Silence again. This one settled deeper, heavier. The kind of quiet that pressed against his ribs.
“Genesis always run ops like this?” Titus asked.
“Like what?”
“Tight. No hesitation.”
“You saying it’s a problem?”
“No,” Titus said. “Just an observation.”
“Just follow my orders, and we’ll be fine.”
That did it. The irritation flared hot.
He got to his feet fast, motion sharp, restless energy cutting through his movements. His shoulder brushed the wall as he straightened.
The man was impossible. Smug. Controlled. Aggravating in all the wrong ways.
But underneath it, something else flickered.
He didn’t mean to say what came next, especially not to Viper.
“Orders I can follow,” he growled. “Family’s where shit gets messy.”
Viper’s eyes narrowed, locking on him.
The weight of that look hit harder than the storm.
Titus felt it slide under his skin—steady, unflinching, pulling at things he’d rather leave buried.
He looked toward the exit. He didn’t look back. Couldn’t.
The rain cut off sharply, leaving only the trickle of runoff along the floor.
Outside, wind picked up—cold downdrafts rolling fast, pushing against the shack until it creaked. Storm ending. Air clearing.
His words echoed in the tiny space between them, too loud.
Fucking hell.
He shoved off the wall.
“Where you goin’? We move at first light,” Viper drawled, voice low—almost lazy.
But there was something coiled under it. Something watchful.
Titus didn’t turn around. If he did, he wasn’t sure what he’d see on Viper’s face—or what Viper would see on his.
“Just getting some air.”
He stepped outside, wind brushing cool against his skin, the air sharp with rain and desert sage. Titus pulled a bandana from his pocket and tied it over his mouth and nose.
The storm-washed desert waited—silent and endless.
And for the first time all night, the space between them felt too tight.
Too much storm. Too much silence.
