"Move," Harper told him, tipping her head toward the cupboard behind him.
Brock stepped aside just enough for her to pass, catching her mug off the counter on the way. He filled it from the pot and set it back in her reach. "You're bossy before caffeine."
"That's funny, coming from you," she replied, turning back to the stove. The burner clicked under the skillet, the first strips of bacon hissing as they hit the heat.
He smirked but stayed close, posted at the counter, watching as she cracked the first egg into a small bowl. She reached for the block of cheddar, grating a loose handful into the mix and whisking until the streaks of yellow disappeared into the pale foam. Coffee steamed between them, the quiet settled and easy, two people sharing the same kitchen without crowding each other.
Harper tugged the fridge door open, cool air spilling against her arms. Bell peppers, eggs, milk—the things she'd joked about that first morning she tried cooking—lined the shelves now. Some nights she found herself at the stove again while he worked at the island, their evenings settling into a quiet pattern she still didn't quite name. She grabbed a pepper, her nail peeling off the sticker, and shut the door with her hip.
Harper set it on the board, knife moving in quick, practiced strokes. The pieces tapped against wood in an even rhythm before she scraped them into the bowl and folded them in with a few quick turns of the whisk.
Only then did she clock him still parked by the counter, mug in hand like he had nowhere else to be. She shot him a sideways glance. "If you're planning to stand there all morning, I might let yours burn."
His brow lifted just enough to register. "That a threat?"
"It's a promise," she said, flipping a piece with deliberate slowness.
Brock let the corner of his mouth twitch, a ghost of a smirk, then eased back from the stove, apparently willing to take her at her word. He crossed to the island and slid into his seat, coffee in hand, the chair legs dragging soft against the floor. He didn't say another word, just settled in at the island, steady, watching her work the pans like she was running a drill instead of breakfast.
Harper lifted the bacon out one strip at a time, setting them on a paper towel to bleed off the grease. She thumbed the dial lower, tipped the bowl, and let the eggs slide into the skillet with a hiss. The spatula scraped slow arcs through the yellow while she leaned to pop the toaster, rhythm neat and practiced as if she'd done it here a hundred mornings.
At the island, Brock sat quiet, coffee cooling in his hand. His eyes followed her—not the food, but the way she moved, easy in his kitchen like it was hers too. He didn't smile or shift, just let his gaze stay on her past the point it needed to, face steady, whatever slipped under it kept to himself.
The eggs firmed quick under the spatula, steam rising soft as she scraped them into folds. Toast popped and she caught the slices barehanded, stacking them beside the bacon before sliding both plates onto the counter. One she nudged across to him, the scrape of ceramic low against the wood. The other she lifted and carried around, dropping into the chair beside his with the quiet ease of someone who'd claimed the seat before.
They ate without hurry, the faint tap of forks and the soft tick of cooling metal filling the space between them. Harper sipped her coffee, letting the warmth work its way into her hands before setting the mug down again.
"You used more cheese this time," Brock said, not looking up from his plate.
"That a complaint or a compliment?"
"It's an observation." He kept his eyes on his breakfast, took another bite, but the corner of his mouth pulled in like he was keeping the rest to himself.
She smirked faintly, nudging a strip around her plate. "Good one or bad one?"
He didn't answer, and she let it slide. They finished their plates at an easy pace, the occasional scrape of forks the only sound over the faint click of metal settling. Harper tore off a piece of toast, dragging it through the yolk-soft scramble, then glanced sideways at him.
"So what's the plan today? More driving? Range?"
Brock cut into his eggs, finished the bite before answering. "No. I've got some last-minute tightening up to do with Nolan for tomorrow." He reached for his coffee, took a slow drink, then set the mug down again. "Figured we'll keep it light this morning. Maybe head to the track."
Her fork slowed, the reminder of tomorrow settling low in her stomach. The escort job. Do or die. The thought pressed hard against her ribs, but she shoved it down and kept her voice light.
"Track, huh? About time. I used to love running," she said, leaning just far enough to swipe a strip of bacon from his plate before he could guard it. She took the end into her mouth, chewing with a smug little lift to her brows, eyes flicking up to catch his reaction.
Brock's fork stalled halfway to his mouth. He looked at her, brow tilting. "You stealing my bacon now?"
"Borrowing," she said around the mouthful, grin tugging.
His hand came up steady, fingers pinching the other end still hanging from her lips. He drew it away, dropped the mangled strip back onto his plate, and didn't even blink.
