"Easy."
Harper slid toward the open door, boots dragging on the cab mat, eyes narrowing against the late-afternoon glare. Nolan waited square below, one boot braced on the step, the other planted back, arms open. His cheek was split and crusted, dried blood tugging whenever his jaw flexed; grit clung in the stubble, smoke still powdered his vest and shoulders.
She pushed her hands into the shelf of his shoulders and gave him her weight. He stepped in, one forearm cinched at her waist, the other under her arm, and let his legs take it. The lift stayed messy, more a suspension than a scoop—knees dipping deep so her body cleared the sill while he rode the strain through his frame. His jaw locked as the cut pulled tight, a wince flashing before he ground it down.
He sank slow, thighs bearing the load, then straightened, bringing her down with him in a controlled descent. The ground met before her body was ready. Pain speared her thigh, her knee trying to fold; her grip slipped against his smoke-stiff fabric, nails dragging grit across his shoulder. His arm cinched hard at her waist until her footing caught. A streak of his grime smeared her sleeve where he'd leaned close, the air between them thick with iron and smoke.
On the way in, they'd met no resistance after the choke. The drive to the warehouse stretched longer than the map, engine a low wall and the glass humming in its frame. The quiet gave the damage room to speak—Harper's grazed thigh waking with each downshift, grit-stung cuts burning where sweat broke through, Nolan breathing shallow at the tacky pull on his neck and the split along his cheek where the windshield had kissed and left glass lodged in fine flecks. Once, he pressed the heel of his hand there as if to hold it still. Somewhere in the middle stretch, when the road leveled and Vale's hands stayed steady on the wheel, Harper let her shoulder tip until it found Nolan's arm. He didn't shift away, didn't say a word—just adjusted the rifle so the barrel cleared her and let her stay there while the miles slid under them.
In the bay, Keir and Onyx were waiting to unload, voices and metal clanging as Vale and Gunner slid out and the yard swallowed the truck. She and Nolan stayed put, letting the seats take some of it, the passenger door cracked to cooler air. Her shoulder was still resting against his when the clatter outside finally started to fade; he only moved once to stretch his knee, then settled back where he'd been. Twenty minutes and they were rolling again, the container hollow behind them. They reached the compound ahead of the other rig; Mason wasn't in the mirrors.
Nolan let the hold at her waist fall to her elbow, a light check for give, dried blood brushing her sleeve. "You good?"
She nodded, her hand still braced on his forearm for a beat, fingers dragging over the grit roughening his sleeve before she let go. The engine idled close, heat hanging off the hood. The rigs were too tall for the garage, so they staged on the tarmac along the side wall, afternoon light flattening everything.
Vale killed the engine and dropped down on the far side, Gunner after him; both of them cut toward the side entrance without looking back, leaving Harper and Nolan in the pocket beside the cab.
A diesel note thickened from the far corner. Nolan eased her a half step toward the wall, keeping himself between her and the moving nose as the second rig swung in and shouldered alongside, big mirror gliding past, air brakes sighing. Mason brought it up parallel with Vale's, bumper even; the gap tightened to a clean lane, leaving them pocketed between the hulks. Sunlight flared across the other windshield, turning the soot-streaked faces inside to cutouts.
The driver's door swung before the last hiss faded. Mason dropped to concrete light for his size, dust dulling the creases of his jacket but leaving the rest of him mostly untouched. Brock came off the same door a step behind, sliding out from the bench with a hand on the frame. His vest was streaked with soot; grit grayed one cheek, and a thin line of dried blood ran from his ear into the stubble along his jaw. Cole and Price hit the ground off the far side, boots already angling toward the entrance, a quick look over the boxes to confirm they were all still standing before they peeled away. Brock swept the lot once, then found her.
Harper's fingers hooked the side seam of her cargos, calf tightening with the urge to step toward him. That blood-thread at his jawline pulled at her in a way her own thigh didn't; for a second, her hand twitched like she might swipe it away, clean the line of it, and she had to clamp it to her side. She held her ground and let herself take him in—the quick sweep, the way his eyes locked and didn't slide. His glance dipped to the uneven hold of her weight; his mouth tightened by a fraction. He shifted toward her, half a step, then caught himself and angled to Nolan instead, the command look sliding into place.
They closed the space in two strides and clasped hard at the backs of each other's necks, a press that held before breaking in the thrum of the engines. Brock's eyes caught on the glitter still clinging to Nolan's cheek, shards of glass dried into the blood. "You're ugly enough without the glass."
