I held on anyway.
Mitch made a sound against my shoulder. Low. Warm. Slightly undone, the kind of sound that came from somewhere behind his sternum when the performance ended and the man underneath decided he was needed. His arms came up around my back hard and certain, fingers digging into my flannel like he was making sure I was real.
Caleb tucked his face into my chest and exhaled. One long breath, shaky at the edges, like he’d been holding it since the first impact and had only just been given permission to let it go. His fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt. Small. Warm. Certain.
I held them longer than was justified.
The contractors were zip-tied. Cruz was standing ten yards away pretending not to watch. The road was secure. None of that mattered as much as the fact that Mitch’s heart was hammering against my ribs and Caleb’s breath was warm through my shirt and both of them were whole and breathing and apparently determined to remain that way despite several recent indications to the contrary.
I let go. Stepped back. Ran the same visual sweep I’d give any tactical situation—two people, present, breathing, no serious injury. Caleb’s red mark was superficial. Mitch had a scratch along his forearm that he hadn’t noticed yet. Both of them were standing on their own feet.
“You are not allowed to do that again,” I said. Flat. Direct. The voice I used when I was not negotiating.
“We didn’t exactly plan it,” Mitch said.
“I don’t care.”
“That’s a very unreasonable position.”
“It’s the only position I have.”
Mitch held my gaze. His eyes were warm and a little wrecked, the look he usually kept just under the humor, and he said, quieter, “Yeah. Okay. We won’t do it again.”
I nodded once. Firm. The kind of nod that cost me something and was worth the cost.
Cruz’s voice came from behind me, flat and calm, the tone of a man reporting weather. “The one with the dislocated shoulder is asking for a doctor.”
“He can ask,” I said.
“I told him that.”
Mitch leaned around me. “How’d he take it?”
“About how you’d expect,” Cruz said.
Mitch grinned. “I like Cruz.”
Cruz said nothing.
“He knows,” I said.
Mitch turned to Caleb. His hands came up to Caleb’s face, tilting it toward the thin morning light, thumbs gentle along his jaw. The red mark on Caleb’s temple was angry against his pale skin.
“I’m fine,” Caleb said.
“You have a red mark.”
“It’s a seatbelt mark, not a wound.”
“I’m aware of what it is.”
“Then stop looking at me like I’ve been shot.”
“I’m allowed to look at you however I want right now,” Mitch said. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I scared you? You were the one driving.”
“I was driving excellently under the circumstances.”