"Then I'm taking it back." His tone stayed mild, as if that settled the matter.
Harper jabbed her fork into her scramble, mouth twisting. "You're impossible."
That earned the faintest line at the corner of his mouth. "You steal off my plate and I'm the problem," he said, reaching for his coffee. "Interesting."
Harper huffed once through her nose and chased the last of her eggs across the plate.
They took their time with what was left, plates scraped clean while the smell of bacon lingered warm in the air. Harper pushed hers back, then stacked both and carried them to the sink. Water splashed as she set them down, her hair sliding forward until she brushed it behind her shoulder.
Brock leaned back in his chair, mug empty, eyes on her as she dried her hands on a dish towel. "Go get changed," he said, voice even. "Something for running. We'll head out soon."
She nodded and left the kitchen, slipping into her room and shutting the door behind her. Cargo pants hit the floor in favor of black running shorts and a fitted tank, fabric soft from years of wear, light enough to move with her instead of against her. She scraped her hair into a high ponytail, tugging it tight until it sat firm at the crown of her head. When she straightened, the forked tail of her viper tattoo curved into view just below the hem of her shorts, the coils winding down the back of her thigh before tapering above her knee.
When she stepped out, Brock was waiting against the wall opposite, dark track pants and a plain black T-shirt making him look like he'd been cut out of the shadow there. His gaze swept her once, steady. It dipped to her thigh, to the ink he already knew by now, then came back up to meet her eyes.
She adjusted the waistband of her shorts, fingers smoothing the fabric flat. "Been a while since I ran on a track," she said, more to herself than to him. She didn't mention that she'd always been quick out there—quicker than most of the guys she'd run with. No sense handing him the warning.
Brock's mouth shifted, not quite a smile. "Give it a few laps," he said. "See if you still like it."
He crossed to the counter, grabbed two bottles, and twisted the tap until water rushed cold against the plastic. One he slid across to her without a word; the other he capped and hooked through his fingers.
She took it, tucking it under her arm as they stepped out together. The hum of fluorescents followed them down the hall, the echo of their steps carrying into the elevator. Inside, the car swayed as it dropped, the silence easy but edged with what waited tomorrow.
The elevator doors slid open to a bare corridor, their footsteps quickening across concrete until Brock pushed through the last set of doors.
Sunlight spilled over them, bright enough that Harper blinked. Warm air carried the smell of grass and rubber, cleaner than what she was used to inside the walls.
Ahead, the track stretched out in even lanes of sunbaked surface bordered by low fencing. A few Syndicate members were scattered along it—two men jogging easy laps in sweat-darkened shirts, another pair driving through short sprints, the slap of their shoes echoing off the fence. Farther down, a couple leaned against the railing with water bottles in hand, voices low as they watched the runners.
Brock slowed at the edge of the track, his eyes running a circuit of the oval. "You've been wound tight all week. This'll bleed some of it out."
Harper hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts, one brow lifting. "So this is therapy?"
"Call it that if you want." His mouth twitched like he almost smiled. "Better than letting you stew in your head."
She tipped her head, stretching her neck to one side. "You're just hoping I can't keep up."
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Three laps," he said.
Her grin came quick as she tugged her ponytail tighter. "Make it interesting. If I win, you're mine for the morning—until Nolan drags you off—and after dinner too. Whole day's mine. You do what I say. You keep the glares to yourself, save the lectures, leave the boss voice upstairs."
He weighed it for a moment, eyes tracking a runner driving past in the next lane, the slap of shoes echoing against the fence. Then he nodded once. "Fine. But when you lose—"
"Not happening," she cut in, already angling toward the far bend.
They walked the curve of the track together, heat radiating through the soles of her shoes. Harper kicked her legs out one at a time, loosening them, then rolled her shoulders back. "You sure you're not gonna fold halfway?"
Brock crouched at the edge of his lane, tugging his laces tight, then glanced up at her. "Save your breath. You'll need it." He checked the knot at his ankle, then added, "And when I win, I get my day."
Harper scoffed, stretching one leg behind her, heel digging into the track. "No point in planning it," she said. "You're still the one who's gonna be wheezing."
The joggers on the far side slowed as they lined up, eyes tipping their way. One sprinter stopped entirely, elbows braced on the rail, sweat streaking down his temple as he watched. Harper felt the weight of it—the curiosity that came with seeing someone like Brock toe a line instead of watching from the shadows.