Nolan grinned. "You should see the windshield." His gaze slid to the thin line of red at Brock's ear. "And you're dripping like a stuck pig. Don't lecture me."
Mason had already moved toward the side entrance, leaving the three of them in thinning exhaust and the tick of cooling metal. Brock's mouth twitched at Nolan's parting shot, then he tipped his chin at the door. "Let's get checked out." His eyes touched Harper long enough to make the inclusion clear.
They fell into step across the tarmac. She kept her stride even, but a catch threaded every other step. Nolan glanced once and shifted closer, his shoulder brushing hers in the narrow pocket between rigs. He didn't slow, just matched her cadence, the set of him keeping her line straight. Brock took her other flank, close enough that she felt the warmth of his sleeve; his gaze stayed forward and missed nothing.
The side door opened into the compound's quieter wing, the hum of the main floor falling away like a lid shutting. They cut a short hall and pushed into medical, air heavy with antiseptic and the iodine thread that lived under everything.
Dr. Graves already had a curtained station going—gloved hands working Cole's forearm, teasing out glittering grains of glass with forceps while saline ran and a kidney basin clicked against the rail. Dust streaked Cole's sleeve where the jacket had been cut away, skin welted red under the light. On the next cot, Price sat stripped to his undershirt, a gauze pad taped at his temple and a slow leak dried into his hairline; one eye squinted against the brightness, his focus steady but careful. Their voices carried low under the hum, workmanlike and calm. Vale and Gunner sat on a bench along the far wall, jackets open, watching the work with the dull, wired stillness of men who hadn't let the adrenaline drain yet.
Graves looked up as they came in, eyes skating over Nolan's cut cheek, the guarded way Harper was standing, and finally Brock. She gave him a small nod that read as greeting and receipt of command, teased the last glitter from Cole's arm so it pinged the basin, stripped her gloves with a snap, and pulled on a fresh pair.
"Lawson—eyes."
Brock stepped into the wash of the lights without argument. Graves lifted a finger, steadying his chin with her other hand. "Follow." His gaze tracked clean left-right, up-down. A penlight flashed once.
"Blackout?"
"No."
"Nausea? Vomiting? Dizziness?"
"No. No. No."
"Memory gap?"
"Whole thing's there."
"Hearing?"
"Ringing left since the blast. Manageable."
She tilted his head with two fingers, bringing her face close to the ear. The cut traced the rim; when her knuckle brushed it, he flinched but held still. She angled the penlight, checked the canal, then straightened. "Surface only. Ice for the swelling—two minutes on, two off." She dropped a cold pack into his hand and moved on without pause.
Her attention slid to Harper. "Voss, table three—let's get that leg before it tightens." A glance to Nolan. "Chair four, hands off your face. I'm with you next."
Brock stepped out of the light and took the chairs, boot hooking one around before he sat, the ice pack Graves had pointed him to already in his hand. He set it to his ear and let it hiss cold.
Harper moved to table three, keeping that side light. Graves clicked a curtain half-closed on the hall side and snapped on fresh gloves. Her gaze skimmed the faint grit lines and shallow cheek cuts. "Look here." Graves lifted a finger and tracked it left, right, up, down. A penlight flicked once.
"Dizzy? Blurry? Double?"
"No."
Satisfied, Graves set a folded drape by Harper's hip. "Cargos off."
Harper thumbed the button and eased the zipper, stood, and worked the fabric down carefully, peeling where dried blood tugged. She settled back on the vinyl under the drape, thigh exposed to the light.
Graves peeled the drape enough to see the wound. The graze ran hot and raw along the muscle, edges rasped from friction; a thin tack of dried blood clung where the skin had feathered. She pressed lightly on either side, not the wound itself, testing heat and give, then slipped two fingers under the knee for a quick bend. "Any numbness or pins in the foot?"
"No."
"Good. We'll flush the leg, pick out the grit, ointment, non-stick, light wrap."
She wheeled a tray closer, metal legs whispering over tile. The cap snapped off a saline bottle and she drove a steady stream across Harper's thigh, loosening crust into pink run-off that filled the kidney basin. Forceps clicked as she teased out grit, each sting sparking through the muscle in sharp waves. Harper's fingers curled into the vinyl; she kept her eyes off the work and on Brock through the gap in the curtain. He sat angled in the chair, forearm on a knee, the ice pressed to his ear. The overheads picked the soot along his jaw and the faint line between his brows as he listened to Nolan's low rundown. His eyes kept moving—door, sink, Graves—skimming the room in tidy passes that brushed hers for a fraction and carried on.
