Echoes

The morning crept soft through the seams of the curtains, enough to show the dust floating between them. The room smelled faintly of soap and iron, sheets clean but over-washed, the air heavy with the slow heat of bodies that hadn’t left bed for days. Brock sat propped against the headboard, a pillow wedged behind the ribs that still ached when he breathed too deep. Harper lay beside him half-turned, one arm draped across her stomach, her hair spilled over his forearm in copper strands that caught what little light the day allowed. She hadn’t moved since dawn, except to shiver once when the wind slipped under the window. He’d stopped trying to count how many times she did that—how many times his hand found her wrist just to feel the pulse still under skin.

It had been a little more than a week since Brock was rescued from his execution. His body had started to remember what safety felt like, though it didn’t quite believe it. Muscles still jumped at distant noise; his hands woke stiff, fingers curling against ghosts of plastic and rope. Food stayed down now, but only in small, suspicious portions. He walked laps through the short hall outside their door, rebuilding balance the same way he’d rebuilt trust—with effort, not faith. Nights were worse. His mind replayed the floodlights even through closed lids, the phantom weight of kneeling while she stepped into the open.

Harper healed quieter. The bruises had yellowed, but the headaches came in waves that knocked the color out of her face, and sometimes the sound of the kettle downstairs or the creak of the stair banister was enough to make her flinch. She said she was fine when she wasn’t. She’d sit cross-legged on the bed with her eyes half-closed, one hand at the back of her neck, and he’d know the room was spinning again. Between them, there was touch more than talk—her head on his shoulder when the nausea hit, his thumb tracing idle circles against her wrist until her pulse steadied.

The others came and went—quiet hands leaving food, water, fresh gauze on the dresser—but no one stayed long. It wasn’t avoidance so much as respect, the kind that understood how recovery worked: too many voices turned rest into noise. They were still part of the house, still watched, still cared for—but this small room, for now, was theirs.

Harper shifted before he realized she was awake. It was a small thing—her fingers tightening against the blanket, a faint catch in her breath—but it tugged him back from whatever half-thought he’d been lost in. She blinked slowly, lashes dragging against her cheeks, eyes struggling to find the light in the room before landing on him.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep. “Morning, if we’re calling it that.”

Her mouth curved, lazy and soft. “Still breathing?”

He huffed out a low sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Mostly.” He reached to brush the hair off her forehead where it stuck, a copper curl plastered by sweat and sleep. His fingers traced along her temple—careful, reverent. “Head still killing you?”

“Less than yesterday.” She rolled onto her back, the movement slow, testing, like her body was a machine she didn’t quite trust yet. Her hand found his knee through the blanket and stayed there, anchoring. “You look like hell, by the way.”

“Thanks.” His thumb caught her wrist, gentle pressure in return. “You’re not winning any awards either.”

Her smile grew, small but real, and he leaned in to press his mouth to her hairline. The kiss wasn’t meant for anything but proof—that she was warm, that he could. She sighed against his shoulder, body relaxing by degrees, the same way he did every time she breathed steady under his touch.

“Think we’re getting better,” he said quietly.

“Mm,” she murmured, eyes already half-closing again. “Define better.”

He looked down at her, at the bruise fading along her jaw, the faint tremor in her fingers even now. “Alive,” he said finally.

Harper turned onto her side, the sheets dragging softly with her, and buried her face against his hip. The motion was slow, cautious, like even gravity had to be negotiated. Her breath warmed the fabric of his sweatpants, steady for once.

“Alive is good,” she mumbled, the words muffled against him. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt and held it, a quiet claim more than a grip.

Brock’s hand came to rest on her back, thumb drawing idle lines through the curve of her shoulder blade. He didn’t answer right away. The sound of her breathing filled the pause—real, fragile, the kind of proof that didn’t need words.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice rough. “Alive’s good.”

Harper shifted, bracing a palm against his thigh for balance before pushing herself upright. The twist dragged a wince from her—ribs, shoulder, the drum still going behind her eye—but she got there, slow and stubborn, until she was sitting beside him. The blanket slid down to her waist, skin pale in the half-light.

Brock’s hand twitched toward her instinctively, ready to catch what gravity might claim.

She saw it and huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured, voice still rough from sleep. “I’m not made of glass.”

He didn’t argue, but his hand stayed hovering close anyway, fingers flexing once before he let them fall to the bed between them.

Harper’s eyes softened. The fight in her tone didn’t reach them. She leaned in slow, the motion cautious but sure, and pressed her mouth just under his jaw. It wasn’t a kiss meant to start anything—it was a pulse check, a reassurance, a thank-you. The scrape of her lips met the rough edge of his stubble, the smallest sound of breath leaving him at the contact.

Brock’s eyes shut for the span of it. His throat moved under her mouth; his hand rose halfway before settling at her hip, fingers curling in the blanket like he needed the anchor more than the touch.

She stayed there another heartbeat, breathing him in, then drew back enough to meet his eyes. “See?” she whispered. “Still standing.”

"Barely," he said, but his mouth curved.

She pushed the blanket aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, testing the floor with bare feet. The boards were cold enough to bite. She stood—slow, deliberate—and the room tilted just enough to make her pause, one hand braced on the mattress.

Brock was already shifting, swinging his legs down to sit beside her. "Harper—"

"I'm fine," she said, not looking at him. She took a step. Then another. Made it to the dresser before the nausea rolled up sudden and mean. Her hand shot out, catching the edge, knuckles white.

