Travis’s face appeared on the screen. Black T-shirt, as usual. Hair hanging past his eyes. The kind of dark circles that suggested he’d been up for approximately seventy-two hours straight.
“Cooper.”
“Hey, Trav. Merry Christmas.”
A pause. His eyes dropped to the box in my arms.
“Why do you have puppies?”
“Long story. Short version: rescue mission, blizzard, your place was closer than mine.” I shifted my weight, the cold already seeping through my clothes. “Want to let me in, or should I just freeze to death on your porch? Your call.”
Another pause. Like he was actually considering the two options.
Then the door clicked open.
“Don’t track snow on my floors.”
“Merry Christmas to you too, buddy.”
The interior of Travis’s house was exactly what anyone who knew him would expect from him: looked normal on the surface, absolutely not normal underneath. Hardwood floors that probably had pressure sensors. Neutral walls hiding God knew what kind of surveillance. The faint hum of electronics coming from somewhere deeper in the house, where I knew his command center waited—multiple monitors, server racks, enough computing power to hack a small country.
He was standing in the hallway, barefoot, arms crossed, staring at the box of puppies like I’d brought him a live grenade.
“They’re going to shed.”
“They’re two weeks old. They don’t have enough fur to shed yet.”
“They’ll grow.”
The mama dog pushed past my legs and made a beeline for Travis, sniffing his feet with intense concentration. He went absolutely rigid, like she might explode if he moved too quickly.
“She’s friendly,” I offered.
“She’s wet. And muddy.”
“She was outside in this fucking blizzard in a cardboard box, refusing to leave her puppies even to save herself, twenty minutes ago. Cut her some slack.”
Travis looked down at the dog, then at me, then at the box of squirming puppies. Something in his expression shifted—a crack in the usual mask of irritated detachment.
“Grab some towels from the bathroom cabinet,” he said.
“The good towels?”
“I don’t have bad towels. Who has bad towels? Never mind, I’ll get them.”
He was already moving, disappearing into a room off the hallway and returning with an armful of supplies. Thenot badtowels. A large plastic bin. A heating pad. A bowl for water.
I watched him arrange everything with military precision, creating a nest in the corner of his living room—which, for the record, looked like it had never been lived in. The couch still had that showroom stiffness. The coffee table was empty except for a single remote control, perfectly centered.
“You’re good at this,” I said.
His hands paused on the heating pad. “I had dogs. Before.”
He didn’t elaborate. Travis rarely did. His past, something about the CIA, was a locked room with no key, and we’d learned not to go poking around looking for one. He was a good friend, a good man, and fucking brilliant when it came to computers. Warrior Security was lucky to have him.
I lowered the box of puppies into the bin, settling them onto the heating pad. They immediately started crawling over each other, squeaking, searching for their mother. The mama dogcircled the bin twice, sniffing every corner, before apparently deciding it met her standards. She climbed in, curled around her babies, and let out a long sigh.
Safe. Finally safe.