Graves dropped the last fleck into the basin and reached for a tube, laying a thin sheen of ointment over the raw edge of skin. A non-stick pad went on next, cool against the heat, anchored with a loose conform wrap that left the joint free. "Keep it clean twenty-four; change it after that once a day. Watch for heat, streaking, or a push of pain—come back if any of that starts."
Graves peeled her gloves into the bin and was already reaching for another pair as she turned to chair four. "You're up."
Nolan shifted the towel and leaned in, muttering something that earned him only a flat glance.
Harper drew her cargos back over the new wrap, easing the fabric past it, buckled, and settled her vest. She came off the table, boots soft on tile, kept that side light against the drag, and crossed to Brock.
Brock looked up as she came to him, the ice still at his ear.
"How's it holding?" Her voice stayed routine.
He tipped the pack a fraction to show the thin red line along the rim. "Fine. You?"
She angled her chin toward the fresh wrap under her cargos. "Handled."
Their eyes held for a breath; his thumb flexed once against the pack and the line in his jaw eased. Then the ice was back in place, his gaze moving on like it had never stopped.
The door swung and Vex stepped in, deliberate as ever. Harper's back found a line before she could think, a reflex born of every time he filled a doorway and bent the air tighter.
He took a slow inventory—Cole with his forearm dressed, Price under a temple wrap, Nolan tipped forward while Graves worked, Brock with an ice pack to his ear. His gaze touched Harper long enough to register the torn cargo leg and the brown line of dried blood down the seam, the way she angled weight off that leg, then moved on.
"Briefing room. Thirty minutes. Everyone." No lift in the voice. He gave the room one last pass, a small nod for Graves and another for Brock, and was gone.
** ** **
The briefing room still held the morning's residue—coffee gone cold in mugs, marker ghosting the laminated maps, the air warm and stale behind the shut door. They came in as they were, clothes marked with smoke, grit, damp. Mason had a clean jacket thrown over his shoulders and claimed his usual corner; Vale took the far side opposite, posture easy, only a skim of warehouse dust on him; Gunner slung into a chair sideways, forearm over the back, a grime line across his cheekbone. Cole's arm was bound wrist to elbow, Price's temple wrapped, both near the wall with Price squinting at the lights. Nolan leaned back a few seats away, fresh dressing taped along his cheek, shoulders loose from Graves' work. Harper slid in midway down, the tear in her cargos showing the dull shadow of the wrap beneath. Brock took the head, forearms on the table, the cut along his ear cleaned but still an angry line against soot. The overheads hummed. The room waited for a door to open.
The latch turned and Vex stepped in, jacket shrugged off across the nearest chair. He didn't sit.
"Walk me through it."
Brock started, voice even. "Spacing held to the drayage–rail choke. IED killed the lead SUV; Price rode it forward to block the pinch. Comms went mud under a sweep jammer—white panel van with a roof whip at the lane mouth. Rear SUV disabled under sustained fire, left in place."
Nolan picked it up without pause. "High fire out of the drayage catwalks, low push off the rail yard—trailers and dock lip. We worked the engine block on rear and held the high line down."
His eyes shifted toward Harper, a pass of the floor. She straightened. "Rear guard. Called the panel van trailing us, flagged it for the jammer up front. When the net went noise, I dropped smokes to cut sightlines and lit scrap tires with a flare to thicken cover. Signaled Vale and walked Cargo Two back on my line."
Brock gave a small nod, taking it forward. "I moved with Price and Cole to Cargo Two's rail-yard corner, linked with Voss and Gunner, rode the dock wall, and built a corridor. Mason kept Cargo One angled. Vale and Mason backed in tandem and we exfilled the choke. Load intact. No tails."
Vex's gaze cut to him. "Equipment losses."
"Lead SUV gone to the IED. Rear shot out and left inside the pinch. Weapons expended within norms."
Vex looked to Mason and Vale; both gave a single nod. He let the quiet sit, then set his palms on the table and took one long look around the room. "Route review and contact patterns on my desk tonight. I want the choke diagrammed—catwalk elevations, rail-side approach lanes, jammer placement, and timings from blast to movement." His eyes settled on Harper and stayed there. The room held its breath.
"Voss."
Her name in his voice dropped between her shoulders like weight. The hum of the overheads seemed to close in; every gaze in the room felt turned without anyone moving. Her jaw ticked once before she locked it still. The torn cargo leg shifted against the wrap, and the taste of old smoke sat acrid at the back of her throat. The job was done, the one that was supposed to prove her place. All that time measuring every step, every word, knowing one wrong one ended with a round to the skull in some back corridor—it all funneled into this moment.
