Later that evening, when the study emptied and the estate finally quieted, Stone found Dave in his armchair. Beyond the gardens, the Pacific stretched silver in the window’s frame.
Dave’s hand rested on the armrest, knuckles pale, gaze fixed on the horizon. “I can’t keep running like I’m thirty.”
“Then don’t,” Stone said. He moved closer, lowering himself into the chair beside him. He turned sideways until their knees nearly brushed. “You don’t have to run alone.”
For a long moment, Dave didn’t answer. His eyes lifted, holding Stone’s.
Something shifted.
Softer, less guarded.
Like maybe, finally, Dave saw more than the soldier at his side.
Dave’s gaze lingered a half beat too long—on his eyes, then lower. Stone felt the weight of it, the way Dave’s focus caught on his mouth, like he was memorizing the shape of it.
Or remembering the taste.
Stone’s chest tightened. He didn’t move, didn’t dare break the fragile thread strung between them.
Dave’s lips parted just slightly, as if the thought was already there. What would it feel like? The question hung in the air unspoken, but Stone felt it like a live current.
Instead of words, Dave reached across, hand brushing his, deliberate, not by chance. Just the smallest touch.
The silence that followed was raw, vulnerable. Outside, the Pacific rolled relentlessly. Inside, Stone sat steady, every muscle wound tight against the pull toward him.
Dave’s thumb lingered against his knuckles—small, deliberate, like a door cracking open. Stone felt it in his chest, sharp and impossible to ignore.
He didn’t move, didn’t push, just let the moment breathe. But Christ, with Dave this close, the warmth of his hand in his, it was all Stone could do not to lean in and take what they both already felt hanging in the air.
The following night.
The estate was too quiet. Dave lay back against the headboard, the Pacific’s low rumble threading faintly through the glass. The house had emptied into its routines—Sparrow with his papers, Law pacing like a caged dog, Rip and Boston snapping at each other somewhere down the hall. Viper and Winter—in and out, planning.
But Stone… Stone hadn’t left his orbit all day.
Dave had seen it in every glance, felt it in the way Stone hovered too close at breakfast, storm-colored eyes fixed on the tremor in his hand when he reached for his coffee. The questions Stone didn’t ask lingered heavy, like a touch just shy of skin.
Now, in the dim light of his room, Dave tried to lose himself in a book he’d been meaning to finish for weeks.
Tried and failed. His body still remembered the brush of Stone’s thumb against his knuckles last night. His chest ached with something sharper than any warning the doctor had given.
The door creaked open.
Dave didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Only one man filled the doorway like that—broad shoulders blotting out the hall light, presence heavy enough to fill the air.
Stone.
“You should be resting,” Dave said, voice low.
Stone shut the door and leaned against the frame, arms folded, watching him like prey he wasn’t sure he wanted to spook or devour. “You don’t look likeyou’reresting.”
Dave set the book aside. His mouth tugged wryly. “And you don’t look like you’re leaving.”
Stone pushed off the frame—slow, deliberate. Each step closed the space until he was at the foot of the bed, gaze never breaking.
Dave’s pulse kicked hard. Stone could see it—hell, Dave wanted him to see it.
Stone’s voice was rough, hungry. “I’m done leaving.” He moved closer, climbing onto the edge of the mattress, one knee braced, storm-colored eyes fixed on him like a dare.
