“He’s punishing himself. I think something between us triggered it. I’m guessing. I have no idea if that’s true.”
He frowned. “That’s a very different problem.”
“Look, this is…something that I wouldn’t want passed around.”
“This doesn’t go anywhere, Blair. I promise you that.”
She released a breath. “I don’t know you that well, but I know you care about your operators.” She closed her eyes, her embarrassment paling in the wake of Breakneck’s crisis. “I think he’s interested in me, and I’m interested in him, but after last week, he’s been distant, and I didn’t want to crowd him, so I made myself just as scarce.” She sighed. “It’s complicated.”
Iceman’s mouth twitched. “I know all about complicated. My wife was former CIA…our liaison. I resisted for professional reasons. It didn’t go well.” His face went still. “He’s off baseline.”
“I thought there was something. Is it family?” He shifted, and she made a soft sound. “I’m sorry. That’s not my business.”
“I wish I knew, but we’re all in the dark.” He pushed off the wall. “I’ll take care of this.”
“Thank you.”
“Blair,” he said, making her pause. “I’m not one to shell out advice to the lovelorn. I’m no Dear Abby, but good old-fashioned communication works damn well.”
She nodded, walking away, wishing she could feel better, but the image of him settled in her heart.
Blair didn’t slow until she reached the women’s locker room, the heavy door swinging shut behind her with a hollow thud that echoed down the tiled corridor. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, the air cool and faintly sharp with disinfectant and metal.
She moved with purpose, unfastening her uniform and stowing it away, folding each piece with care before reaching for the familiar bundle tucked into the bottom of her locker. Pink tights, worn thin at the heels, hugged her legs, the leotard sliding over her skin like a second breath. The wrap skirt she always tied without thinking. Each small motion steadied her, muscle memory taking over where thought threatened to spiral.
She braided her hair back, slow and deliberate, watching her own reflection until the tension in her jaw eased. Ballet had always been this for her. A way back into her body when the world grew too loud, too complicated, too full of things she couldn’t fix with planning or authority.
The recreation center was quieter than usual at this hour. Most of the team was still tied up in briefings or the gym, metal clanking faintly through the walls. Blair turned down the narrow hall toward the small room she’d claimed months ago, the one that had once been used for hand-to-hand drills before it fell into disuse. It had taken some convincing and a little creative diplomacy, but she’d transformed it into something else entirely.
A barre ran the length of one wall now, bolted in securely. Full-length mirrors lined the opposite side, reflecting light back into the space. She’d laid the floor herself, the scuff marks of boots replaced by the quiet honesty of bare feet and worn shoes. It wasn’t elegant, not by any civilian studio’s standards, but it was hers.
The door stuck as it always did. She gave it a shove with her shoulder, then let it rest, half-open, a narrow gap left between the room and the rest of the compound. She didn’t mind. The faint sounds of the gym that took up most of the center, weights settling, a muffled exhale, were distant enough to fade once she began to move.
She crossed to the barre and rested her hand against the smooth wood, closing her eyes for a moment before she began. The first plié was shallow, exploratory, her body checking in with itself. Then deeper. Breath finding its cadence. Muscles lengthening, aligning, releasing. Listen. Adjust. Breathe.
As she moved, the sharp edges of the day dulled. The images from earlier didn’t disappear, but they loosened their grip, drifting to the periphery where she could hold them without being consumed. Each extension pulled her back into herself, into the place where discipline meant grace and strength meant balance.
This room was her sanctuary, carved out of concrete and necessity. As the music carried her through the space, Blair let herself believe, just for now, that Ice would handle the matter, and Breakneck could find some peace like she found here.
Breakneck was deep in the splits when he sensed Iceman behind him, a change in the room. The air itself seemed to tighten, as if it recognized command the way muscle recognized strain.
Sweat slid down his spine, gathered at his ribs, traced the hard planes of his abdomen and the fading bruises before dripping onto the mat beneath him. His muscles were stretched open to the edge of discomfort and held there on purpose. This position hurt differently than lifting. It didn’t burn. It demanded patience. It demanded stillness.
Iceman crouched in front of him, close enough that Breakneck could see the scuffed toes of his boots.
“You’re making a habit of this,” Iceman said quietly. “Training has its place. So does resting. Sleeping. Eating.” A pause. Weighted. “We both know what happens to operators who can’t find downtime.”
Breakneck swallowed and kept his gaze fixed somewhere past Ice’s shoulder. “I’m almost done.”
Iceman shook his head once. Decisive. “You’re done. Hit the showers and rack it.”
The thought of sleep landed like a blunt impact. His jaw flexed, teeth grinding as something tight and restless clawed up under his ribs. Sleep meant lying still. It meant no distraction. No movement to bleed the noise out of his head.
He pushed out of the splits slowly, deliberately, palms braced on the mat as his body unfolded. The stretch released with a low, involuntary sound he didn’t bother to suppress. His legs trembled as he came upright, muscles supple, loose, fully awake in a way the rest of him wasn’t. Sweat ran freely now, down his chest, along his arms, collecting at his wrists.
He wanted to be all right.
The wanting was the worst part.
