Something didn’t fit.
And he’d be damned if he let it go.
The ranch was still at this hour, the kind of quiet that came only after midnight. The lights over the kitchen sink cast a soft glow across the counters, catching the swirl of steam rising from the dishwasher and the faint scuff of bare feet on wood.
Dave stood at the island, pajama shirt half-buttoned, spoon in hand, and a carton of mint chocolate chip open on the counter. The first few bites were cold enough to sting his teeth, but he didn’t mind. After everything, this moment felt earned.
He didn’t hear Stone come in—just felt the change in the air before a body brushed his back.
Bare feet scuffed behind him, measured and familiar. Stone’s arms slid around his waist, chin resting on Dave’s shoulder. The warmth of him pressed close, the scent of soap cutting through the late-night chill.
Dave smiled. Last night flickered through his mind—how he’d taken control, how they’d burned up the sheets until neither of them had anything left to prove.
“Careful,” he murmured. “Start sneaking up on me like that, I’ll forget I’m supposed to be in charge.”
“Yeah? Maybe it’s my turn.” Stone’s mouth curved against his ear.
“Keep talking and I’ll remind you how that ends.” Dave huffed a laugh, set the spoon down, and leaned back just enough to feel him—solid, warm, steady.
“Promise?” Stone drawled.
Dave turned his head, then caught his smirk in the reflection of the window glass.
Stone’s chuckle rumbled low, satisfied, his arms tightening around him. The hardwood creaked as he shifted closer, the scent of sleep and soap and mint drifting between them.
For a while, neither spoke. The clock ticked softly, the desert wind sighed against the glass, and somewhere beyond the dark pastures a coyote called out—just one, then silence again.
Dave spooned another bite of ice cream, offered it over his shoulder without looking.
Stone took it straight from the spoon, then his lips brushed his knuckles.
Dave’s mouth tugged into a smile.
Las Vegas
Three hundred and seventy miles away, sirens wailed sharp and endless, drilling cut into Titus’s skull.
He groaned, dragging a hand up, but restraints caught at his arms.
“Boss?” Walt’s voice rasped from somewhere close, dry and hoarse.
“Yeah,” Titus forced out. His throat was raw, every word scraped. “Just—give me a minute.”
“A minute! You were lying in the fucking desert for eight fucking hours! I can’t believe I found you.” Walt sounded broken.
Something plastic was suddenly pressed over his mouth. He clawed at it until another set of hands pinned him down.
The EMT leaned in, gentle but firm. “Calm down, Mr. Quinn. You’ve suffered a severe blow to the head.”
“You’re in an ambulance, almost to the hospital,” Walt said, breath harsh.
Blood dripped down Walt’s cheek from a gash, and another EMT was trying to place butterfly bandages against the open wound to try and stem some of the flow.
Titus fell back.
Air mask. Restraints. Sirens.
Why the fuck were his pants and shirt missing? And his chest felt on fire.
