."
She gave a brisk nod and left them with the menus, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as she disappeared toward the counter.
Harper turned the menu over in her hands, studying the smudged photos and faded prices. For a moment it felt almost easy—ordinary—like she could just pick pancakes or a burger and be another face in the crowd.
But the longer she sat, the more the room pressed in. It wasn't the volume; Mess's cafeteria was worse. It was the way this noise had no shape, no leash. Strangers shifting in booths, a fork clattering too hard at the counter, a laugh breaking sudden from the door. At the compound, no one brushed her shoulder without knowing who sat at her table. They respected Brock, feared him when they had to, and that respect bled onto her whether she wanted it or not. Out here, none of that held.
"You're wound up," he said quietly.
Her fingers tightened on the menu until the laminate creaked. "It's just loud."
Brock leaned in just enough, voice low. "You're fine. Nobody here's looking at you."
Her shoulders eased a fraction at his words, the tightness in her grip loosening until the menu lay flat on the table again. She let the air out slow, eyes dropping back to the faded photos until they finally settled on something that looked good.
The hostess returned with their drinks—tall glass of iced tea sweating onto a napkin in front of Harper, a heavy mug of black coffee for Brock. She set them down with a practiced smile. "Ready to order?"
Harper nodded quickly. "Patty melt with fries, please. And if you've got extra pickles, I'll take them."
"Sure thing." The pen scratched the pad before the hostess turned.
Brock didn't bother with the menu. "Cheeseburger. No onions."
"Coming right up." She gathered the menus and slipped away toward the counter, leaving the iced tea cold at Harper's hand and the coffee steaming between them.
Harper wrapped her fingers around the sweating glass of tea but didn't drink yet. She let her gaze wander instead, tracing the scuffed linoleum tiles, the cracks in the vinyl booths, the faded photos of baseball teams tacked on the wall above the counter. A waitress laughed at something one of the workmen said, bracelets chiming as she poured, and Harper found herself smiling at the sound without meaning to.
Across from her, Brock didn't touch his coffee. He sat steady, gaze not on the room but on her, watching the small shifts in her shoulders, the way her expression eased when she thought no one was paying attention. In the dim light she looked younger than he was used to seeing her, out of place in cargo pants and taped wrist, eyes wide as though she were cataloguing the world one detail at a time. The longer they sat, the more the tension bled out of her frame, leaving her quiet and curious in a way that reminded him she wasn't built only for concrete and gun smoke.
Her eyes lifted from the baseball photos and found his fixed on her. She cocked her head, mouth tugging faintly. "What?"
Brock didn't look away, didn't fidget. "Nothing. Just making sure you're settled."
She huffed a soft laugh through her nose, shaking her head, and finally took a sip of her tea. The glass clinked down on the coaster. "You stare like I'm going to bolt for the door."
Brock's mouth barely moved. "You wouldn't get far."
She smirked, leaning her elbows on the table. "Not with that attitude."
He lifted his coffee, took a slow drink, eyes still steady on her over the rim. "You're not as sneaky as you think."
Harper rolled the straw between her fingers, pretending to study the condensation on her glass. "Good thing I'm not trying."
The corner of his mouth almost shifted, but then the plates clattered in the pass-through window and the sound of their food being set up pulled the moment away.
The plates landed heavy on the table—patty melt steaming on Harper's side, cheeseburger planted in front of Brock. The fries smelled like salt and oil, fresh from the basket.
"Careful, they're hot," the hostess warned, sliding a small dish of pickles onto the corner of Harper's plate with a wink before she moved off again.
Harper didn't wait. She picked up half the melt, cheese stretching in long strings, and bit down like she hadn't eaten in days. Grease hit her tongue, perfect and heavy, and she shut her eyes for a second before chasing it with iced tea.
She set her sandwich down, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and caught his gaze sliding past her shoulder, tracking the room. Her lips curved before she could stop them. "Nobody here's looking at you."
He didn't answer, eyes staying on the space beyond her.
She leaned back in the booth, voice light. "Figures. Too busy watching everyone else to notice me."
Brock finally looked at her then, just a brief lock of eye contact that carried more than he chose to say. He went back to his burger without comment.
They worked through the rest of the meal in an easy quiet. Harper ate until the plate was bare, iced tea drained to clinking ice. When she finally sat back, a lazy heaviness had settled in her limbs, the sharp edge of hunger gone. Brock hadn't rushed her, just finished his own burger and let the silence sit between them like part of the booth.
When the plates cleared and the check came, Brock slid a few bills onto the tray without comment. The server whisked it away, and Harper tipped her head, mischief edging into her smile.
"You paid," she said, sing-song light. "So it was a date."
Brock's eyes cut to hers, steady. "You don't even have a wallet. Unless you're planning on dining and dashing, I don't have a choice."
Her laugh came quick, soft enough not to draw eyes, and she shook her head, still grinning as she reached for the last pickle on her plate.
** ** **
Night pressed against the windows, glass black enough to throw back the lamplight instead of letting anything through. The compound outside was quiet, only the occasional sweep of headlights moving along the perimeter.
The leather couch held Harper easy, cushions softened to her shape as if they'd been waiting. She'd stretched out sideways, sweatpants loose at her hips, a tank falling casual against her frame. Bare feet brushed the armrest, toes flexing once in absent rhythm as her eyes traced the page.
