Hours had slipped by since the track, swallowed in the windowless strategy room where Brock and Nolan picked apart every detail of tomorrow's job. Maps overlapped in layers, markers bleeding routes in red and blue, the paper reeking of ink. Contingencies rose and fell until the air turned stale, shadows on the walls stretching thin with the hours. By the time Brock took the elevator back up, the compound had sunk into that tense, pre-operation lull.
His quarters were dim, only the kitchen light casting a muted glow over the counter. A plate sat waiting at the island—roast chicken, potatoes, greens—still faintly warm, the scent lingering in the air. It wasn't leftovers scraped together; it had been plated for him. No note. No explanation. Just there, waiting.
He stood over it for a long moment, mouth tight, before sitting. The first bite lodged low in his chest before it ever made it to his gut. The taste barely registered; what hit was that she'd done it at all after the way he'd cut her down. She cooked plenty, but setting a plate out and walking away like this… that felt different. Deliberate. A quiet peace offering, maybe. Or one last olive branch before tomorrow.
He could see her here in his mind without trying—the scrape of the chair pulled out, the clink of fork and knife against the plate as she portioned things out, the way she always wiped her hands on a dish towel and left it folded by the sink. Red-rimmed eyes, moving around his kitchen anyway.
He ate, slow and deliberate, like each forkful was something he had to weigh before lifting.
When the plate was empty, he set the fork down with care, pushing the dish toward the center of the island, putting space between himself and the weight of it. He looked down the hall.
Her door was closed. Most nights she drifted in and out of the living room, book in hand or half-watching the TV, always leaving some trace of her there until she finally gave in to sleep. Only when she wanted the world shut out did she hole up in her room and pull the door behind her. Tonight, it was shut, hours before she would normally go to bed. That small, deliberate choice sat under his ribs in a way it had no business doing, the absence louder than any slammed door.
He stood for a while, one hand hooked on the back of a chair, the other flexing at his side. Then he started down the hall, his steps muted against the floor. He stopped just short of her door, palm resting on the frame, listening for… something. The other side stayed silent; if she moved at all, he couldn't hear it.
Finally, he turned the handle.
She was curled on the bed with her back to him, blanket pulled high over her shoulders, hair spilling across the pillow in loose strands. She didn't move when the door opened.
"You're usually not shut away this early," he said, voice low in the stillness.
"I didn't think you'd care." Her tone wasn't angry—just flat, worn thin. "And I don't want to talk to you right now."
He lingered in the doorway, words pressed against the back of his teeth. Finally, he let a few out. "Back on the track—I wasn't trying to—"
"Goodnight, Brock." She cut him off without looking back, her voice soft but firm enough to close the subject.
He hesitated, his teeth fitting hard together. "Do you want me to get your book?"
Her reply came after a moment, muffled by the blanket. "No." A breath passed. "Leave it. I'm not finishing it anyway."
"Harper…"
She shifted, drawing in tighter under the blanket. "Just go. I want to spend what might be my last night on this earth alone."
The silence that followed settled between them, dense with everything he hadn't managed to say. He stood there a moment longer, watching the slope of her shoulders, the line of her back. Her words stayed with him, sinking in deeper the longer he stared.
At last, he exhaled slow. "I'll come get you before briefing in the morning."
No answer came. Only the faint sound of fabric pulling as she pulled the blanket higher, retreating into herself.
Harper kept her eyes shut, listening to his footsteps fade down the corridor. The quiet he left behind settled over her, heavy in a way his presence never was. She pulled the blanket over her head, swallowing the knot in her throat until it burned. She told herself it was just a race. Just a stupid bet. But for a handful of minutes, she'd almost believed she could have it—one day without tension, without someone waiting for her to slip. One thing that belonged to her.
And he'd taken it apart like it was nothing.
Her chest ached with every breath, tears pricking hot at her lashes. She bit them back—at first. When his steps finally faded out of reach, one tear slipped free, and then the rest followed.
The sobs were low and raw, shaking her until her stomach cramped. The blanket muffled the sound, but not the heat of it, not the scrape that left her throat on fire. She cried until her face was wet and the pillow beneath her cold, until her body sagged from the effort and her breathing went ragged.
Exhaustion dragged her under at last. The ache in her chest followed her down, sinking deep, heavy enough to pull her into uneasy dark.
And in that dark, Brock was there.
Not the Brock she knew—none of the steady presence, none of the grounding weight—just his outline in the corner of a black-walled room, lit by a single bare bulb that hummed faintly overhead. He stood still, shadowed, too far to touch.