He was there before the next breath, hand at her elbow, the other at her back. "Easy."

"I'm fine," she said again, but the word cracked at the edges. She let him steady her anyway, let his weight take some of hers.

"You're stubborn," he corrected quietly. "There's a difference."

She turned her head just enough to glare at him, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion. "Says the man who tried to do laps yesterday and made it three steps."

"Five," he said. "And I didn't fall."

"You grabbed the doorframe so hard you left finger marks."

"Still counts."

That pulled a sound from her—half-laugh, half-breath—and some of the tension bled out of her shoulders. She leaned into him, forehead against his collarbone, and let the room stop spinning on its own time.

"We're a hell of a pair," she murmured.

"Yeah," he said, chin resting on her crown. "We are."

They stood like that until her legs felt solid again, until his ribs stopped protesting the angle. Then they moved together—two people holding each other up—back to the bed.

A knock came before they'd settled, soft but firm. Three taps, a pause, then Vera's voice through the door. "Decent?"

Brock glanced at Harper. She nodded, pulling the blanket back over her legs.

"Come in."

The door opened just wide enough for Vera to slip through, a tray balanced in one hand. Steam rose from two bowls, the smell of broth and bread cutting through the stale air. She set it on the dresser without ceremony, then turned to face them, arms crossed, eyes doing that quick medical scan she couldn't turn off.

"How's the head?" she asked Harper.

"Fine."

Vera's brow lifted. "Scale of one to ten."

Harper's jaw worked. "Four."

"Liar." But Vera's tone was gentle. She moved closer, fingers lifting to check Harper's pupils, quick and practiced. "Seven, maybe eight. You're squinting in light that wouldn't bother a mole." She let her hand drop. "You need to tell me when it's bad. That's how this works."

Harper looked away, guilt flickering across her face.

Vera turned to Brock. "You?"

"Sore," he admitted. "Ribs are loud. Hands are—" He flexed his fingers, the gauze crinkling. "—getting there."

"Good." She pulled the bandages off his wrists with efficient care, inspecting the raw grooves underneath. They were healing, pink and angry but closed. She nodded, satisfied, and rewrapped them with fresh gauze. "You're both doing better than I expected. Slowly. But better."

She straightened, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Knuckles wanted me to tell you—final count came in. From the rescue."

The air in the room changed. Brock's hand found Harper's under the blanket, fingers lacing tight.

Vera's voice stayed even. "Twenty Syndicate dead. Four Vultures."

The number sat between them like a stone.

"Four," Harper echoed, voice hollow.

"Yeah." Vera's gaze didn't waver. "Fletcher, Sims, Nolan, and Hale's brother, Matt."

Harper's breath caught. "Matt—Vera, I didn't—"

"He knew the risks." Vera's tone was firm, not unkind. "They all did. No one went in thinking it'd be clean." She paused, let that settle. "You didn't pull the trigger. The Syndicate did. Remember that."

But Harper's face had already shuttered, guilt carving lines that hadn't been there a moment ago.

Brock's grip tightened on her hand.

Vera saw it, sighed. “They’ve been asking about you. Both of you,” she said. “No one’s expecting you downstairs yet—God knows the stairs aren’t your friends—but people want you to know you’re missed.”

She moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “Give it another few days. Eat. Rest. Let the bones catch up to the news that you’re alive. Then we’ll try for company.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Harper’s gaze fixed on the tray, the steam thinning in the light, but Brock knew she wasn’t really looking at it. He could see it in her face—the count echoing behind her eyes. Four. Four gone. People neither of them knew, died to help get Brock out.

He felt it too, like a stone in his chest that wouldn’t move. “Four Vultures gone pulling me out,” he said quietly. The words came rough, shaped around guilt he didn’t bother to hide. “They signed on for a fight, but not for me.”

Harper’s head turned toward him. “For us,” she said, voice soft but certain. “They didn’t go in thinking it was about one man. They went because it mattered.”

He didn’t answer right away. His thumb traced the inside of her wrist, slow, thoughtful. “Still doesn’t sit right.”

“It’s not supposed to,” she murmured. Her hand covered his, grounding him the way she always did—quiet, unflinching. “You live. That’s what they wanted.”Top of FormBottom of Form

They ate in silence—small, mechanical bites that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with survival. When the bowls were empty, they set them aside and lay back down, the space between them smaller than before.

Brock pulled her in, one arm around her shoulders, her head settling against his chest where she could hear his heartbeat. Steady. Real. Alive.

Harper's fingers curled in his shirt. "We should go down eventually," she murmured. "Thank them."

"Not today," he said.

"No," she agreed. "Not today."

Outside, the house moved around them—footsteps, voices, the distant clatter of dishes. They stayed where they were, holding each other in the small room that smelled of soap and iron, learning how to breathe in a world where they were still alive and four others weren't.

─•────

The stairs still felt taller than they looked, each tread an argument between gravity and pride. Harper took them slow, one hand on the rail, breath thin. Brock followed half a step behind, not much steadier—his ribs still sore, legs weak from too many days on his back. Every step made something in him grind or pull, but stopping wasn’t an option. She could feel him there anyway, a shadow of warmth and caution just close enough to catch her if the world tilted.

The kitchen was alive. Steam rolled off the stove, coffee cutting through the air with that bitter-sweet heaviness that meant morning whether you wanted it or not. Somewhere, a radio hummed low under the noise—half static, half song. It smelled like frying oil, soap, and people trying to live normal.

