Viper’s mouth quirked.
Titus sobered, squinting as he reminded himself he couldn’t stand the asshole in front of him—so trading humor in the middle of the night felt like bullshit.
He wasn’t here to make friends.
He slammed the milk back into the fridge, shut the door, and reached for his weapon—only to find Viper blocking the doorway.
“You gonna move, or should I just shoot you?” he growled, irritation sparking.
The man didn’t even look ruffled—shirt squared, sleeves neat, calm like this was a briefing instead of a fight waiting to happen. Power rolled off Viper, steady and quiet, and it crawled under Titus’s skin.
Viper’s expression went stone cold. Instead of stepping aside, the bigger man took a slow, deliberate step forward.
Titus lifted the gun—not quite aiming, just brandishing. Viper apparently didn’t see it that way.
With precision and speed, Viper gripped his wrist, slammed his arm against the fridge, and pinned it there.
The move caught him off guard, pain shooting up to his shoulder—sharp and immediate.
“Back off,” he snarled as the weapon slipped from his grip and clattered across the tile.
Viper pressed in hard, using his weight to hold him there—heat rolling between them.
The air turned hot.
They were close in strength, but Viper carried more muscle, and in this position, it showed. Fucking asshole.
He couldn’t break the hold, so he did the next best thing—snapped his head forward. They were too close for it to do much damage, but when his forehead hit bone, it still rattled his teeth.
“Shit,” he hissed.
Viper grunted.
They grappled for control, boots scraping the tile as Viper drove him harder into the fridge. The struggle turned silent, brutal.
Viper tightened his grip, like a vise—iron-hard, unrelenting—pressure biting up through Titus’s arm. Pain flared—bright, white-hot.
Titus went for his knife. Free hand slid to the sheath, steel whispering as it cleared leather. The tip found Viper’s groin.
Everything stopped.
Viper froze, eyes flaring wide in the dim stove light.
“Move it or lose it,” Titus said, voice low, guttural, and dead fucking serious.
“If you two are done with the foreplay, it’s rotation change.” Phoenix’s voice cut in from the doorway.
Viper pressed his forehead hard against his and then stepped back abruptly, all the heat gone—back to the soldier, back to command.
Titus glared, sheathed his knife, and grabbed his weapon from the floor—his focus snapping back to mission tempo.
He’d deal with this asshole later and make damn sure he never got tangled in another op with him again.
For now, duty came first.
The next morning, the smell of coffee hit first—burnt but strong.
Viper followed it down the narrow hall, boots quiet on tile, the low hum of the jammers threading under the silence.