"You handled yourself." No shift in tone, just fact. "Comms went dark and you adapted. Smoke where it mattered, cover built without drawing blast. You kept the trucks your priority and walked a driver back under fire. Took a hit and stayed in it." His eyes flicked once to her leg, then back. "That's combat intelligence. That's grit. That's loyalty. That's value."
The pause stretched. Harper felt Brock in her peripheral, still as stone at the head of the table, Nolan a weight just off her shoulder. Their presence crowded close, silent but there, as if the room itself leaned to hear what came next.
"You're in." The words landed like steel laid to stone. For a second her body didn't get the message; she stayed braced for the shot that never came. "Lawson has you. His command, his call. You move as you like inside. Outside the walls, you move with escort until he says otherwise. Earn the rest."
Something unclenched low in her back and the floor steadied by a degree; the relief came thin and metallic, like blood rinsed from the tongue. She gave the smallest nod, enough to mark that she'd heard, nothing more.
Vex let his eyes hold hers a moment longer, then cut to Brock. "Your call held. Don't waste it." The nod that followed was final. He straightened and let his gaze take the table. "Tomorrow is down. Rest. Patch. Seventy-two hours—we mark it then. Dinner. Voss's acceptance."
The door clicked behind Vex; the room stayed fixed on the empty doorway for a long second, nobody quite moving.
Cole was the first to break it. His chair scraped back and he rose with a slow roll of his shoulders, jacket slipping off one side. His gaze tracked to her and stayed there, head tipped as if he was laying one memory over another.
"Hell of a thing," he said. "First time I saw you, Lawson had a fist in your hair and blood on your face. Now you're at the table."
Harper's fingers found the edge of her chair, pressing into worn wood. That now sat strange in her chest—too small a word for the distance between where she started and this table.
Mason leaned back, one arm hooked over the chair, a half-smile carving through the soot at the corner of his mouth.
"Better seat, better company," he said. "Guess you're harder to kill than I figured."
Price didn't stand; he just tipped his chin from his place by the wall, arm still wrapped. "Today proved this was never a coin toss," he said. "You earned it."
On the far side, Vale pushed his forearms to his knees, the gauze at his temple flashing under the lights when he shifted.
"Most people, you tell them hold a line under fire, they stall or bolt," he said. "You didn't. That's the kind you want next to you."
The words landed in her chest and sat there, unfamiliar weight. She swallowed around them, throat tight.
Nolan crossed the space in two easy strides. His palm settled at the side of her neck, fingers warm against the tendon there, weight without pressure.
"Glad you made it," he said, voice low enough to stay theirs. "I'd take rear guard with you again any time."
His hand squeezed once, then dropped.
Gunner's chair turned with a rough scrape. The usual smirk was gone; his eyes were clear, unreadable.
"Smoke call was the play," he said. "Kept us moving." A short nod. "Alright, Voss."
Brock came last. No hurry. He rounded the end of the table and stopped close enough that his shoulder brushed hers. His hand found the edge of her vest strap and set it straight, a small, precise adjustment; his thumb brushed her forearm, a brief press, then disappeared.
When she looked up, his eyes held hers for a breath. The hum of the overheads, the scrape of chairs, the quiet murmur of the others—all of it faded down to that small, steady point of contact, then swelled back in around her. The sound of it wasn't noise anymore. It sounded like she belonged in it.
** ** **
The lift sighed open on the muted hall of the residential wing. Noise from the day sealed behind them; only the hum of the vents and the soft tread of boots came along. Mason peeled for his end unit, Vale ghosting after with a two-finger wave. Cole and Price split toward the mid row, voices dropping to a murmur. Gunner gave Brock a small chin lift and turned off down his corridor. Nolan drifted last; his lock caught with a solid click.
Brock set his hand to the handle, metal cool under his palm, and swung the door into the familiar dim. Coffee and clean linen still hung faint in the air. Harper stepped through, favoring her side, and the door fell home behind them with a sound that felt like the day ending.
The latch caught, shutting out the corridor's hum. Brock's vest hit the island counter in a dull slump, buckles rattling once before they went still. Harper's followed, the pull from her shoulders almost enough to take her knees. She unthreaded her belt, the holster thumping against the counter, and set both hands to the edge, head bowed as her breath came hard, then steadied.
