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Her tight mouth gave her away and he stopped walking, turning into her.
“There’s no shame in being afraid, Quinn.” His voice was low now, quieter. Gentle in a way that unraveled her more than the pain ever could. “That’s where bravery comes in.”
Her breath caught. Just a fraction of a second. Just enough to betray her.
Then she looked at him, eyes searching his face, strong, unreadable, and still so achingly tender in the worst of ways. “How do you handle it?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
His jaw flexed. “I focus on the mission,” he said, without hesitation. But there was a deeper current in his voice, something fluid, controlled, powerful. Something like water carving its way through stone, persistent, steady, impossible to stop.
She held his gaze for a long moment, weighing the simplicity of that answer against the chaos still curling inside her. Focus on the mission. It wasn’t just strategy. It was survival.
Her chin lifted slowly. “Then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll focus on my mission.”
A flicker of flame sparked in her chest. She knew how to rebuild, she’d been doing it for the last six months. Her fire would not be extinguished by fear.
She pictured it, her building rising like a beacon over Caracas, steel and glass and purpose etched into its bones.
She didn’t just feel steady now. She felt alight, rekindled by his touch, soothed by his calm, and somewhere between those two forces, she felt… unstoppable.
Something flickered in his expression, something fierce and proud, and he let out a slow breath, his touch brushed across her cheek. Lingering, warm against her skin, grounding in a way she didn’t know she needed until it was there.
They moved through the corridor side by side, their steps in quiet sync, boots thudding softly against the polished floor. The air had cooled since the shower, but Quinn still felt a hum beneath her skin, not from the wound, not from pain, but from him.
From everything he was, and everything he’d just shown her.
As they approached the conference room, the distant murmur of voices filtered out from behind the door, already assembling, mission tempo setting in again.
Just before they reached the threshold, Dagger’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Hey,” he said, glancing at her. “You have your laptop?”
Quinn nodded, brow lifting slightly. “Of course.”
He gave a small nod, his voice lower, gentler. “When we find a moment… let’s call the boys.”
The words hit her like a warm current, unexpected, steadying, and so deeply thoughtful it stopped her breath for half a beat. That quiet suggestion, tucked beneath all the hard edges of duty and mission, felt like the gentlest kind of anchor.
She blinked, heart tightening. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”
His lips curved just a little, eyes steady on hers before he reached for the door.
The scent hit her first, the ever-present gun oil, sweat, and coffee brewed strong enough to peel paint off walls.
Quinn hesitated in the doorway of the conference room, adjusting the strap on her satchel. She’d walked into dozens of intimidating boardrooms, but nothing quite compared to this testosterone-charged den of chaos.
Dagger was just a step ahead of her when a deep voice rang out from one of the couches.
“Chicks dig scars, and Keanu is never wrong,” Brawler declared, slapping a hand over his shoulder like it was a badge of honor.
Shark, lounging near the comms desk, gave him a skeptical side-eye. “You need therapy. I’m not talking about physical.”
Brawler gave him a double finger salute.
Dagger paused mid-step and turned toward them with a squint. “What the hell did we just walk into?”
Brawler dropped his hands, looking toward Quinn with an apology for his coarseness. She waved it off.
Twister, seated at the table, sipping what looked like black sludge from a mug labeledCorpsman Juice – Cures All, Except Stupidity, gave a long-suffering sigh. “The great Keanu Reeves debate. It's been going on for twenty minutes. If it continues, there may be Keanu-like fistacuffs.”