“You’re carrying too much,” Stone said. His voice came out quieter than he meant.
Dave exhaled like he was tired of the conversation before it even started. “Comes with the job.”
Stone leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hand closing over Dave’s wrist. He felt the fine tremor in him, the heat of skin stretched too tight. “Not alone, it doesn’t.”
Dave didn’t answer. Just stared at the mess of lines on the table like he could will them into order.
Fog pressed harder at the windows. The ocean filled the silence, heavy and endless.
Stone tightened his grip, grounding them both. “We’ll handle it,” he said. Not promise. Not question. Fact.
Dave finally looked at him, and for a moment, the fight in his eyes faltered.
Stone held on, refusing to let go. “Whatever storm is coming, we face it together.”
Outside, the surf broke against the rocks, relentless and rising.
The house held steady—for now.
The following day had been nothing but grind. Sparrow’s maps spread from one end of the war table to the other, every man pulled into planning rotations, guard drills, and gear checks.
Black had worked the younger guards until they staggered, Law had demanded tighter comms protocols, and Dave had felt the weight of command in every clipped report.
The fight would probably be close to Port Hueneme, and making his estate the central hub made sense.
He’d spent another incredible night lying next to Stone. The man had moved out of the spare room he used and into his bedroom and bed without blinking an eye. Dave smiled, remembering their teasing banter.
“You snore,” Dave had said into the dark.
“You talk in your sleep,” Stone countered.
“What do I say?”
“My name. More than once.”
They’d ended up watching a movie together, Stone wanted action, while he wanted to watch a thriller. They’d ended up watching Working Man.
It was over an hour later that he’d realized Stone had fallen asleep.
Dave shifted, dragging the covers over them, and Stone crushed him close.
“You’re taking up more than half my bed again,” Dave had muttered.
Stone’s voice came lazy in the dark. “Correction—our bed.”
“Semantics,” Dave said, but he didn’t move.
Stone’s arm came around his shoulder, grounding him in the moment. The memory scattered like smoke, and for the rest of the day, Stone stayed steady at his side.
By nightfall, the estate was restless, tight with anticipation.
War was coming—they all felt it. But men had to breathe sometimes.
Dinner brought a little slack in the rope. They ate in the war room. Plates scraped clean, mugs of coffee lingered longer than usual, the heavy talk easing into the kind of ribbing that kept soldiers sane.
As usual, Stone stole his food.
He did it the same way every time—quiet, methodical, fork slipping over Dave’s plate when the older man wasn’t looking. Dave never called him on it. He just gave that small shake of his head, the one that meant I saw you, and I’m letting you get away with it.