When she looked up he was nearer than she'd realized—just out of reach, the cut at his ear cleaned but raw, soot along his jaw making his eyes read darker. The space between them felt thin, crowded with everything that had almost gone wrong. Neither of them moved.
Her fingers tightened on the island's edge. This was the line he'd drawn on the track, the one that said this doesn't change anything. She could let it stand. She could hold the distance and pretend the sight that blast hadn't almost dropped her.
Her chest pulled tight. For a second she started to turn away.
Then she pushed off the counter and closed the space.
It wasn't clean or measured—just the need to know he was there and breathing. Her hands caught at his sides and she dropped her forehead into the line of his collarbone, nose full of smoke and cotton and him. His arm came around her back hard, palm anchoring between her shoulders, the other settling at the base of her skull like he meant to keep her there. He turned his head to spare the bad ear and drew her in until her weight tipped; when her thigh faltered, he took it and set her feet without letting go.
"I thought—" Her voice thinned against his shirt. "I thought you were gone."
His grip tightened, firm and steady. He dipped his chin, his words brushing the crown of her head. "I'm not," he said, voice even. "I'm here."
She pulled back an inch, enough to see him. The sheen in her eyes caught the low light; she swiped once, quick and impatient, catching only the edge of it.
His hand came up, fingers rough from the day, thumb skimming under her eye. The touch landed at her cheekbone and every wire in her flared—shoulders tensing, breath snapping tight. Her flinch was small but real.
He felt it. His thumb stilled, his hand starting to pull away.
Her fingers closed around his wrist before he could. Not tight, just enough to keep him there. She let out a thin, unsteady breath and turned her cheek into his palm. Just enough. Her lashes dropped, her weight leaning a fraction into the hold instead of away from it.
That was the thing that shifted it for him—not the tear, not the words, but her choosing to lean in when she could have stepped back.
Something eased in his shoulders. His thumb traced the line of her jaw once, slow, as if making sure she was still with him. He hesitated there, breath close, a pause that could still break away. He didn't drag her closer; he held the line and waited.
She stayed.
He dipped his head and his mouth found hers.
She went still. Air locked behind her ribs, muscles tightening on reflex. His lips stayed soft against hers, not pushing for more—just a steady, careful press, shared warmth and the solid fact of him.
The hold didn't change until she did. Tension bled out of her shoulders, the rigid line of her spine easing as her mouth loosened under his. The tight seam of her lips parted on a quiet exhale that shook its way out of her chest. Her fingers climbed to his collar and hooked there, clinging. That gave him the answer he needed.
His hand spread at the small of her back and drew her in—not yanking, just closing the last margin she'd already started to give. The kiss deepened, his mouth working over hers with more intent now, careful and consuming at once until the room blurred at the edges. She made a sound into him, raw and unguarded, and he caught it, angling her gently back so the counter took some of her weight and her leg didn't have to.
Heat moved between them, slow and sure. He stayed with her, matching what she gave, more present with every breath, as if he was finally letting himself stand fully in the space he'd been holding back from.
When he finally broke for air, he didn't go far. His forehead came to rest against hers, noses nearly touching, their breaths still crossing in the narrow space.
"Harper," he murmured, low.
Her eyes stayed shut for a second, then she let out a thin, shaky breath that tried to be a laugh. "Pretty sure that violates protocol," she whispered.
He huffed once, almost a scoff, his mouth brushing the corner of hers. "It does."
"Don't tell me you're going to blame that on adrenaline," she muttered, the edge in her voice almost passing for a warning.
His thumb moved at her jaw, just enough for her to feel it. "No," he said. "I knew what I was doing."
Something in her chest loosened and, for once, didn't snap tight again. She held his gaze, really looked—at the steadiness there, the lack of apology, the way he was close without pulling. Her fingers were still hooked in his shirt. She tightened them once, like she'd made up her mind.
This time the movement was hers. She rose onto her toes just enough to meet him, mouth finding his in a slow, deliberate press. No shock this time, no lock in her limbs—just a clear line from decision to contact, the kiss carrying the words she didn't trust her voice with. Her hand flattened over his collarbone, feeling the solid heat there as she leaned in.
He answered by settling around her, one hand firm at her back, the other steady at her jaw, holding her like something he fully intended to keep upright through whatever came next. The world narrowed to that: the weight of his chest under her palm, the taste of smoke and coffee on his mouth, the slow ease of her own breathing as it finally evened out against his.
Outside, the compound kept running on. In here, the quiet felt like something they'd both bled for and finally, briefly, gotten to keep.