The shop smelled of green soap and warm steel, the coil's buzz steady as a held breath. Harper lay back on the padded bench, shirt pushed high to bare the run from ribs to hip. The serpent coiled her left side in black and crimson, jaw set at the shoulder, coils winding ribs and waist, tail forking above the knee. The artist snapped a fine-tip skin marker in a gloved hand and drew the guide where she'd asked—a single, deliberate line straight through the body, dark enough no one could miss it—then set the machine and tuned the pitch.
He worked in even passes. Gloved fingers held the skin firm at her waist. Wipe with green soap, a skim of ointment, the coil's hum starting up again. The vibration threaded bone and she let it. Pain came clean and small. Each pass pressed the choice deeper.
The line didn't just cut ink. It crossed almost four months that changed Harper irrecoverably—rifles in a yard that screamed like tearing metal; a gate chained shut; hands in her hair dragging her through Syndicate halls, blood in her mouth and concrete under her cheek; a chair and a bucket and questions that outlasted clocks. It crossed a porch where Dante said her name and fell in her arms, and a sidewalk where Wedge and Lena went still while Brock pinned her to keep her from trying to stop bullets with her body. It crossed all of it and left one truth stamped in skin: you took it; I lived.
Brock sat close enough that his forearm brushed the bench frame when he breathed, tape pale at his ear. Contradiction made flesh: the hand that hauled her in and the body that later stood between her and Vex; the door that opened; coffee that wasn't hers yet; work that put edge and balance back in her bones—and now the quiet at her side, here to see this because she'd asked.
When the artist lifted for a wipe and her breath hitched, Brock's fingers found her wrist and closed there, thumb settling over the faint ridge that still ringed the skin. Plastic ties, then steel, weeks of pressure and struggle had left that line; he'd been the one to lock both in place. Now his hold landed on the same ground and did nothing but steady. The next pass went easier. The next pass went easier.
The cloth cleared the gloss from her skin. Ointment skimmed over the fresh line. Second skin smoothed over black new against old. The serpent remained, the stroke splitting it, refusing disguise or apology. Brock's thumb eased off her pulse and settled at the heel of her hand.
"I'm here," he murmured, low, like setting words into wet ink.
"I know," she whispered. Dante stays. The dead stay. The line stays. What comes next is mine. She let the breath go and the room tipped back into place.
She pushed up on her palms, shirt falling back as the vinyl sighed under her weight. The artist stripped his gloves with a snap, muttered through the aftercare, rang the sale. Brock took the slip and folded the bills without counting before he passed them across the counter. Harper stood a step behind him, the faint pull under the fresh film at her ribs a quiet reminder every time she drew in air.
The door's chime gave a thin note as they stepped out, warmth rushing in while the shop's cool air fell away. Sun hit the pavement hard enough to throw heat back through her shirt; the street carried asphalt and roasted coffee from somewhere down the block. Brock kept pace at her side with a small white bag—ointment, folded aftercare—his other hand loose in his pocket.
The brightness sat wrong after the fluorescents, stranger with the fine sting under second skin. She felt his glance touch and go, the kind he used when he weighed a call even after it was done.
The first night they came in wrecked, bodies stripped down to nothing but exhaustion. After they kissed, the crash came all at once. Dinner went untouched; boots and vests landed in a heap. She didn't go to her own room—wouldn't. She stayed with him, unwilling to let him slip from sight, needing the proof of his breath steady beside her. Sleep claimed them tangled, her cheek at his collar, his arm around her waist like it had been there forever.
The next day was still and strange. The compound moved slow, drills on pause and orders thin on the ground. Harper ate, listened to Nolan and Vale snap at each other across the cafeteria table, then went back where she belonged. Brock's quarters had always been hers under his watch, but after the night before the air carried something different. The kiss stayed between them, unspoken and settled. When night came, she settled beside him again, this time wide awake when she let herself do it. His hand found hers in the dark, thumb brushing once before stilling. She didn't pull away.
By the second day, weight had eased. Graves signed off their wounds, gear was stripped and cleaned, routine creeping back at the edges. They moved through it together, shoulder to shoulder—his steadiness an anchor, her presence shadowing his. Small things carried the shift: the brush of her hand as she passed him a tool, the silence between them that no longer felt hollow. When they turned in that night, it wasn't hesitation but habit; his room had never been a question. Before sleep took her, he bent close enough that his lips touched her hair, a press steady rather than tender. She let herself breathe with it, the quiet holding.
This morning she woke on her side with his arm looped at her waist and his breath slow against her shoulder, the compound's hum soft through the walls. She turned, found him watching, and told him she wanted to go off-site—to a shop she knew.
He studied her long enough to know it wasn't just leftover adrenaline. "You sure?" he asked, voice low in the room.
"Yes," she said, and didn't look away.
An hour later, at the counter before the gloves snapped on, he asked it again—no challenge in it, just care. She told him yes again, steady, hand firm on the form, eyes on his. After that there was only the buzz, the line, the wrap.
