He acknowledges me with a slight nod—which, from Knox, might as well be a bear hug. We've come a long way from thosefirst suspicious glances, the way he used to watch me like I might sprout fangs at any moment.
"Sloane," he calls down. "You coming to the briefing later?"
"Wouldn't miss it." I shield my eyes against the sun to look up at him. "New intel?"
"Maybe. Asa's been tracking some interesting patterns."
Interestingfrom Knox usually meanspotentially lethal. But that's why we're here, isn't it? To face the dangerous truths others try to bury.
Speaking of Asa—I spot him emerging from his tech cave, tablet in hand and glasses slightly askew. He makes a beeline for me, that familiar look of frustrated determination on his face.
"Your algorithm's wrong," he says without preamble.
I bite back a smile. "Hello to you too, Asa."
"The pattern recognition software you suggested? It's missing key variables."
"The ones you insisted weren't relevant last week?"
He scowls, but there's no real heat behind it. "Details matter."
Ryker appears as if summoned by the prospect of an argument, his massive frame casting shadows in the late afternoon light. "You two at it again?"
I high-five him as he passes. "Just keeping him honest."
"Good luck with that."
Asa mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "traitor" before retreating back to his screens and circuits.
But I catch the ghost of a smile as he turns away.
This is my life now.
These people.
This place.
The way we fit together like pieces of a puzzle we didn't know we were solving.
The walk back to our cabin—and god, when did it becomeoursinstead of his—is familiar now.
Inside, evidence of our shared life is everywhere. My laptop on the coffee table, surrounded by case files and sticky notes.
His tactical manuals mixed with my true crime collection on the bookshelf.
A photo Caleb caught of us during training—Logan adjusting my stance, both of us caught in a moment of unexpected laughter.
I hang my jacket next to his by the door, the sight of them side by side making something warm unfurl in my chest.
Such a small thing, but it speaks volumes about how far we've come.
I grab my laptop and head to the porch, settling into what's become my favorite spot.
The old wooden chair creaks familiarly as I pull my knees up, balancing the computer on my thighs.
The sound of boots on the porch steps pulls me from my reverie. Logan stands in the doorway, freshly showered and changed,looking at me with that mix of fondness and heat that never fails to make my heart skip.
"Productive afternoon?" he asks, nodding at my laptop.