“Holy shit, they live!”

Kier’s voice cracked through the air like a gunshot in a church.

Harper flinched, one hand lifting to her temple, the other curling reflexively in the fabric of her shirt.

“Christ, Kier,” Vera hissed, swatting him with the dish towel she’d been drying mugs with. “Inside voice, you feral child.”

He grinned through the wince, rubbing his arm. “What? It’s been two weeks. I was starting to think they fused with the mattress.”

“Keep talking,” Vera warned, “and you’ll be fused with the floor.”

Kier glanced between them, saw Harper still squinting at the sound, and his grin faltered just enough for sincerity to sneak in. “Right,” he muttered, softer this time—then leaned his elbow on the counter and added, under his breath but still smiling, “Holy shit, they live.”

Onyx sat at the counter with a mug, his posture loose, gaze steady. “Morning,” he said, simple and clean, the kind of word that didn’t need decoration.

Knuckles was at the stove, spatula in hand, shoulders wide and calm. He didn’t turn around right away. “Sit before one of you eats it,” he said. “We’re not doing heroics before breakfast.”

Brock’s mouth twitched. Harper just blinked against the light, trying to match the pace of the house again—its noise, its heat, its heartbeat.

He guided her toward the table, slow steps across the tile. The chairs scraped softly as they sat—one of those quiet sounds that used to mean nothing and now felt like proof the world still moved.

Knuckles finally turned from the stove, spatula tapping once against the pan before he set it aside. “You look like hell,” he said, but there was no bite in it. He slid two plates down in front of them—eggs, toast, something that might’ve once been bacon. “Eat. Before Vera decides you’re too frail for solids again.”

Harper’s mouth twitched, somewhere between a smile and an apology. “We’re fine.”

“Sure you are,” Knuckles said. He poured coffee, dark and mean, and set it by Brock’s elbow. “Half cup. Doctor’s orders.”

Onyx leaned back on his stool, watching with that half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. “Look at you two. Upright. Conversational. Almost human.”

“Almost,” Brock said, voice still rough.

Kier dropped into the chair across from them, spinning it around so the back faced the table. “Give it another week. We’ll have you running drills.”

Harper rolled her eyes, then winced at the movement. “Maybe you should start without me. Work on your form.”

“Still got it,” Kier said, mock-impressed. “Sarcasm survived the concussion.”

Vera’s voice floated from the sink. “Keep poking her and I’ll test your reflexes with the frying pan.”

The kitchen laughed—soft, real, breaking the tension that had lived in the house since the rescue. It wasn’t loud, not anymore; even Kier’s laughter had learned to stay on the safer side of gentle.

Harper let the sound settle around her, warm and human. It still hurt, but less than silence.

They ate because the plates were warm under their hands and the smell of salt and butter left no room for hesitation. The eggs had gone a little firm at the edges, the toast more a gesture toward butter than a promise, the bacon something that remembered a better life—but heat still settled easy in the stomach. Brock cut his food small, ribs complaining with each breath. Harper followed every mouthful with a sip of water, testing balance as much as appetite, her eyes tracing the kitchen’s motion like she was reminding herself how people worked.

“Chew,” Vera reminded without looking, which was how you knew she was watching. She rinsed a mug, set it upside down to drain, then added a second spoon of sugar to the coffee at Brock’s elbow like she’d always done it. “Half cup means half, hero.”

Brock made a face that said he’d negotiate later and took a careful drink. The bitter hit, then the sweet, and something like color eased back into the edges of his vision.

Kier drummed a rhythm on the turned chair back with two fingers, then seemed to realize even that might be loud. He stopped, palms flattening. “You miss us?” he tried, lighter.

“Desperately,” Harper said, sarcastic but soft around it, and Onyx’s mouth nudged north a millimeter.

The radio under the noise gave up on a song and slid into static, then caught a new station mid-verse. A woman’s voice drifted through the air like it wasn’t sure it belonged. Knuckles turned the burner low under the second pan, wiped his hands on a towel, and leaned a hip against the counter.

“You two come downstairs again,” he said, not quite looking at them, “give someone a heads-up first.” He flipped the towel once between his hands, casual. “Last thing we need is one of you taking a header down the stairs because you were trying to prove a point."

It wasn't a warning so much as a nudge—gruff, but human. The kind that came from a man who’d carried both of them half-conscious through worse and wasn’t in the mood to do it again.

“Ah yes,” Kier said, “the landlord,” and Vera flicked water at him.

Mason ghosted in from the back hall, hands shoved in his pockets, the cold still clinging to his shoulders. He slid into the space between Onyx and Kier like he’d always been there. He caught the scene in a glance—two plates, two pale faces pretending to be fine, everyone else pretending not to hover—and let out a breath that took a notch out of the room’s tension.

“Copies of the broadcast keep popping,” he said to no one in particular, setting a stack of envelopes on the far end of the counter. “Clipped, remixed, thrown on a dozen boards. Vultures look like ghosts and gods. Syndicate looks like it lost a tooth."

“Good,” Knuckles said. “Let it bleed.”

“Coffee’s low,” Mason said—which, in his language, meant I’m glad you’re still standing.

He topped Onyx’s mug, topped his own, left the pot breathing on the back burner. His eyes made one more quiet pass—Harper’s color, Brock’s hands, the fine tremor in the air that came from too much trying—and nodded once, staying this time instead of vanishing.

The door swung open on the next draft of cold. Hale came in first, coat half-zipped, hair damp with mist; Calder followed, expression unreadable but warmer than the day outside. The smell of diesel and iron clung to both of them.