She shook it off and dipped lower into her stance, palms brushing the ground before she settled back on her haunches. Her ponytail slid over her shoulder, sweat already prickling at her hairline in the sun. She flicked her gaze sideways once—Brock steady at her periphery, still as stone, like the race was just another drill.
"Ready when you are," she said, voice low, challenge threaded through it.
He nodded once, eyes fixed down the lane. "Three… two…" His voice cut off on the last count, and they launched.
Brock's longer stride stole the lead in the first ten meters, his body cutting smooth lines down the lane, but Harper didn't bite. She settled into her rhythm, arms driving steady, breath in sync with her steps. Heat radiated off the rubber, rising up through her shoes, the air thick against her skin as though the track itself was trying to slow her down.
He glanced back once, a quick check over his shoulder. "That your top gear?"
She only smiled, saving her breath.
They took the first curve tight, Brock's stride efficient, every footfall measured. Harper hung half a step off his shoulder, close enough to feel the pull of his pace without showing strain. By the time they crossed the line on the first lap, sweat had broken at her hairline, sliding down her spine, calves heating as though fire had threaded into the muscle. She pushed it down. Three laps wasn't forever.
Lap two—he opened it up. Not much, just a fraction, but enough to force the choice: fall back or answer. Harper answered. Her stride stretched long, eating the lane until she drew even with him. For a few steps they moved together, shadows overlapping on the track, before she eased back, letting him hold it again.
"Trying to bait me?" His voice carried without effort, maddeningly calm.
She turned her head just enough to flash him a grin. "If it works."
The curve loomed and she cut inside, ponytail snapping with the turn, his shoulder brushing her periphery. She could feel him there, steady, immovable, the kind of runner who never gave more than exactly what he had to.
By the time the final lap hit, her lungs were pulling hard, chest lifting fast with every breath. Sun hammered down through her crown, making the edges of the track blur, but she kept her focus locked on the white lines and the weight of him beside her. Their strides fell into perfect counterpoint, the sound of it carrying down the fence like a drumline.
She moved first. Into the curve, she lengthened her stride, hugging the inside lane so close her arm nearly brushed his.
"Cheap," he said, the first rough edge in his breath.
"Smart," she shot back, teeth bared in something between a grin and a snarl.
The last straight hit like a wall. Every part of her screamed to back off—legs burning, lungs scraping raw—but she shoved harder, forcing her stride long, fists pumping tight at her sides. His shadow stretched over hers, matching, refusing to break. For ten steps they ran even, stride for stride, until she found one more breath and drove it all forward. Half a step. Enough.
She crossed first, stumble catching her into a lean as she braced her hands on her knees. Her chest heaved, air forcing its way in and out, sweat slicking down her spine, calves trembling like they might give. And through it all, a grin split her face, wild and uncontained.
"Too slow," she managed between pants, the words ragged but edged enough to sting.
Brock came in just behind her, slowing with a controlled pull of his stride, stopping so clean it made her stumble look reckless. His chest rose and fell heavy, shoulders rolling once to ease the burn. Expression steady, unreadable, though sweat clung to his jaw.
Across the fence, the handful of Syndicate members who had stopped to watch murmured openly now—a ripple of surprise and curiosity at the sight of Brock running full-out, and at the girl who'd beaten him to the line.
Harper shoved damp hair back from her face, still breathing hard but buzzing with something that had nothing to do with oxygen. "Well," she said, savoring the grin that tugged at her mouth, "you lost. Which means…" She let it dangle, eyes bright. "I've got plans for you."
His brow lifted a fraction. "Plans."
"Mhm." She stepped in close enough to catch the salt of sweat and the faint metallic tang off him, her legs still trembling from the push. "Might have you haul my water all day. Or hold an umbrella in the courtyard like some bodyguard out of a bad movie. Maybe even braid my hair—sit still and take orders for once, Commander. Or hell, you can handle dishes tonight since I'm the one who cooks."
For a second she let herself lean into it. Brock trailing her through the hall with both their kits over his shoulders. Brock stuck at the sink, sleeves pushed up while she leaned on the counter and pointed out every plate he missed. Brock parked on the couch while she flipped channels and made him stay put until she was done, hands nowhere near the remote. The thought made her pulse skip.
Brock's expression didn't shift, the same unreadable stare he wore in the training hall. "That's how you want to spend your win?"
"I'm not wasting anything," she said lightly, mouth quirking. "Pretty sure you'd be great at it."
"Don't push," he said, the words quiet but solid.
Her smile thinned into something harder. "Why? Scared I'll come up with something you can't handle?"
