Up close, her scent hit him again. Magnolia. Leather. Heat. It cut through the smoke and the stench and settled into him like something claiming space it had no right to take.
His hand brushed her shoulder as he took his spot. She went still for a heartbeat, then leaned into it, just enough to tell him she felt it, that she took something from the contact. Steadiness. Reassurance.
The realization landed hard. She trusted him at her back.
That knowledge twisted something fierce and unfamiliar in his chest. The ease of it, how effortlessly she reached for him, lit a spark he immediately tamped down, sharp with envy. He’d come into this op doing what he always did, stepping into the role he knew best. Shield. Cover. Control.
He mattered to her. The truth of that scared the hell out of him.
They were locked into this operation together for the long haul. Proximity would build trust. That was how collaboration worked—it was necessary. Optimal. He understood that.
Because if she leaned on him now, she would do it again. Next time, he wouldn’t know how to step away without hurting her or himself.
He’d thought the op was dangerous.
This, whatever this was, felt worse.
The look she’d given him after he dropped the biker in the bay still churned in his gut. He’d done his job. She’d just been in his crosshairs. That was all it was supposed to be.
But his mental state was fraying.
How the hell could he be someone’s anchor when he was in freefall himself?
He hated that she was doing this to him, hated how her scent, her stillness, her quiet acknowledgment cut straight through his armor. Hated that a single unconscious gesture from her carried more weight than the op, the danger, or the discipline he lived by.
He’d be a fool to hang himself out to dry.
He bent his head toward her ear, voice barely a breath. “It’s overwatch, not foreplay. You preserve the peace. I remove threats.”
She gave him a brief, assessing look over her shoulder. “So all this time you’ve just been teasing?” The air between them charged, her mouth tipping at the corner. “You look like a man who expects the last word,” she said lightly. “Good luck with that.”
Breakneck forgot how to breathe. His mind scrambled, discipline barely holding as he dragged his focus back to the op, away from the woman who was more dangerous to him than anything on the ground tonight.
She wasn’t a battle. She was a fucking war, and as a SEAL he was never out of the fight, but he was losing ground here. Blair went toe-to-toe with him, and his usual counters failed against her particular brand of sass.
“Blow it, Boom Boom,” Ice ordered, voice low.
Boomer stepped forward, planted a small charge at the base of the door near the lock, another near the hinges. He moved back into position, hand curling around the detonator.
Breakneck forced his focus away from Blair to the door, the wall, the angles. He tried not to think about the fact that he would lose sight of her the second that barrier came down and they went inside.
“Ayla,” Ice said. “Confirm basement routes.”
“There’s only one access stairwell on the schematic,” Ayla replied. “Right inside the main hall.”
“Copy,” Ice said. “We move fast. On my mark. Three…two…”
Breakneck’s chest pulled tight. He could hear Blair breathe, feel the minute tremor in her muscles that matched what he was trying to crush in his own.
“…execute, execute, execute,” Ice said.
Boomer hit the trigger.
The charge went off in a white, concussive flash.
The door shuddered, then blew inward, splinters and smoke fanning into the room beyond.
Breakneck’s world dissolved into movement and noise.