“Morning,” Hale dropped the duffel by the door and found a stretch of counter beside Onyx, palms braced like he didn’t plan to stay long. “You two look less dead.”

“Progress,” Brock rasped.

“Minimal,” Onyx added, deadpan.

Vera snorted without looking up from the sink. “You’re all charm before caffeine.”

Calder’s mouth twitched. “Thought we’d check the pulse.” He leaned his hip against the counter, scanning Brock and Harper the way soldiers do when they’ve learned not to trust miracles but still hope for one. “Looks like it’s holding.”

The kitchen filled Itself again—chairs scraping, mugs refilling, boots knocking the floorboards.

Kier took over the radio, turning the static down until it hummed more than sang.

Knuckles moved plates from the stove to the table, every gesture controlled, methodical, like noise management was second nature.

Mason tore the toast into halves, slid one toward Harper without comment. Vera’s towel hung over her shoulder now, damp at the ends, her posture equal parts medic and mother.

Harper fumbled her fork, but caught it before it slid off her plate and set it square on the porcelain. The small clatter still nicked behind her eyes. She took a breath and let it out slow and thought, maybe, this was survivable—people orbiting without fuss, morning deciding to be ordinary.

The sink filled with a thin ribbon of water. Vera dropped in the pan, a hiss of heat meeting cool. “Don’t move,” she told the pan, which got a smile out of Brock that made him look briefly like himself.

He reached for their plates. Habit, or gratitude. The reach yanked at the lines down his side, and his mouth shut on a breath. Harper saw it and put her fingers on his wrist. “I’ve got it.”

“Sit,” Knuckles said, not looking.

“It’s a plate,” Harper answered, already angling up, body telegraphing *it’s fine* before it had cleared it with her skull. The room tilted half a degree, enough to set her hand to the table edge. She waited through it, then lifted both plates, balanced neatly, and turned toward the sink.

“Harper.” Knuckles again, sharper. “Sit down.”

She stopped because the tone in his voice put brakes on her legs. She didn’t turn. “It’s three steps,” she said to the room. “I can handle three steps.”

“Not the point,” Knuckles said, and now he was facing her, arms folded, shoulders doing that set thing. “You wobble, those go down, you go down, and I’m cleaning egg out of the grout and calling Vera to set your head again. Sit.”

Harper let the breath she had go, very carefully. “You could just say please.”

“I could,” Knuckles said, even. “I’m not going to.”

Onyx’s mug paused halfway to his mouth, then continued. Vera turned off the tap without looking away from what she was not looking at.

Brock’s hand hovered in the air like it didn’t know if it belonged to either of them. “I’ve got the plates,” he said, voice pitched small and reasonable, but Harper had already moved, because the choice was start this now or take three steps and put glass between them.

She took the steps. Knuckles didn’t move to stop her; his disapproval did, and it traveled faster than feet. The sink met the plates. She rinsed. She set them in the rack, careful as a surgeon about to be told to leave the room.

“It’s not about dishes,” Knuckles said to the air over her shoulder.

“No,” she agreed, still looking at the water. “It’s about you telling me what I can’t do.”

Brock’s hand stilled halfway to his cup. He didn’t speak—there was no winning ground between them—but his shoulders locked, like the sound of their voices hit an old bruise.

“It’s about you doing things that get you hurt,” Knuckles returned, finally letting the heat in his chest tint the words.

Harper rolled her eyes and tipped her head back. Knuckles’ jaw flexed, the muscle jumping once. “You don’t get to keep pulling shit like that,” he said, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the air between them. “Two weeks ago you walked into a spotlight without a weapon.”

Harper turned, slow. Her pulse was still running hot from the noise of the kitchen, but her voice stayed level. “I went out without a weapon because they would have immediately shot me. I did what had to be done.”

“What had to—” Knuckles bit off the rest, exhaling hard through his nose. “You didn’t have to strip your vest off and waltz into firing range.”

“They weren’t moving,” Harper shot back, wincing at her own tone. “I knew Dane and Roth were going to be right with Brock, and I didn’t want to risk him accidentally getting hit. I needed to draw one of them out.”

“Oh, and so having Kier shoot Dane right over your head was less risky?” Knuckles asked, eyes narrowing.

Harper’s mouth shut. The argument caught there, because he wasn’t wrong—but he also didn’t understand.

Knuckles exhaled, the sound closer to a growl. “If you’d told me, Mason and I could’ve—”

“You’d have benched me,” she cut in, sharp enough to sting.

“Yes,” he shot back, no hesitation, no apology. “Yes, I fucking would’ve. Because it was reckless and—” He broke off, jaw flexing before the words came again, harder. “Harper, you’re not going to see nineteen if you keep pulling stunts like that.”

The number landed like a dropped plate.

The room went still. Not silent—the radio still hummed, the faucet still dripped—but *still*, like the air had to decide whether to move.

Kier’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. Onyx’s eyes lifted from his mug, sharp and sudden. Calder’s expression shifted—surprise, then something softer. Vera’s hands stopped moving in the water.

Brock’s eyes cut to Harper—he’d known. It was hers to tell, hers to guard. The look she threw back wasn’t accusation, just hurt, but it landed like one anyway.

No one spoke but she didn’t have to look to know eyes were on her. She could feel them—the weight of realization sliding across faces that didn’t know, that weren’t supposed to know. She’d only ever said it once, whispered in the dark to Brock because he’d earned it, because it felt safe there.