His gaze stayed steady, flat. "Scared you'll start thinking this changes anything."
It landed like a fist under her ribs—quiet, precise, impossible to shrug off. For a second her grin faltered, but she forced it back, teeth bared in something that looked like defiance even as the ground tilted hollow beneath her.
"Guess I'll put you down for a no on the hair, then."
The fence murmured behind them, the sound of onlookers carrying just far enough to scrape at her nerves. Harper blinked hard and turned, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her shorts as she headed for the nearest bench. Shoulders loose by force, like she could fake casual until it stuck.
"I wasn't asking for much," she muttered at the ground, the words thinner than she wanted.
Brock's voice carried after her, steady and flat. "You were asking for something you don't get here."
His eyes tracked her as she walked. The act didn't hold; her shoulders had tightened again, stiff under the strain she tried to hide. She lifted a hand, quick, almost careless, to swipe her face. It wasn't the motion of wiping sweat.
"Harper…" His voice reached her, low, steady.
She turned back to him. Eyes rimmed red, cheeks wet, the defiance gone. Seeing it landed in him in a way the race never touched.
"You know what I wanted?" Her voice cracked, raw around the edges. "Just one thing. One day that felt normal. Where I don't feel like I'm under glass with a clock ticking down. Where I can just… be me. Even for a little while."
Brock's mouth opened, the answer ready. "You've had that. My place—you've had space. You've been outside, training, eating when you want—"
He stopped when he caught the look she gave him. Her eyes said it plain enough—that he didn't get it, that he couldn't.
"Forget it." Her voice was smaller now, frayed at the edges. She turned back toward the compound, stride clipped and fast. "Keep your day."
She got three steps before his hand caught her arm—not rough, but firm enough to halt her.
"Harper."
She didn't turn. "Let go."
"Not until you tell me what the hell this is." His voice stayed low, steady, with something pressed under it.
She turned her head just enough for him to see the tremble at her mouth. "It's me trying to take one win before Vex decides if I'm worth the air I breathe. One day that's mine. That's all I wanted."
Something shifted in Brock's face, but he didn't speak. She pulled free, not looking back as she crossed the track. Fence shadows slid over her skin, the faint smell of rubber and dust rising with each step, the taste of the win already gone.
Halfway to the doors, she crossed paths with Nolan. He was heading the other way, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, grin already hitching at the corner of his mouth.
"Hey Firefly—"
Harper didn't flick him so much as a glance, stride unbroken, jaw locked tight. But the wet shine at the corner of her lashes caught the sun, a fleeting glint that made his words die in his throat. The grin slipped clean away, replaced by a crease that dragged deep across his face. He turned to watch her pass, posture settling heavier, all trace of ease gone.
Brock was still at the far end when Nolan reached him, the distance between them strung with curious stares. A few of the others had slowed their laps, the scrape of shoes softening into silence as Harper's figure disappeared through the door. Shoulders tight, head down. The metal swung shut behind her with a dull, final thud.
Nolan glanced back toward the door, then at Brock, his face gone serious.
"Nice work," he said, voice low, bone-dry. "You planning to kick the legs out from under her right before you throw her into the fray tomorrow, or was that just a bonus?"
Brock's teeth pressed together once. He didn't answer. The look she'd left him with—tight, shuttered—settled low in his chest, heavier than he wanted to admit.
Nolan let the silence breathe, then tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "So what was that?"
"Training."
"That wasn't training." The humor was gone now, tone edged. "She looked like she'd taken a gut punch."
Brock finally cut his gaze his way. "You reading her now?"
"I don't have to." Nolan's hands slipped deeper into his pockets, his shoulders easing though his attention stayed locked on Brock. "Come on. I know you. That wasn't about drills. Not with her."
Brock held his silence, but the shift in his stance gave him away—small, but clear.
A slow grin edged back onto Nolan's mouth, though it didn't touch his eyes. "Yeah," he said quietly. "She's under your skin."
Brock's mouth thinned, denial caught at the back of his teeth. He pushed it out anyway. "It's not like that." The words came flat, but not nearly hard enough to convince.
Nolan let it hang, reading him clean. He clapped a hand to Brock's shoulder, solid, heavier than usual. "Watch yourself. Lines get blurred quick."
Brock ran a hand through sweat-slick hair, grit catching on his palm, gaze already drifting back to the door she'd vanished through. The space between them might as well have been a mile.
"Let her cool off," Nolan said. "Come on. We've got prep before tomorrow."