Nina
I’m parked in the cell phone waiting lot at LAX, and regretting every life choice that led to me being the one who offered to pick them up.
It’s a thousand degrees outside, traffic is a migraine with a siren, and every five minutes the same white SUV keeps circling like it’s going to find a closer portal to hell.
I crack the windows. My phone’s in the cupholder, open to the arrivals board, but I don’t need to check again. I already know Mason and Callie’s flight landed ten minutes ago. Which means I’ve got at least twenty more before they clear customs, grab their bags, and text me that they’re ready to be summoned from the apocalypse that is Terminal B.
Plenty of time to spiral.
My stomach flutters again. Not with nerves or hunger, but that same weird swoop that started somewhere around Kingman, Arizona three days ago when the smell of pepperoni jerky made me gag and the slushie I was craving turned into antifreeze in my mouth.
I blamed travel stress. A tight timeline. Too much coffee, not enough sleep. I told myself I’d feel better once I got to LA and stopped living out of a cooler and a box of protein bars.
But I’ve been here a week and the nausea hasn’t gone away.
And my period is late.
Four days, maybe five. I haven’t checked the app because I don’t want to see the confirmation in digital ink. Besides—this wouldn’t be possible.
Not possible possible. I have an IUD. I’ve always used condoms.
Except for one night.
The only night.
The night that still feels like a dream.
I close my eyes. Let my head fall back against the seat. My chest is tight, but I’m still pretending it’s from the heat.
A memory flares—uninvited, sharp around the edges.
Chris’s mouth against my collarbone. Wyatt’s hands at my hips. My body pressed between them, one breath away from unraveling. I remember the way Chris had growled my name like it was a curse and a promise all at once, while Wyatt whispered that I was safe—safe—with both of them inside me, grounding and breaking me in the same breath.
The weight of it still presses against my skin. And I know—I know—I should have called one of them by now. Texted. Something. But what would I say?
Sorry I left? Sorry I took something we can’t give back? Sorry it meant too much to all of us?
I grip the steering wheel like it might keep me upright. Like I didn’t dissolve in their arms that night and then run two weeks later before I had to admit how much these feelings terrified me.
The week’s been a blur. New office, which is really one half of a mid-century modern home in Cheviot Hills. Something I’d never have afforded on my regular DEA consultant salary, but that comes with the new job, courtesy of the Agency’s deep pockets. It’s like they want to keep me in a bubble they control, but at least it doesn’t come with a rent bill.
I have a new “team.” Two new employees I didn’t choose, but who already feel like extensions of the architecture.
Darius Washington introduced himself with a smile too warm to be fake and a fidget cube that’s been clicking nonstop ever since. “Receptionist-slash-intake coordinator,” he said, and then handed me a coffee better than anything I’ve had in a year. We both pretended the “interview” was real, even though I already knew he was an embedded CIA handler. Probably ex-FBI or military psych, with the way he notices everything and pretends not to. The way he carries himself like he’s more comfortable in tactical gear than a blazer and slacks.
Lucia Mendez didn’t bother pretending.
She handed me a file with network specs, a hard drive labeled LAN Ghost, and said, “No offense, but your passwords suck.”
Lucia is basically IT on steroids. She showed up in high-top sneakers, black joggers, and a t-shirt that said I void warranties, and somehow still made me feel underdressed. Her leather messenger bag looks like it could hack the Pentagon on its own. She’s probably killed someone with a USB stick. But she had the panic button and camera system online before I finished my first intake mock session, so I’m not complaining.
We haven’t spoken much. Not yet. But there’s a shorthand between them that speaks to long history—quiet jokes, nonverbal cues, professional rhythm. They’re good. Too good to be reassigned lightly. Which means someone high up is taking this op very seriously.
Too bad I’m the part of the op they can’t predict.
My phone buzzes.
CALLIE: Just got through immigration. Grabbed Mason’s bag while he was chatting with airport security about “the value of civil liberty” see you in 20?