Now it was out. Open. Hanging in the air between the smell of coffee and the sound of the ticking stove.

“What did you just say?” Harper’s voice came again, quieter, like it had to crawl out past the heat.

Knuckles’ expression shifted—something between grief and frustration. “Harper,” he said, quieter now. “You’re eighteen. Eighteen. You shouldn’t have had to go through any of this.”

Her eyes flashed. "Yeah," she said, breath hitching. “I’ve been through enough.” Her hands came up, trembling with the weight of it. “You talk to me like I’m some kid who doesn’t know what a bullet feels like. Like I haven’t bled on the same floors as you.”

“Harper—”

“I have lost everything I’ve ever had,” she continued, voice rising and cracking. “Everything. And everyone I’ve ever loved has been ripped away from me.”

She turned toward Brock then, tears bright and unhidden. “I wasn’t going to let that happen with him.”

The words hit Brock dead center. He reached for her without thinking, fingertips brushing her sleeve, but she was already pulling back, eyes too wet to see him.

Knuckles’ posture broke a little, the fight draining from his shoulders. “Harper,” he started, softer now, palms open. “I know. But we could’ve lost both of you.”

“But you didn’t,” she snapped, voice cracking through the space between them. “You didn’t lose either of us.” She swiped at her face, angry at the tears, angrier that she couldn’t stop them. “I saved him. Me. Not you. Not Mason. Me and Kier.” Her voice climbed, breaking. “And you’re standing here telling me I shouldn’t have done it?”

Knuckles reached toward her, palms open. “That’s not what I—”

“You should be thanking me, not lecturing me.” The words came out jagged, too loud. “You’re fucking welcome for being the reason Brock is here right now instead of dead on that pier.”

The kitchen flinched. Brock’s face went white.

Harper’s breath hitched, tears running freely now. “Next time I’ll just sit it out, yeah? Because I’m just a kid. I shouldn’t even be here.”

She pushed away from the counter hard enough that the cabinet door banged. Brock half-rose, but she was already moving—unsteady, wild, tears flashing under her lashes.

Vera reached for her. “Harper—”

“Don’t touch me!”

Then she was gone—boots slapping unevenly against the floorboards, doorframe clipping her shoulder on the way out. The door slammed. Silence dropped over the kitchen like a blanket.

For a long moment, no one moved. The radio kept humming. The faucet kept dripping. But the room had gone hollow.

Knuckles stood with his hands still half-raised, jaw working. “Fuck,” he said finally, rough and quiet.

“That went well,” Kier muttered, then immediately looked like he regretted it when Vera’s glare landed on him.

Brock hadn’t moved. He was still half-standing, staring at the door Harper had disappeared through, his face carved from stone. His hands were shaking.

“Brock,” Vera said gently.

“Don’t.” The word came out flat. He sat back down slowly, like his legs wouldn’t hold him anymore. “Just—don’t.”

Knuckles turned away, bracing both hands on the counter, head bowed. “I didn’t mean—” He stopped. Tried again. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know,” Brock said, and he sounded exhausted. “But she doesn’t.”

Mason finally moved, setting down his mug with a soft clink. “Someone should—”

“Give her space,” Calder said quietly. “Let her cool down first.”

But Brock was already shaking his head. “She doesn’t need space. She needs—” He stopped, because he didn’t know how to finish that sentence. What did she need? To not be eighteen? To not have lost everyone? To not have walked into those lights?

Knuckles finally turned around. His eyes were red at the rims. “I fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Onyx said simply. Not cruel. Just factual.

Vera crossed to Knuckles, put a hand on his arm. “She’s hurt. And scared. And her brain is still healing. She’s not hearing what you meant—she’s hearing what she fears.”

“That we don’t want her here,” Kier filled in quietly.

“That she’s a burden,” Mason added.

Brock’s hands curled into fists on the table. “She’s not.”

“We know that,” Vera said gently. “But does she?”

The question hung in the air.

Brock pushed to his feet, steadier than he had any right to be. “I’m going up there.”

Knuckles straightened. “Let me—”

“No.” Brock’s voice was firm. “Not yet. She needs time before she can hear you.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Just headed for the door, each step deliberate, leaving the kitchen and its broken silence behind.

─•────

It started small.

A plate left half-eaten. A door left half-closed. The way her voice thinned out until it barely reached across the room.

Brock told himself it was rest, that she needed quiet after everything—but the quiet didn't end. It deepened.

His body was still patchwork—ribs that clicked when he bent wrong, wrists mapped with new skin—but he was healing. Strength came back slow, the kind that lived in the small victories: stairs without stopping, full breaths without wincing. He could feel the weight return to his frame while she seemed to lose hers.

At first she still came downstairs. Sat at the table, mug between her hands, nodding at things without really hearing them. Kier would toss a line across the room, something dumb or harmless just to make her smirk, but the curve never made it to her mouth. Vera would ask about her headaches; Harper would say they were better and then rub her temple two minutes later.

She wouldn't look at Knuckles. When he entered a room, her spine went rigid, her eyes found the floor or the wall or anywhere else. She didn't leave immediately—that would've been obvious—but she'd finish her coffee faster, find a reason to be done with whatever she was doing.

Brock watched it happen and didn't know how to bridge the gap. When he tried to bring it up—gently, carefully—she'd just shake her head and say, "It's fine. I'm fine."

She wasn't fine.

Then she stopped coming down altogether.