The air stank of metal and oil, coating her tongue, burning her throat. The floor was raw concrete, the cold biting through her bare feet until her bones ached. Her hands were bound tight behind her back, cord biting deeper each time she struggled.
Vex leaned against the far wall, arms folded, that poisonous smile pulling slow at his mouth. "Time's up, little fox," he said, each word curling like smoke. "You didn't make the cut."
Her chest heaved, mouth opening, but nothing came out. No sound, no protest—just the scrape of breath in her throat. She turned toward Brock, desperate, searching his face for recognition, for defiance, for anything.
"Brock!" Her voice cracked on his name. "Help me—"
He stayed where he was, didn't even flinch. His gaze slid past her, blank and unreachable, the sound never quite reaching him.
Vex pushed off the wall and came closer, boots grinding against concrete. A gun glinted in his hand, the weight of it casual, cruel. He leveled the muzzle at her chest, eyes glittering in the dim light.
"You failed," he said, voice smooth as glass. "And now you pay."
The shot split the room, thunder in her bones. Agony ripped through her chest, hot and blinding, the taste of copper flooding her mouth. She fell hard to the floor, cheek scraping grit, vision narrowing to a tunnel of black.
Her head turned toward the corner, to Brock—still standing there, still watching, impossibly far away. Her lips shaped his name again, but no sound came. He didn't hear her. He couldn't.
Vex crouched close, smile wide, voice curling soft in her ear. "This is mercy."
The blast cracked the world apart—
She snapped upright, gasping—fists locked in the blanket, heart battering against her ribs. Air scalded her throat. Sweat slicked down her sides, soaking her shirt, her whole body thrumming with leftover panic. The room tilted. She dragged the blanket down with shaking hands and braced her palms against her thighs, trying to anchor herself.
Her cheek was wet, pillow damp beneath her. Knees still drawn up tight, chest cinched. The heat in her throat hadn't left. Neither had the ghost taste of blood. She swallowed hard, bile climbing, and pressed harder into her legs, forcing herself to count. Five. Ten. Still shaking.
The clock on the far wall ticked in slow defiance.
11:02 PM.
Too early. Way too early.
She knew this rhythm. Knew the weight of it in her spine. When the dream struck before midnight, it always circled back. Again. And again. Every time her eyes closed, she'd be back on that concrete floor, muzzle pressed to her skull. Pleading for Brock while Vex smiled. And the voice—
You failed.
Her fists twisted in the blanket. She hadn't screamed this time. Not loud enough for him to hear. And somehow, that felt worse. Like the silence itself had swallowed her whole and left nothing behind to claw her way out. Wet streaks cooled on her cheeks; she hadn't even felt them start.
She could lie back down. Pretend. Wait for exhaustion to drag her under again. But she knew how that played—wide awake until dawn, counting the dark between shadows like it owed her something. Brock would see it in her face, in the slump of her body, and she couldn't afford that with the job hanging over her.
Her eyes burned, throat raw from holding back too much. The thought of calling his name, of hearing his step in the hall, slid through her mind and lodged there. The one night he'd stayed in her room early on, the dreams hadn't come back. The two nights she'd crashed in his bed after Skiv, the dark had stayed quiet. He'd never offered that as a fix, never called it anything. Her mind had drawn the line on its own: Brock close meant the ghosts kept their distance.
He's asleep. He doesn't want to hear you.
The first answer came quick, spite threaded through it—aimed at herself as much as him. She dug her fingers into the blanket, trying to pin herself in place. He'd made it clear on the track where the lines were. Reminding herself of that should have helped. It didn't.
The room pressed close, shadows stretching long across the ceiling. Every time she let her eyes drift, she saw the outline from the dream—Brock in the corner, watching and not moving while Vex raised the gun. Her stomach turned. The next breath scraped in shallow.
She lay there long enough to know it wasn't easing. The tremor in her legs hadn't faded. Her pulse still hammered, breath catching every time the scene replayed behind her eyes.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Toes pressed into the carpet, knees giving under the shake in her muscles, but she caught herself—palms to the mattress, elbows locked, breath ragged in her chest.
One more inhale. One more lie that she had it under control. She pushed herself upright. The room steadied enough to hold her.
Her hand drifted to her side, fingers fisting into the hem of her shirt. Sweat cooled on her back, fabric clinging damp to her skin. Each step across the floor landed solid and slow, too deliberate, too cautious, every board a risk of giving her away.
