Titus snorted. “Please. You’d miss me if I stayed out.”
A beat.
“Yeah, miss the paperwork,” Memphis shot back.
“Liar,” Titus said easily, not even looking. “You’d miss my charming personality.”
A few laughs followed. Someone made a crack about Viper hovering. Titus fired back without missing a beat, the exchange sharp but light, no one stepping in, no one needing to.
It hit him mid-noise.
Same seats. Same people. Same rhythm.
This hadn’t felt new in weeks.
This had been normal.
He glanced up—and paused.
Viper wasn’t watching him.
Not tracking the exits. Not clocking his posture. Not holding the room like a threat matrix waiting to happen. He was just there—part of the sprawl, attention loose, presence uncoiled.
Trust, Titus realized, showed up in absence.
The room thinned naturally as time rolled forward—someone peeled off for watch, someone else for training, a few drifting out toward the bunkhouse. Titus stayed where he was, unremarkable among them, another body at the table, another voice in the noise.
For once, that felt like everything.
He’d finally found a home.
He’d finally found family.
He’d finally found love—with the man at his side.
Viper clocked the room the moment the doors shut behind Caldwell and Dave—not out of habit, not threat assessment. Just awareness. The mess hall settled back into itself without instruction, without a vacuum left behind. No one looked to fill the space. No one waited for orders. The machine didn’t need a hand on the wheel anymore.
That mattered.
Caldwell’s words replayed once, clean and operational. Cleaners finished. Paper buried. No blowback. The file was closed. Viper didn’t circle it, didn’t test the edges. He’d lived too long knowing when a job was done to second-guess the finality of it.
What stayed with him wasn’t the case.
It was the quiet.
Boston leaned back in his chair two tables over, one boot hooked around a rung, laughing at something Rhett had said. Easy. Loose. Like he hadn’t been the one who’d put Miles down when it counted—clean, decisive, no hesitation. Viper’s gaze lingered there a second longer than necessary.
He owed the kid more than he could ever repay.
Boston had shrugged it off afterward. No ceremony. No weight. Just another job finished, like the act itself hadn’t altered the shape of the world. Viper knew better. He also knew better than to try to name it aloud. Some things you honored by letting them stand unspoken.
He’d make sure Boston was taken care of. Not with words. With opportunity. With trust. The teenager had suddenly become a man—one who deserved room to grow without being consumed by what he’d done.
The room shifted again—chairs scraping, voices overlapping, someone calling out a warning before a mug tipped and sloshed coffee instead of spilling. Viper didn’t tense. Didn’t track the sound. His body stayed where it was.
That was new.
He realized he hadn’t replayed the gunshot in days. Hadn’t felt the spike of adrenaline when Titus moved too fast or laughed too loud. The echo that had lived behind his ribs had gone quiet without announcement. He hadn’t noticed the exact moment it happened—only that it was gone.
