Another hour passed.
This kind of shit reminded him of the Army—long nights, bad odds, engines in the dark. He didn’t miss it, but the rhythm felt familiar in a way that sat too easily.
Viper found the shack a mile or so later.
Sheet-metal roof half-caved, sand drifted knee-deep inside. Looked like an old pump shed or water station—four walls and a miracle.
“Better than nothing,” Titus muttered.
The warrior gave a short grunt—maybe agreement, maybe nothing—and swept his light low, the spare Titus had handedhim. Clean, practiced motions, cutting through the dark. Viper started dragging debris into a pile, clearing space near the back wall.
Efficient.
Unbothered.
Like this was just another night.
Titus figured maybe it was. The man moved with a kind of cold steadiness that mirrored his own. No panic, no wasted effort. Control like that only came from too many fights.
They worked in silence, clearing enough room to stretch out, patching a leak in the roof with a tarp they’d torn off a wrecked truck not far from the shack.
“You get some sleep first,” Viper said, dropping onto the ground in the tight quarters, weapon resting on his lap. His shoulder brushed Titus’s as he settled—solid heat through soaked fabric.
Titus was too tired to argue. He slid down a foot from Viper, close enough to feel the man’s presence at his back, and closed his eyes.
It was dangerous to let anyone sit that close.
But some part of him—bone-deep and instinctive—trusted Viper to keep watch.
Thunder rolled low over the Nevada sky and snapped him awake.
He checked his watch—an hour gone. Rain hit a moment later, soft at first, then harder, drumming the metal like static. The scent of dust and wet iron filled the air—sharp, clean, cold.
Viper sat next to him, back to the wall, tightening a knot on the tarp. Broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands steady even in the dim light.
All control.
All order.
The rain hit harder, a steady hiss rolling across the roof.
Viper dipped his head as he worked a piece of brush into a crack in the siding. His dark hair slid forward. He’d let it grow since Titus had last seen him—better for blending in. Titus had done the same once or twice.
He raked a hand through his own short hair, a careless motion—then froze.
Viper was watching him.
Not the casual glance of a teammate. Not the quick assessment of a commander.
The man’s gaze held, tracking from Titus’s mouth to his eyes, lingering a beat too long.
Heat pricked the back of Titus’s neck.
He broke eye contact first.
Just rain and exhaustion.
Nothing else.
