He hadn’t expected Dave to jump at the chance, not really. But some part of him had wanted it all the same. Wanted to know what it would feel like to stand shoulder-to-shoulder without the weight of missions between them.
To hear Dave laugh—not the clipped version he gave his teams, but something real. He shoved the thought down, burying it beneath the distant crack of gunfire that split the evening and echoed off the jagged hills beyond the range.
The closest training yard was alive under the floodlights.
Winter and Black moved through the obstacle course with precision, shadows cutting sharp lines under the beams, while Rip leaned against the fence with his arms crossed, smirk firmly in place.
Stone watched them for a moment before crossing the yard, boots crunching on gravel. He had fought beside most of these men long enough to know their rhythms.
Rip was built like a machine, all raw muscle coiled tight. Winter, sleek and silent, with icy blue eyes taking in everything. Black, newer, but steady as a mountain, lethal without ever raising his voice.
Each one of them dangerous.
Stone shifted his weight, rolling his left shoulder once. Six months on, the scar still tugged when the cold set in, a reminder more than a weakness. He ignored it, same as always. Pain was background noise—weakness wasn’t an option—not for him.
He returned his focus to the men in front of him. What mattered most was how he did his job.
He needed to keep his head in the game right now, but his thoughts kept drifting back to California. Back to the study, where Dave had brushed him off with that half-smile and promised later. A walk. To the beach. Sunlight and salt air instead of duty.
Stone had known, even then, it wasn’t going to happen. He hadn’t expected it, not really. But some part of him had wanted it all the same. The problem with Dave wasn’t timing, or duty, or even the endless phone calls—Stone could live with those. The problem were the walls Dave never let down.
Rip noticed him first. The grin widened. “Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up. I thought you were still glued to Dave’s side.”
“Bet they were comparing retirement plans. Candlelight, spreadsheets, the works,” Winter said, sheathing a blade, his smirk faint.
Even Black chuckled, shaking his head.
Stone flipped them the finger without breaking stride. “You two are hilarious. Ever think about quitting your day jobs?”
Rip laughed. “Nah, we’d miss watching you sulk every time Dave’s name comes up.”
Winter added smoothly, “Don’t worry, Rip. Stone’s working on his love letter. He just hasn’t found the right stationery yet.”
Black’s grin widened. “Pressed flowers. Definitely pressed flowers.”
Stone shot them a look sharp enough to cut steel, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.
“You three done acting like idiots?” he asked.
“Not even close,” Rip fired back, grin unshaken.
“Yeah, laugh it up.” Stone flipped them the finger again just to shut them up.
Because the truth was, they weren’t wrong.
He was considered to be among the most dangerous men to ever walk on Nightfall Drifter soil, but when it came to Dave—one look, one word, one promise that never came true—Stone wasn’t sure he’d ever win that fight.
He glanced once at the phone in his pocket, remembering how often Clinton intercepted Dave’s calls whenever he tried to reach him. The assistant was always there, hovering with files or water or a quiet word, and Stone noticed the way his attention lingered.
Maybe Dave brushed it off as professionalism.
Stone wasn’t so sure.
The night had settled deeper, and rather than travel back to California, Stone decided to stay at the ranch for another night.
The bunkhouse sat down the lane from the main ranch house—close enough to see its lights, far enough to feel private. Inside, it was sharp and modern: steel-frame beds, a low stone fireplace, gear lockers along the walls. Heat from the vents and fire kept the desert chill at bay.
It wasn’t uncommon for November nights to fall below freezing. Inside was quiet now, with only him and Rip there. The laughter from the other guys on their way out to the mess hall had faded into the hum of the heater and the occasional crackle of charred wood.