Now the city moved around them in its easy midday rhythm—low traffic, a voice drifting from an open café door, heat pressing through their shirts. She adjusted her shirt where it lay loose over the fresh mark, and they kept walking.
Sun flattened their shadows along the sidewalk. Her limp had eased since that night; the drag mostly gone, her step measured, but the muscle still pulled when she tried to lengthen. She kept the pace even, not out to prove anything with him right there.
Half a block on, his hand found the small of her back—warm, certain—and eased her off their line. She glanced over, brow tilting, not sure if he was steering her clear of something or just reminding her he could.
They followed the sidewalk another block, heat rising off concrete. A corner shop spilled roasted air through its propped door, beans grinding under the chatter inside. Brock nudged her that way without a word. She matched him, careful with the way she set her weight as she stepped. He pulled the handle and let her step in first, cool air sliding over sweat and street noise.
The shop was all glass and gloss, sunlight pouring through tall windows onto polished floors that looked too clean for the city outside. Shelves of branded mugs and silver bags of beans lined one wall; the air carried a vanilla-sweet roast, perfume laid over any grit. A chalkboard menu hung above the counter, neat letters in careful rows. The hum inside stayed low—soft music under the churn of blenders, the hiss of steam like punctuation.
Harper traced it with her eyes, the order and polish of the place, until she saw Brock already near the front of the line, posture easy as he waited his turn. She closed the distance to him.
When the line shifted, they stepped up to the counter together. Brock didn't hesitate—his voice low, even, ordering a black coffee without a glance at the board. Then he stepped back half a pace, eyes flicking to her, leaving the space open.
Harper tipped her chin up at the menu overhead, rows of names and sizes stacked like code she hadn't studied. Caramel, vanilla, iced, blended—it read more like a list of disguises than drinks. For a breath she almost stepped back, defaulting to whatever he'd taken. But the line waited, and his silence was steady, no rescue in it.
"Iced vanilla latte, please," she said finally, the words sticking a little on her tongue. "Medium. Thank you."
The barista tapped it in, smile automatic, and Harper managed one in return, letting the choice settle in her chest as if she'd done something louder.
Brock slid a few bills across the counter, took the change without looking, and shifted her toward the pickup window with a hand at her back. He kept the folded slip between his fingers as they moved, then dropped the white bag into his cargo pocket.
"Iced vanilla latte, huh?" His voice carried a dry edge, caught somewhere between observation and tease.
Harper tilted up, brushing a quick kiss against his jaw before answering, the grin flickering small and real. "Looked better than black coffee."
The corner of his mouth tugged, faint but there. His arm settled across her shoulders, steady and warm, and she leaned into it without thinking, her weight fitting the line he made.
The counter bell chimed and the barista set the cups down—one black, one pale with ice. Brock took both, slid one into her hand, and steered them back toward the door. Street noise and sun met them as the glass door swung shut behind.
She sipped, the chill hitting her teeth before the sweetness spread. "Better than black coffee," she muttered into the cup.
"Too much sugar," he replied, but there was no real bite in it.
She tipped her head, side-eyeing him. "Guess that means more for me."
He gave her that small look, the one that never quite broke into a smile, and stayed beside her while they followed the sidewalk on.
They left the storefronts behind, the path bending toward the river. Grass pressed close at one edge, trees filtering light across the way; on the other side the water kept an easy pace, sunlight breaking against its surface. Traffic fell off until there was only the scuff of their boots and the low rush of current.
For a while they walked without speaking.
"What does the dinner tonight entail?" Harper asked finally.
Brock's mouth pulled into something close to a grin. "It's your acceptance. Official. Syndicate says you're ours now." He tipped his cup, took a swallow. "It'll just be the crew. Not too busy. But—" his mouth edged a little higher—"expect it to get rowdy."
Her fingers tightened on the cup, the cold seeping into her palm. Rowdy sounded wide, unpredictable. The river moved on, steady against the bank, but something in her chest caught on the word.
Brock angled them toward a bench set back in the shade, the metal warm under his hand as he nodded for her to sit. She followed, easing down beside him, eyes still on the water.
"Relax," he told her, his voice low, certain. "Everyone's excited to see you as one of their own. Truth is, I think they already did. Tonight just makes it official."
She let out a slow breath, shoulders dipping an inch.
He glanced over, the corner of his mouth tugging. "Just… don't drink too much."
Harper tipped her cup, ice shifting. "Guess you'll have to keep watch then."
His mouth eased farther this time, brief but real, before he turned his gaze out across the river. The current pulled on, sunlight flaring and breaking against the surface; he watched it in silence, the weight of him easy beside her.
It went on like that for a while, the two of them quiet, the city a hum far behind.
When he turned back, Harper's shoulders had gone still, her eyes on the water without really tracking it. Something in her face had pulled inward, far away from the river.
"Hey," he said, voice low as he leaned in a fraction, his arm brushing hers. "Talk to me. What's on your mind?"
She looked at him, her throat tightening once before the words found their way out. Her fingers worried at the sweating cup, ice knocking soft inside the plastic. "It's… a lot." She drew a breath, eyes flicking from his to the water. "If someone had told me months ago I'd be sitting on a bench beside a Syndicate Commander—by my own choice—I'd have said they were crazy."