In the week since Skiv, days had slid into a rhythm they never named. Brock kept his word about the fridge, so she kept hers about breakfast—coffee already going when he came out of the shower, eggs or toast or whatever she could throw together before training. Midday they joined Nolan and the others in the cafeteria, trays and noise and the slow work of learning the crew one story at a time. When the day bled out, he left her room unlocked and didn't tell her where she had to be. At first she stayed on her own bed anyway, unsure if stepping past that threshold into the main room was really hers to do. Eventually she started drifting out with a book or a question that didn't need an answer, and he still never sent her back. Some nights she raided the fridge again and put together simple dinners just to avoid living on takeout. Somewhere in that quiet accumulation of choices, his couch turned into the place her body remembered how to unclench.
Her hair was down now, falling across her shoulders, strands catching the lamp glow when she shifted. The paperback lay balanced in her hands, open at the middle, spine bent from someone else's years of reading. She turned a page slow, the sound soft in the room, then let her weight sink deeper, body slack in a way it never was outside these walls.
She curled onto her side, knees tucked in as the book tilted against them. The couch leather sighed under the movement, its cushions swallowing her until she looked cocooned there instead of sprawled. Another page went over under her thumb, eyes narrowing a fraction as if the words were asking more of her than she felt like giving.
A flat crack of paper broke the quiet—Brock dragging a map across the island counter, palms flattening it against the wood. Her gaze flicked over without meaning to. He'd been there an hour already, sleeves pushed high, paperwork stacked in uneven piles beside him. Files lay open under the lamp glow, corners curled, his pen resting in the notch of his fingers while he scanned another line.
She watched him for a minute, chin tucked into the crook of her arm, book forgotten at her knees. The scratch of his pen, the low shuffle of papers, the steady patience of it—he could've been carved there.
At last she set the paperback on the coffee table, spine up, and uncurled from the couch. Bare feet padded across the floor as she crossed into the small kitchen. Cabinet door, the quiet rattle of glass, then the sink running low while she filled it halfway.
Brock didn't look up until she turned back, glass in hand, water sloshing against the rim. His palm flattened another folder, holding it in place under the lamplight.
"What's all that?" she asked, tilting her chin at the spread across the counter.
She sipped her water, leaning against the counter now, eyes on him. He finished the line he was writing, pen scratching over the margin of a map, and didn't answer right away.
When the silence stretched, she tilted her head. "Well?"
Brock finally set the pen down, rubbing a hand over his jaw before looking at her. "Routes. For an upcoming job."
Her brows went up. "What kind of job?"
He held her stare for a moment, then pushed the folder aside, the edges of the map curling back on themselves. "Remember the two trucks we pulled off the Maw?"
"Yeah." She said it without hesitation, glass lowering to the counter.
He nodded once. "We're moving them out of the city. About a week from now."
The glass felt heavy in her hand now, cold sweating down her palm. She set it back on the counter before it slipped. "Am I going?" The question came quiet, but she couldn't stop the edge of dread that curled in her gut.
Brock paused, eyes still on the papers. For a moment it looked like he'd leave it there. Then he exhaled slow and lifted his gaze to her. "Yes. You're coming."
Something in her middle lurched, though she kept her face still. "Doing what?"
"Rear guard," he said. "With Nolan. That's what I've got planned for now." His hand tapped once on the edge of the map before he folded it closed. "That's why we practiced in the Tahoe today."
She didn't answer. Her stomach knotted in a slow, heavy twist, the kind that made her throat tight. It wasn't Nolan putting that weight in her chest, and it wasn't the thought of riding tail in a Tahoe. It was the count. The clock. This would be her second job, the last one before Vex decided if she was worth keeping or if she wasn't. Now there was an end date.
Brock's eyes lifted, catching her silence, the way she stood too still. He took it for nerves. "I'll be on the job too. Up front of the convoy." He shifted one file aside, steady as ever. "Nolan is a good partner."
Her eyes flicked to him, quick and weak, before she managed a nod. "Okay."
He watched her a moment longer, hearing how her voice went flat, noting how her shoulders stayed tight even when she tried to smooth them out. He didn't buy it. The quiet stretched between them, papers spread under his hands, until something settled in his gaze.
"Harper." His voice dropped, steady but firmer. "I know this is the last job before Vex makes his call."
She went still, fingers tightening on the glass where it sat on the counter.
"You don't need to be afraid of that." He leaned forward, forearms braced on the island. "When this job's done, the timer's off your head. You won't be waiting for his knife. You'll be under me, not him. That's where it stops."
Her breath caught rough, words tumbling out before she could pull them back. "If I don't fuck it up. If he just decides I'm not worth it, even if I do everything right, if—"
"Harper." Brock's voice cut clean across hers. "Look at me."
She did.
"You have nothing to worry about." His tone was iron, solid enough to feel like it could pin her in place. "This is the last run he gets over you, not the last run you get. You'll make it through this one, and you'll keep working. It doesn't end here."
Her chest tightened, the floor of her stomach dropping out. He sounded so sure, as if the outcome wasn't up for debate. As if Vex's decision, the knife she felt at her throat every day, couldn't touch her so long as Brock said it.
She searched his face, eyes narrowing like she could peel back the surface and catch the lie underneath—some crack, some shift that would show he was only shoring her up for tonight.
But his expression held. No hesitation, no slide away. Just him, steady as stone, like the words had been carved there long before she asked for them.
Her throat worked once, dry, and she gave a small nod. "Okay."
The word came quiet, but it held.