The tears didn't stop. Cold now, trailing down her jaw, soaking into the collar. She let them go. Didn't wipe them away. Just kept moving until her hand found the knob.
And stopped.
Another voice slid in under the one from the dream—not Vex's this time, Brock's, from that first night upstairs when she'd come out of a nightmare loud enough to put half the floor on alert. He'd told her if it turned into a pattern, Graves would give her something stronger. Last thing he needed was her waking everybody every night.
Her fingers tightened on the metal. Sedation. Being knocked under on purpose. The idea of waking up heavy and distant, with whole hours gone, locked her knees in place. If he knew the nightmares were back, really back, he'd follow through. He meant it when he said things like that.
For a heartbeat she nearly turned around, nearly crawled back into bed and took her chances with the dark. But the room she'd left behind sat full of it already—Vex's smile, the gun, Brock standing in the corner of her skull and not moving while she begged. If she lay down in that, she knew exactly where she'd land.
She needed proof of something else. Needed to know he wasn't just a shadow in the corner of her dream, watching while Vex finished her.
Her fingers closed slow around the knob. The door eased open an inch, then two. The hall stretched dim and still before her, shadowed and silent, the kind of dark that pressed down like weight.
She hovered there for a breath, body angled sideways, caught between retreating to the bed or moving forward. One step would take her back into the hollow silence. One would carry her toward him.
Then the image surged back—Vex raising the gun, his words curling like smoke: You failed. This is mercy. Her own voice ragged in her throat, crying for Brock, his face turned away as if he couldn't hear her.
Her throat cinched tight. The pulse in her ears roared, violent and unrelenting. She pressed the heel of her hand to her sternum, trying to hold it all inside, force it back where it wouldn't spill out.
And then she moved. One step, then another, carrying her out into the hall. She pulled the door shut behind her, the soft click loud as a verdict in the silence.
The floor in the corridor was colder than she expected. Her sweat-chilled skin flinched at the touch. She folded her arms across her middle, walking like someone crossing a frozen lake—slow, silent, every step measured, a single crack ready to drop her into the dark again. Brock's door loomed ahead.
She stopped. Heat rushed back into her face, shaming, and she dropped her gaze, jaw clamped tight. The dark behind her felt hungrier than it had in weeks.
She glanced back—empty hallway, nothing stirring, nothing to latch onto. Just her and the press of silence, her pulse pounding too loud in her chest. She could go back. Pull the covers over her head. Pretend the dark didn't feel like teeth.
Her hand lifted, then fell.
Lifted again—fingers grazing the wood, the contact sparking a shiver like it might bite back.
His voice slid in on the heels of the touch, not from the room but from memory: You were asking for something you don't get here.
The quiet on the other side felt like it agreed with him, steady and unyielding, waiting to see if she'd back down.
Her knuckles hovered against the wood, trembling once before they made contact. Three soft taps. Barely sound, but deliberate enough that she couldn't take them back.
She went still, lungs tight. Each inhale felt brittle, glass held too hard in her chest.
At first, nothing. Just the silence stretching, thick and absolute.
Then the soft drag of fabric, the faint creak of mattress springs as he shifted. A moment later, the muted thud of his feet on the floor, his steps measured and heavy as they drew closer.
Her stomach flipped. She stumbled back a step, then another, pulse hammering so hard it shook her fingers. The door loomed in front of her like it was about to open into something she couldn't undo.
Panic surged—hot, choking, clawing up her throat. What the fuck are you doing? He was coming. Actually coming. And she was standing there like a stray, like a coward, like someone begging for something she had no right to ask.
Instinct took over. She turned, ready to run—one more step, slam her door, bury herself under the blanket and pretend this never happened.
Her breath caught.
Click.
The handle turned. The door eased open, spilling a narrow cut of light into the hall, bright against her bare feet. His shadow filled the frame, steady and immovable.
"Harper?"
She froze. Hearing it in the dark like this landed different—like it carried more weight than it ever did across a training mat. Her spine pulled straight, breath locking hard behind her ribs, fists clenching at her sides.
Then his voice again, calm, unreadable. "What's wrong?"
She didn't answer or bolt. She turned to face him instead—slow, brittle, afraid that if she opened her mouth the wrong sound might spill out.
He stood in the doorway, the light behind him edging his shoulders. Barefoot, sweatpants slung low, torso bare—broad, scar-laced, solid enough to make the doorway feel smaller. His face gave nothing away. His tone hadn't shifted.
