Small miracles.
Viper pushed up on an elbow. “Coffee?”
Titus blinked at him. “You make coffee?”
Viper snorted. “I make excellent coffee.”
He let that hang—just enough of a challenge to spark something.
Titus’s mouth curved, suspicious. “Says who?”
“Everyone who’s had it.”
“So…no one.” Titus’s brow quirked, blue eyes swimming with humor.
Viper stared—he couldn’t help it. Holy hell, save him from sexy sleep-rumpled men in the morning.
Correction: one sleep-rumpled man.
“Keep talking,” he said, sliding out of bed—away from temptation and the desire for a repeat performance of last night, “and I’ll make the shitty kind.”
That earned him the faintest huff—a ghost of a laugh. Titus followed him out of bed a beat later—watching him, still wary, but not as distant.
Viper would take it.
He aimed to keep those eyes on him for as long as possible.
Viper pulled on his dress slacks and shrugged into his dress shirt, not bothering with the buttons, before tucking his Sig beneath the fabric. Titus slid into the same pants but stayed shirtless, unbothered, and lifted his own weapon off the nightstand.
The man’s ink was gorgeous. A cross sat at the base of his throat, the upper tip centered between his collarbones, wings fanning wide across his chest in bold black lines. Further down, a separate piece—skull and dark wings—spread over his lower abdomen, sharp, dangerous, unmistakably him.
After a sweep of his eyes, Viper headed for the penthouse kitchen—barefoot, hair still a mess, already hunting down beans and a grinder. Titus followed at a slower pace, coming to rest against the doorjamb.
Viper glanced over his shoulder. “You cook?”
“I can,” Titus replied, moving over to sit at the counter—an island bar in the middle of the kitchen. He placed his Ruger on the counter and folded his arms loosely—not defensive, exactly, just braced. “Whether I will is another matter.”
Viper gave a smug smile. “I’m better.”
Titus’s eyes narrowed, the spark catching. “We’ll see.”
It was nothing—light, stupid, almost domestic. But it shifted something.
Eased the tension.
Made space.
And the “we’ll see” meant there would be a next time. Whether that meant another meal or another night together remained to be seen, but he’d take the promise.
Viper walked to the fridge and pulled out eggs—pausing when Titus came up behind him. Titus opened the freezer, grabbed frozen sausage patties, then moved to the microwave in true bachelor style.
“So, tell me about this op,” Viper said, setting a skillet on the stove and cracking eggs into it.
“The asset—Evan Barstow—ran across some numbers he wasn’t supposed to see,” Titus said, arranging the patties on a plate. “That led to a bigger fish. The cartel was only the middleman. Clifford Hale answers to someone above him—someone we haven’t identified yet.”
“And you learned all this, how?” Viper asked, poking at the eggs with a spatula.
“Through Savage. The SecDef got the intel on Hale. We were initiated…” Titus’s voice dipped as he stuck the sausage in the microwave. “I—we didn’t cut you out.”