She'd take her meals upstairs, tray balanced in both hands, murmuring thanks that didn't sound like her. Vera said it was fine, that she needed rest. Mason said she was still pissed and would come around. Onyx said nothing, which was its own kind of warning.

He started moving more. Helped Knuckles in the garage, limped through short laps in the hall just to remind his legs what purpose felt like. But every time he came back upstairs, the air in the room was heavier. It was like she’d traded places with him—he was learning how to stand again, and she was forgetting how.

Kier tried first.

He showed up at their door with a deck of cards and that shit-eating grin that usually got her to crack. "Come on, Harp. Teach me that thing you do where you cheat without me noticing."

She'd looked at him from the bed, blanket pulled up to her chin, and said, "Not today, Kier."

"Tomorrow?"

"Maybe."

But tomorrow came and went, and when he knocked again, she pretended to be asleep.

By the end of the week, she wasn't finishing what she brought up. Brock would find the plates later—half a piece of toast gone cold, the tea untouched. She was already thin before, but now her collarbones were drawing lines where they hadn't before.

He tried to mention it once, half-joking, and she'd just said, "Not hungry," without looking up.

"Harper." He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd her. "You need to eat."

"I ate."

"Three bites isn't eating."

Her jaw flexed. "I'm fine."

"You're not."

She looked at him then, and her eyes were flat. "What do you want me to say, Brock? That I'll force down food I don't want just to make you feel better?"

The words hit harder than she probably meant them to. He pulled back, and she softened immediately—reached for his hand, squeezed once. "I'm sorry. I just—I can't right now. Okay?"

He nodded because what else could he do? But the plates kept coming back half-full.

Vera knocked mid-morning one sunny day, medical bag in hand. "Just a checkup," she said brightly, like it wasn't an ambush.

Harper let her in because refusing a medic felt too obvious. Sat on the edge of the bed while Vera checked her pupils, her reflexes, asked the standard questions in that calm, clinical voice.

"Headaches?"

"Sometimes."

"Nausea?"

"No."

"Appetite?"

Harper's fingers curled into the blanket. "Fine."

Vera set down the penlight and sat beside her, close but not touching. "Harper, I know what happened downstairs was—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You don't have to. But you do need to eat. And sleep. And come downstairs eventually, because hiding up here isn't—"

"I'm not hiding." Harper stood, too fast, and had to brace a hand on the wall when the room tilted. "I just need space."

"Space is one thing. This is—"

"I said I don't want to talk about it." Her voice went sharp, jagged. "Can you just—please. Leave."

Vera's face did something complicated—hurt and worry and frustration all at once. But she stood, picked up her bag, and left without another word.

Brock found Harper crying twenty minutes later, face pressed into her knees, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

She still talked to him, at least at first. Short things, clipped but warm at the edges—questions about his ribs, his hands, if he'd taken his meds. But the space between words started stretching out. Whole minutes of silence would pass where she'd just stare at the wall, thumb tracing circles into the blanket, eyes far away.

Mason tried next, in his own way. Didn't knock, didn't announce himself—just appeared in the doorway with two mugs of coffee and a quiet, "Thought you could use this."

Harper took the mug because refusing felt cruel. He sat in the chair by the window, didn't say anything for a long time. Just drank his coffee and watched the street below like he had all day.

Finally: "You don't have to talk. But I'm here if you want to."

She nodded. Didn't say anything. He stayed for twenty minutes, then left just as quietly as he'd come.

Sometimes, at night, he'd wake to find her sitting up in bed, staring at the dark like it had something to say. He'd reach for her. She'd let him, lean back into him even, but her body stayed tense like she was braced for an impact that didn't come.

"Talk to me," he tried one night, voice rough with sleep and worry.

"About what?"

"Anything. I just—I need to know you're still in there."

She was quiet for so long he thought she wouldn't answer. Then: "I'm tired, Brock."

"I know. But you can't just—"

"I'm so tired," she said again, and something in her voice made his chest tighten. "I'm tired of fighting. Tired of hurting. Tired of—" She stopped, breath hitching. "I don't know how to keep doing this."

He held her tighter, pressing his face into her hair. "Then don't do it alone. Let us help."

"I don't know how."

They were intimate once.

It hadn't been planned—it never was—but it came from that same place of reaching for something to feel alive again. She'd kissed him first, desperate and clinging, like she was trying to crawl inside his skin and hide there.

Her hands had been shaking before they even touched. He'd asked if she was sure, twice, and she'd nodded both times, pulled him closer.

Afterward, she'd gone quiet, eyes wet and far away. He tried to say something—he didn't even know what—but she rolled away from him, whispering, "It's fine," like it wasn't.

He could see the lie in the curve of her spine, in the way her shoulders shook with breaths that came too fast. He reached for her again, but she curled tighter, and he didn't know how to undo whatever had just broken.

Knuckles finally tried.

He didn't knock, just opened the door and stood there, jaw tight, eyes hard. "We need to talk."

Harper looked up from the bed, expression going carefully blank. "No, we don't."

"Yes, we do." He stepped inside, and she flinched—a tiny thing, barely visible, but he caught it and something in his face cracked. "Harper, I—" He stopped. Started again. "I'm sorry. For what I said. How I said it. I was scared and I fucked up, and I'm sorry."

She stared at him for a long moment, then looked away. "Okay."

"Okay?" His voice went rough. "That's it?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Anything. Yell at me. Tell me to fuck off. Just—something."

But she just shook her head, pulling the blanket higher. "I'm tired, Knuckles. Can we not do this right now?"

