Bolt had been quiet longer than usual, gaze fixed on the design in North’s hands. He shifted his weight once, then again, like he was deciding whether to step into deep water.
“You’re going to make me go there, aren’t you?” he muttered.
Shamrock snorted. “Didn’t even have to ask.”
Bolt shot him a look, then dragged a hand over his face. “All right,” he said. “Goddammit.”
He took a hard breath, the kind that came from somewhere low. His throat worked once, and when he looked up again, that guarded edge in his blue eyes had faded. His mouth softened, just slightly, like he’d stopped holding it in place.
“I never had a real family,” he said.
“Foster kid. Bounced around. Didn’t fit anywhere long enough to matter.” He shrugged, the motion small, almost reflexive. “My mouth always got me in trouble.”
He reached out and traced the lines on the paper with one finger, careful, almost reverent. “I want lightning on my back,” he said. “Big. Spanning.” He paused, then added, quieter, “Not because it looks cool.”
Fly didn’t move. Neither did North.
“The light has a source,” Bolt went on. “For me, that source is the Navy. It hit, and it split.” His finger followed the branching lines. “That’s how lightning works. It doesn’t strike once and stop. It spreads.”
He swallowed, jaw tightening. “All those branches… that’s this.” He gestured between them. “It’s the brotherhood. The Teams. Guys who always have your back without conditions”
He blinked hard and looked away, scrubbing at his mouth like he was annoyed with himself. “That’s what it means to me.”
The surf rolled in behind them, steady and unbothered.
North nodded once. “That tracks.”
Fly’s voice was quiet when he spoke. “Yeah,” he said. “It does.”
Bolt glanced at the water, then back at the design, something settled in his posture now. “So yeah,” he said. “That’s the lightning. That’s mine.”
Shamrock cleared his throat. “Well,” he said roughly, “now I feel like an asshole.”
Bolt huffed a laugh, some of the tension bleeding out of him. “You are an asshole.”
“But I’m your asshole,” Shamrock shot back.
Shamrock had been leaning back on his hands, listening, letting the others talk it out. When Bolt finished, the surf filling the pause, Shamrock blew out a breath through his nose.
“Well,” he said, “since we’re apparently doing emotional strip poker…”
Fly glanced at him. “You good?”
Shamrock nodded once. “Yeah. Just—” He rolled his shoulders. “I already got some ink.”
Bolt accused, “You cheated on us?”
Shamrock hesitated, then shrugged. “My gran passed.” His voice stayed easy, but something in it had gone steadier. “She was very important. Showed me all I needed to know about my heritage. She was…lovely.”
He reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it off, turning so they could see the back of his shoulder.
It wasn't a sprawling mural, but a quiet piece of himself. A gnarled tree trunk twisted across his skin, its roots digging deep. Nestled in the shade of those roots were four small shamrocks. Each one held a secret, a single initial etched into a leaf.
The ink was a constant, grounding weight, a reminder that no matter how far he roamed, he was rooted to them.
North stepped closer, reading them. “N. L. C. P.”
“Nico. Liam. Cormac.” Shamrock tapped the last one with a finger. “Penelope.”
