This was an invitation.
He nodded once.
“Okay.”
And stepped through the door.
One month later…
Location: Nightfall Drifters Ranch, Nevada
The mess hall was already loud when Titus stepped inside—chairs scraping, plates clattering, voices overlapping in that familiar, low-level chaos that meant everyone was alive and nobody was bleeding.
The long tables were half full, bodies angled close, food moving hand to hand. Someone laughed near the drink station. Someone else swore when a tray tipped and didn’t quite fall.
Normal noise. Working noise.
William Caldwell had finally made the trip out to debrief them in person. That alone said enough. Will didn’t waste time—not ever—and he wasn’t about to start now.
He stood near the head of the room with Dave beside him, posture easy, presence still absolute. No speeches. No theater.
It wasn’t unusual to see Dave at the Nevada ranch—even though he lived at the Colorado site—some of the Nevada missions were still transitioning from Dave to Will. “We’ve wrapped the case,” Caldwell said. “The chain ends with Miles. The upper tier folded where it mattered. There’s no fallout coming. It’s done.”
That was it.
A few cheers broke out anyway. Winter slapped Law on the back hard enough to make him grunt. Someone laughed. Relief moved through the room like a released breath.
Titus felt the words settle—not sharp, not heavy. Just…placed. Filed. The way information landed when there was nothing left to chase.
John could live out the rest of his days without looking over his shoulder, without Miles. He was doing well—steady, recovering—and had even managed drinks with Elias. His father had called once, voice quieter than Titus remembered, and mentioned he was thinking about divorce. Titus had told him the truth: whatever decision he made, he wouldn’t stand alone.
His mother had gone strangely silent over the past month. No pressure. No veiled threats. With Viper at his side, she’d found her manners—and for once, she was keeping them.
Viper slid an arm around his shoulders, grounding him, pulling him cleanly back into the room.
Caldwell was already shaking hands, returning a salute here and there as he made his way toward the door. Dave followed, boots steady, both men moving with the quiet confidence of people who didn’t need to linger to prove authority.
Titus tracked the exit without thinking.
The door closed behind them.
The room exhaled.
Volume rose a notch—like someone had eased a hand off a valve. Chairs shifted. A laugh broke louder near the far table. Someone called for more coffee. Whatever weight command carried with it cleared cleanly, leaving only the people behind.
Titus leaned back slightly and let his gaze move.
Real sat with Azrael, close enough that their shoulders brushed when they shifted. Black had claimed his usual spot near the wall, grounded, watchful but relaxed.
Law stood with Winter and Black, posture easy, voice low. Sage was perched sideways on a bench with his tablet balanced on one knee, half listening, half elsewhere. Memphis held court near the food, loud as hell, gesturing with a fork like it was a weapon.
Wrath and Rip were scattered with Rhett and Ramsey, conversations overlapping, no single center to the room. YA were threaded through it all—Micah quiet but present, Freedom in constant motion, Ocean perched higher than necessary, Aspen half-turned inward, Syx steady and unreadable.
No hierarchy. No edges.
Just coexistence.
“Hey, Harrington,” someone called. “You done milking that injury, or you planning to keep warming the bench?”