"When, then? Because you won't come downstairs, you won't eat, you won't—" He exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Firefly, you're scaring the shit out of us."

"Don't call me that."

The words came out flat, and Knuckles went still. "Harper—"

"Just go. Please."

He looked at Brock, standing useless by the window, then back at Harper. "This isn't over," he said quietly. Then he left, and the door clicked shut with a finality that made Harper's breath hitch.

She didn't cry. Just curled on her side and stared at the wall until the light died.

Now, even around him, she was fading. Still there, still with him, but softer somehow—like her edges had been sanded down by exhaustion. He'd talk, and she'd listen, nod, but her gaze would drift off halfway through a sentence, and he'd lose her to whatever storm was happening behind her eyes.

His body was mostly his again, steady in ways it hadn’t been since the pier—but it didn’t matter. He would’ve traded every ounce of it to see her eat, to hear her laugh, to feel her come back. The stronger he got, the smaller she seemed beside him.

Kier stopped making jokes. Vera stopped pushing checkups. Mason stopped bringing coffee. They all hovered at a distance now, watching her disappear one day at a time, and no one knew how to pull her back.

Brock tried everything. He stayed with her constantly, held her when she'd let him, talked to fill the silence. He brought up food she used to like, books she'd mentioned wanting to read. He asked what she needed, what he could do, how he could help.

She'd say, "Nothing. I'm fine."

But every night, she seemed smaller under the blanket. Every morning, the quiet grew heavier, like it had its own pulse between them. When he held her, she didn't resist, didn't lean in either. Just stayed still, breathing, pretending that counted as enough.

The house felt it too—the way grief could settle into walls and floorboards. Conversations went quieter. Doors closed softer. Everyone moved carefully, like the wrong sound might shatter whatever fragile thing was keeping her upright.

And Brock didn't know how to fix it.

Didn't know if he even could.

By the end of the next week, he was losing her. Not to death, not to injury—but to something darker and quieter that he couldn't fight. She was still breathing beside him every night, but the space between them felt like miles.

He didn't know how much longer he could watch her slip away.

Then, like it always does, the world decided for her.

It was a Sunday. The sun came through the frost-filmed windows bright enough to sting, pooling across the table where half-drunk mugs still sat from breakfast. The kind of light that made the house look alive again, even if the people in it weren’t.

Calder’s boots hit the porch first—heavy, sure steps that meant business. The door opened on a draft of cold air and diesel. “Everyone in,” he said, voice carrying through the hall. “Now.”

Knuckles appeared from the living room, wiping his hands on a rag.

Vera followed from the laundry with a half-folded towel still in her grip.

Kier and Onyx came from the den mid-argument about something stupid enough to die instantly when they saw Calder’s face.

Mason shut his toolbox in the corner and trailed in behind them, sleeves rolled, grease still on his wrist.

Hale ducked through the doorway last, Rook and Morrow at his shoulder, all three smelling of metal and wet wind.

Brock was already at the kitchen table, a half-finished mug of coffee between his hands. Harper stood near the stairs, a small plate of toast in one hand, caught between leaving and staying. The motion froze when Calder’s tone cut the air.

Calder didn’t wait for chatter to die; it already had. He stepped fully into the light, Gage just behind him closing the door against the cold. “We’ve had contact,” he said, low but carrying. “Black Maw.”

The words dropped like a round chambering.

Kier muttered, “You’re kidding,” and Onyx shot him a look sharp enough to shut him up.

Brock’s spine went rigid, eyes flicking to Harper.

She was still in the doorway, plate forgotten in her hands, the toast sliding toward the edge.

Hale spoke next, arms folding as he leaned against the counter. “What the fuck does the Maw want with us?” His tone was more disbelief than anger. “We’re small fish.”

Calder’s answer came slow. “They were at the docks,” he said. “The night of Brock’s execution.”

Knuckles’ shoulders tightened. “Of course they were.”

Calder sighed, dragging a hand down his face before looking between Brock and Knuckles. “Look. The whole city knew what you two were running against the Maw—the weapons seizure, the intel theft, the warehouse fire, all of it. So when word spread that the Syndicate’s two top dogs killed Vex and defected with a crew of enforcers? That raised some eyebrows.” His gaze moved back to Brock. “Especially when Syndicate patrols started getting picked off after. Nobody pulls that kind of shit unless they know exactly where to stick the knife.”

Brock’s jaw worked, but he didn’t speak. Calder kept going.

“So the Maw came to the pier,” he said. “Wanted to see if it was true. That Brock fucking Lawson was really about to get executed for walking away.” His eyes flicked between them again. “They told me there were rumors floating through the city that a rescue was coming. So I think they wanted to see that, too.”

Onyx snorted, low and dismissive. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said, thumb running the rim of his mug. “They probably just wanted to make sure he was in the ground.”

Calder shook his head. “No. Not like that.” He pushed off the counter, pacing a slow half-step before speaking again. “The jobs you ran, the people you killed—you did that under the Syndicate flag. Under Vex’s thumb. And now you’re their enemy. Until the cabin fire, you were still actively targeting them.” His gaze caught Knuckles’, then Brock’s. “This isn’t sentiment. It’s strategy. Enemy of my enemy.”

Gage leaned forward from where he’d been leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, voice even but firm. “East Halworth’s been bleeding under Syndicate control for years. Every street crew, every black-market outfit—they’re all suffocating. Anyone who’s against the Syndicate ends up an ally by accident, whether they mean to or not.”

