Winter’s blade-sharp smirk followed, cool as always. “If he had, he’d be limping.”
Even Black chuckled, low and steady, while the recruits at their table went wide-eyed at the boldness.
Stone dropped his tray of food onto the table and took a seat opposite Dave, deliberately unbothered, though he flicked Winter the finger on the way down.
“You three should get new material.”
Rip leaned back, folding his arms behind his head like a man who’d just won something. “Why? This stuff writes itself.”
Winter cut in. “Careful, Rip. You’ll push him too far, and then you’ll end up sparring with Stone before lunch. I’d hate to see you laid out in front of your tray.”
Black rumbled, amused. “That might improve the food.”
Laughter rolled through the table, recruits ducking their heads, and for a moment, the tension threaded into something lighter.
Stone stretched out, long legs bracketing Dave’s beneath the table. Not rough, not obvious—just deliberate.
Dave startled, shifting as if to move, but Stone left the space closed in. For half a breath too long, Dave stayed where he was.
When Dave finally leaned back, his pulse had already given him away. Stone didn’t smirk, didn’t need to. He’d seen it—and he knew Dave hadn’t minded.
Stone reached across the table and stole a slice of wedged potato off Dave’s plate, clean and quick.
Dave didn’t even blink—just shifted his cup out of the way so Stone wouldn’t knock it over, like muscle memory.
Stone bit in, chewing slowly, a flicker of amusement tugging at him. Dave didn’t notice the eyes on them, didn’t seem to care that the gesture looked like a habit. He just went on sipping his coffee, steady as ever, while Stone pretended not to watch him over the rim of his fork.
Dave’s mouth twitched as if he might smile, but instead, he sipped at his coffee, careful, controlled.
The attraction Dave always tried to hide was there, but shielded.
Stone felt the magnetic pull of it anyway.
He caught it again, in the smallest shift: the way Dave’s throat worked when he swallowed, the pulse in his temple ticking faster than his calm exterior would allow.
And when Stone let their eyes meet just for a second too long, he saw what Dave wouldn’t say.
Want.
Stone tracked Dave’s every move, the way he angled his body away, then back again, as if pulled by an invisible cord he couldn’t cut.
The mess hall around them buzzed with routine—clatter, chatter, the scrape of boots—but at this table, Stone felt the edges of something sharper.
Dave wanted him. Stone knew it. But Dave didn’t know how to go about it.
Stone leaned back in his chair, arms folding, gaze steady on the man across from him.
He didn’t push, didn’t speak it aloud.
He just let the silence stretch, filled with all the things neither of them had yet promised.
By the time lunch tapered down, Viper’s shadow fell over their table. He didn’t have to speak; the tilt of his chin toward a separate conference room was enough.
Minutes later, Stone and Dave sat across from him in the briefing room, a wide oak table between them. Maps and surveillance photos were spread out, pinned with red markers across a stretch of Nevada desert.
Viper steepled his hands, gaze hard.
“The chatter we’ve uncovered is real. One of our strongholds has been compromised. My sources suggest Titus is behind it.”