The corner of his mouth shifted, some wry thing in it. "Same here. Back then, a Crimson Viper was someone I dragged in in cuffs, not someone I bought coffee for and let take my side of the bed. If someone told me I'd be walking you to your own acceptance dinner…" He let the thought hang for a second, gaze steady on hers. "I'd have said they didn't know me at all."
Her gaze stayed on the river, shoulders rigid against the bench. "That night in the yard—I thought I was dead. I expected you to pull the trigger and open my head into the dirt." The cup creaked under her grip. Her voice thinned, but she pushed it out. "You didn't. I don't know what made you hesitate, but I'm glad you did."
Brock's fingers tightened around his cup, but he stayed quiet and let her keep going.
"I try not to think about right after that," she said, voice dropping. "Everything I was dragged through. What was done to me. What I lost." Her hand trembled, the cup shifting in her grasp. She turned to him, eyes wet now, glassed and unflinching. "You were part of it. You broke me down. And still—" her breath caught, jagged "—you're the one who pulled me out of Vex's sights. You pushed me harder than I thought I could survive. I hated you for it. Sometimes I still feel that hate." Her throat worked, the tears finally spilling. "But I'm glad it went the way it did in the end. I'm glad I'm here, with you, drinking this stupidly sweet coffee instead of in the ground with the rest of them."
A tear slipped free, sliding down before she could wipe it. Brock set his cup on the ground, the hollow thud against concrete soft, final. His hand rose, thumb brushing her cheek with care that matched none of the steel in him. His jaw worked once before he found the words.
"I gave you every reason to hate me." His voice came rough and low. "You never got a clean say in any of this. Vex made sure of that. I backed his play and locked the doors." He held her gaze. "Even so, you stayed in it. You took every push I threw at you, let me drag you out of rooms that should've killed you, let me close when you could've shut down. I don't take that for granted."
Her breath shivered out, eyes shining. "You believed I could do it," she said, the words unsteady but clear. "From the start. When Vex gave you three months, when I could barely stand, when I was sure you were wasting your time." Her fingers tightened on the cup again. "You saw something worth fighting for when I didn't see anything left. So… thank you. For that. For believing I could be more than a body on a clock."
His hand slid from her cheek to the side of her neck, palm warm against skin that still remembered other hands. "I didn't put that belief on nothing," he answered. "You stood up every time I knocked you down. You wouldn't quit, even when you wanted to. You made it impossible to write you off." His thumb pressed lightly under her jaw, steadying. "If anyone earned where you are now, it's you. I just refused to let Vex throw you away."
Her eyes searched his, the river a blur at the edge of her vision. Something inside her tipped—grief, anger, gratitude, want—whatever wall she'd kept between all of it and him slipping out of her grip.
Then both his hands framed her face, rough palms warm along her cheeks, holding her like she might go under if he let go. He didn't rush it. His breath met hers first, close enough that she felt the heat of him, and then his mouth was on hers.
The kiss wasn't careful. It landed soft for a breath, then broke open; she made a sound, half whimper, half laugh, all the weight they'd just dragged through tearing loose in her chest. The iced cup slid against her palm, cold biting at her skin as it tilted, forgotten. Her other hand rose, fingers diving into the short hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer with a force that bordered on frantic.
She kissed him back like she'd been holding it in for months—hungry, sure, all the guard stripped out of it. She leaned into his hold until her whole weight pressed into him, needing the anchor of it. His grip tightened, thumbs tracing once along her cheeks as his mouth moved over hers, deeper now, not gentle but steadying, dragging her into the one place that felt certain. The bench, the river, the glare off the water—all of it fell away until there was only his hands, his mouth, the raw need in it pulling both of them under.
Slowly, the world edged back in. The cup cooled her fingers again, the river's rush threading through the space between breaths. She eased back first, lips parting from his, her forehead resting against his for a moment while she tried to find her balance.
He didn't drop his hands right away. His grip loosened by degrees, palms still bracketing her face as he looked at her, eyes dark and steady. One thumb brushed away the trace of damp at the corner of her mouth.
She huffed out a quiet breath that almost counted as a laugh and glanced down at the cup tilted in her hand. "Pretty sure half of that is just melted ice now," she murmured.
"Still too much sugar," he said, but there was no edge in it. He leaned back enough to reach for his own cup, lifting it in a small salute before taking a swallow.
Harper straightened, the bench solid at her back, the taste of him and coffee and vanilla lingering on her tongue. The knot in her chest had eased, not gone, but shifted into something she could hold.
Brock watched her for another moment, then tipped his chin toward the path that curled away from the river. "We've got a dinner to get you through tonight," he said, voice low. "You want to take a look in a shop, find something that isn't all tactical or stolen out of my closet?"
Her mouth curved, the hint of a grin trying to surface. "You saying cargoes and your shirts don't scream 'formal'?" she asked, then glanced down at the hem of the one she wore before looking back at him. "Yeah. Be good to have something that's actually mine."