Ghost’s scowl deepened. This was spreading beyond the usual Valor Ridge crew. Becoming a... thing. The kind of thing people remembered, talked about, expected you to participate in. The kind of thing that created connections he’d spent years carefully avoiding.
His gaze drifted across the yard, past the growing gathering, to the fence line where Naomi stood with her arms crossed. The sun caught in her hair, turned her skin to warm gold. Even from this distance, Ghost could see the smile playing at the corners of her mouth—not her professional smile or her placating one, but something genuine and warm that made his chest ache in ways his wound never could.
When had she arrived? How had he missed her approach? The questions bothered him almost as much as the celebration brewing in the yard.
He was slipping. Getting comfortable.
The thought sent a cold spike of panic through his gut.
Ghost pushed himself to his feet, determined to escape before anyone could drag him into whatever misguided festivity they’d planned. He’d make it to the Hub, lock the door, and claim he needed rest.
Not entirely a lie—his side throbbed with dull insistence, and exhaustion dragged at his limbs despite his stubborn refusal to acknowledge it.
He made it precisely three steps before River materialized in his path, grinning that shit-eating grin that meant trouble.
“Where you think you’re going, Casper?”
“No,” Ghost replied flatly.
River’s grin widened. “Yes.”
“No,” he repeated, more firmly this time, drawing himself up to his full height—an intimidation tactic that had worked on hardened operatives across six continents but somehow failed spectacularly against River Beckett.
“We’ve got bacon,” River said, as if this settled the matter entirely. “And Nessie’s rolls. The ones with the extra cinnamon that you pretend not to like but always steal when no one’s looking.”
Jesus, that sounded good. Maybe he could?—
He growled softly. “Absolutely not.”
“We’ve already committed, man,” X called from where he was arranging food on the table. “There’s glitter.” He gestured to the sign as if presenting evidence in court. “Glitter. We played with the herpes of craft supplies for you.”
Ghost calculated his chances of making it to the Hub if he simply shouldered past them. Low, given his current physical state. Lower still, when he noticed Cinder padding silently around the side of the porch to sit directly in his alternate escape path, her dark eyes fixed on him with canine innocence that didn’t fool him for a second.
He stared down at the dog. “Et tu, Brute?”
Cinder’s tail thumped against the dirt, and her tongue lolled out of her mouth in what could only be described as a grin.
Ghost exhaled slowly, the fight draining out of him. He was outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and—though he’d never admit it—secretly, treacherously grateful for it all.
He let himself be herded toward the firepit, where the rest of the Valor Ridge crew had gathered. The men formed a loose semicircle around the crackling flames, passing dishes back and forth with the easy camaraderie of soldiers who’d eaten too many meals together to stand on ceremony.
Bear towered at the edge of the group, massive hands cradling a mug that looked comically small against his bulk.
X laughed at something Jax said, the sound carrying across the yard.
Jonah tended the fire, while Boone stood with arms crossed, observing everything with his usual stern vigilance.
Walker sat in a weathered Adarondak chair like a king holding court, a half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he watched his men.
A familiar discomfort crawled up Ghost’s spine—too many people, too much attention, all of it directed at him.
“There he is,” X called out, raising his mug in greeting. “The man who won’t stay dead.”
“That’s a terrible toast,” Jax muttered, elbowing X hard enough to slosh liquid over the rim of his cup. “Besides, he wasn’t dead, just shot. Big difference.”
“Having experienced both, I can confirm they’re different sensations,” Walker drawled, which earned a rumble of dark laughter from the men.
Ghost stood awkwardly at the edge of the circle, unsure where to position himself in this tableau of belonging that he’d never quite mastered.