"I—" she started. Her throat locked. Whatever excuse she might've reached for, whatever lie that might explain this, fell apart the moment their eyes met. Her face crumpled. Her chest hitched, sudden and raw, and a broken whimper slipped out before she could choke it back.
One sob. Then another, her hand shooting up to muffle it. Her shoulders drew in, hunched like she could hide the sound.
And that was enough.
He'd seen this before—the way her body caved in, the way her breath came jagged like it hurt to keep pulling it in. He thought of that night after Skiv, when she'd sat on his bed and unraveled, sobbing until her whole frame shook apart, clutching at him like she was afraid she'd fall through the floor. He'd held her steady then, anchored her through it. And here it was again—the same fracture, quiet but brutal.
It wasn't weakness. It was fallout. The kind that carved itself deep and came back no matter how hard she tried to bury it. And he hated how quickly he recognized it—hated that it felt carved into her bones now, a part of her she couldn't shake.
A muscle jumped once in his cheek. He glanced aside—not far, just enough to let her have the moment without his stare pinning her in place.
Then he stepped back from the door. "Come in," he said. Not soft, not cold. Just a line drawn—clear, absolute. Something she didn't have to obey. But maybe needed to.
She didn't move. Not at first. Her chin dipped, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder, as though avoiding his gaze might be the only way to hold herself together.
Her breath snagged, thin and jagged. Her hands pressed into her sides, fingers knotting in the fabric of her shirt, gripping it like a lifeline. Bare feet anchored her to the floor, trembling in the spill of light across the threshold.
He watched it all. The way she hovered in the doorway like the frame itself was holding her up. The slight lean forward, her body ready to follow, but her spine refusing to bend the rest of the way.
His hand lifted halfway, almost reaching for her shoulder—then stalled. Fingers flexed, twitched once, curled into a fist against his thigh. He swallowed the impulse down. If he touched her, it had to be because she chose it, not because he pulled her in.
"Harper." Her name came low, definite, no louder than it needed to be.
Her head twitched toward him, eyes rimmed red.
"Inside."
The word dropped between them like poured concrete. It didn't try to soothe and it didn't threaten. It just sat there, solid, waiting for her to step over it.
For a moment after the word landed, nothing happened. Then her feet shifted, bare soles whispering against the floor. The steps weren't quick or sure, but they carried her forward.
She passed him with her gaze fixed on the ground, shoulders drawn small, afraid that brushing him might snap whatever was holding her together. The air she brought with her carried sweat and her shampoo, raw and human, cutting through the steadiness of his space.
Brock held himself still, breath tight in his chest long enough to feel the knot in his throat strain. Once she'd cleared the frame, he exhaled and eased the door shut behind her.
The click was soft. Final. The silence after didn't feel empty; it settled in dense, like the room itself was waiting to see what she did next.
She stayed close to the door, hovering just inside, one wrong move away from bolting back down the hall.
Brock gave her the space. He crossed the room in an unhurried line, each step measured, knowing anything abrupt would scatter her. He stopped at the bed and sat on the far edge, forearms braced to his thighs.
"You planning to stand there all night?"
His tone stayed even, neither sharp nor gentle, just steady—an opening she could take or leave.
Her throat bobbed. She shifted, the smallest scrape of bare feet against the floor. One step. Another. Breath shallow. She stopped at the side of the bed, staring down as if the mattress was a ledge. Then, slow, she eased onto the corner, careful not to brush him, drawing her knees up like a shield.
He stayed where he was—solid, unmoving. He kept his hands to himself, offering nothing but presence.
The silence bent around them, dense with everything neither of them knew how to say. It wasn't the tense kind of quiet they'd had before. This one hummed low, fragile, like glass set between them.
Finally, he murmured, "Get some sleep."
It didn't snap like an order and it didn't quite soften into comfort. It landed somewhere in the space between, steady enough to hold onto.
He leaned back, drawing the covers up over himself without ceremony. The lamp clicked off. Darkness crept in, softened only by the thin bleed of light under the door.
For a while she stayed perched at the edge, rigid, every muscle braced, guarding the thin truce from touch or sound. Her breath caught each time he shifted, waiting for something more. But nothing came. Just his steady breathing, slow, even—anchoring without meaning to.
Bit by bit, her body eased. Not all the way. Just enough. She lay down on top of the blankets, back turned, arms tucked close but looser now, her legs curled in. The mattress dipped with her weight, a fragile balance holding between them.
Her eyes stayed open longer than she meant, tears drying in tracks against her skin. But the rhythm beside her—quiet, certain, immovable—pulled her under before she could fight it.
This time, when sleep came, it stayed.