Brock looked at Harper.

She hadn’t moved. Not a twitch, not a breath he could see. He had to stare for a few long seconds just to make sure her chest still rose.

When he dragged his eyes back up, they caught Kier’s across the table. A quiet understanding passed between them.

Calder cleared his throat, eyes scanning the group before he continued. “The Syndicate’s been radio silent since the pier. It’s been over a month. Dane’s dead, Roth barely survived—and that public spectacle?” He shook his head. “It backfired. They got humiliated on live TV. Everyone saw them lose control. Our attack during the rescue took out key people, hit their chain of command. They’re hurting. And the city knows it.”

He paused, his voice tightening. “The Maw knows it.”

Vera’s arms crossed, tension drawn into her shoulders. “What do they want with us, though?”

Calder looked at her. “Word spread fast after the pier. Everyone saw that feed. It didn’t take long to figure out it was us on that dock. And it won’t take long for the rest to realize we’re the ones sheltering the defectors.”

Kier leaned forward, chair legs scraping against the tile. “No fucking way.” His eyes snapped to Brock, then Knuckles. “There’s no way we work with them. Not after—”

Calder cut in, tone even but heavy. “When the Syndicate gets back on their feet, they’ll come for us. It’s not if, it’s when. They won’t stop until the six of you are strung up on some overpass.” He looked around the room—each face, each old scar. “The Black Maw might be the only shot we have at dismantling that machine for good.”

Harper’s face had gone chalk-white. Her breathing had changed—short, shallow pulls that didn’t seem to reach her lungs. The plate trembled in her hands, toast sliding toward the edge, forgotten.

Brock saw it—the exact moment the name registered. Saw her pupils dilate, saw her grip on the plate loosen.

Knuckles groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ—” he started, but the sudden sound of shattering porcelain cut him off.

Every head turned to Harper, her plate in pieces at her feet.

Brock was already moving, chair scraping, hand reaching.

But she bolted. Out of the kitchen, through the narrow hall, the side door slamming back against the wall as she burst into the cold.

Chairs scraped back all at once. Mason half-rose, Kier was already moving, and even Vera dropped the towel in her hands, heartbeat written across her face.

“Harper—” Brock’s chair went over behind him as he pushed to his feet. “No. No. Do not crowd her.” His voice cut through the noise like a command, rough but steady enough to freeze motion mid-step. He looked around the room — at Knuckles, at Onyx, at Calder, at the faces that didn’t yet understand. “Not for this. Stay inside.”

His eyes found Knuckles first, then Onyx, then Kier—a specific, deliberate scan that excluded everyone else. “Only those who were there. That’s it.”

The words carried weight — immediate, specific, and everyone seemed to know what there meant. Knuckles was already moving, chair scraping the floor, Onyx pushing off the counter beside him. Kier followed without hesitation, all sharp edges and worry.

The door closed behind them, cutting off the cold air.

Every pair of eyes left in the kitchen turned to Mason.

Vera was the first to speak, her voice softer but pointed. "What did he mean, 'those who were there'?"

Mason's jaw worked. He looked toward the door, like maybe he could will the others back inside to handle this for him.

"Mason." Calder's voice was quiet but firm.

A long pause. Then Mason dragged a hand down his face and started talking like each word cost him something.

"The Maw… they—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. Started again. "Back in the summer, a few of them grabbed Harper off a street corner."

Vera’s breath caught. Calder’s head lifted sharply.

“They strung her up in a basement.” His voice had gone thin, each word dragged out like it hurt. “They raped her. Did terrible things to her.”

Mason looked at Vera. “You know all those little scars she’s got? On her arms, her legs… her stomach?”

Vera’s face went white. Her lips parted, and for a second she couldn’t speak—because she DID know. She’d seen them during medical checks, had wondered but never asked because Harper always brushed it off as old shit, doesn’t matter.

It mattered.

She nodded once, slow, and her hand came up to cover her mouth.

“They did that to her,” Mason said quietly.

He stopped, and when he spoke again his voice had gone rough. “They sent Brock a video. Halfway through. Made him watch what they were doing to her.” His eyes lifted to the group. “Tried to use it to bait him into a trap.”

The room flinched collectively. Someone—maybe Hale—swore under their breath.

Mason nodded toward the door, where the others had gone. “Those four—they’re the ones who got her back. Almost too late. She coded in the car on the way back. Kier’s CPR is the only reason she’s here.”

Vera’s hand came up to her mouth. “Oh my god.”

“She was in a coma for weeks,” Mason said. His voice cracked around it, but he didn’t stop. “Didn’t think she’d wake up. I don’t think anyone did.”

Calder groaned, dragging a hand over his face, head tipping back until he was staring at the ceiling like it might have answers. “Jesus Christ.”

Mason exhaled slow through his nose, the sound closer to defeat than breath. “Look,” he said, voice low but steady. “I think you’re right. The Black Maw might be our only out here. Might be the only way we stop getting hunted.” His eyes lifted to Calder, then dropped to the overturned chair where Brock had been sitting. “But I don’t know if she can do it.”

He swallowed hard, jaw working once before he went on. “And I don’t know if he can either.”

The silence that followed wasn't hollow—it was heavy, packed with all the things no one wanted to imagine. The kind of quiet that came when everyone realized the next choice they made might be the one that broke them for good.

Outside, through the frost-filmed window, they could just barely see four figures standing in the cold around someone who'd already been broken one too many times.