Page 55

First comes Ethan.

His presence is immediate. Anchoring.

The calm at the center of the storm.

He moves like a man who’s lived through fire and learned how to breathe in the smoke. His gaze sweeps the room—steady, sharp. Calculating threats out of instinct, not fear.

He exhales once, quiet and controlled.

And just like that, you know—he’s already cataloged every danger in the space… and dismissed them all.

But then he sees her.

His expression doesn’t change much. It doesn’t have to. The only shift is in his shoulders—just the slightest drop of tension. The way a soldier stands down when he sees home.

Rebel doesn’t look at him. Not right away. But she knows. The awareness between them is electric. Grounded. A connection forged in fire and grit and sealed with choice.

He’s the commander. The tactician. The man who makes life-or-death calls without hesitation.

But with Rebel?

There’s always that split second of softness .

One only she ever gets to see.

On his heels comes Hank, who steals my breath on sight.

Sharp-eyed. Deliberate. The kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed—because you’d never risk disappointing him.

He steps in just behind Ethan, moving like the space already belongs to him. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t glare.

He assesses.

His calm gaze sweeps the room like a tactical scan, his mind always three steps ahead, calculating angles no one else has even considered. While Ethan might carry the title of Charlie team’s leader, there’s no mistaking who commands our dynamic. In the quiet moments. In the bedroom.

He commands me .

His gaze lands on me at the counter, and for a breath, something unreadable flickers across his face—too quick to name. Then he elbows Walt lightly, muttering something under his breath that makes the other man smirk.

But Hank’s eyes never really leave mine.

Not for long.

And that heat under his calm? That low-simmering dominance just beneath the surface?

It tells me everything.

I belong to him.

Ever the medic, Walt’s eyes sweep the room the moment he steps inside—cataloging exits, injuries, moods. It’s instinct. Habit. Protection coded into his DNA. But the second he sees Malia, all that trained vigilance softens into something warmer.

Fiercer.

The man may patch bullet wounds without flinching, but Malia?

She’s his pulse.

Despite her snark, I’ve seen the way she orbits him without even realizing it.

And I’m starting to suspect Walt isn’t just sunshine and sarcasm. There’s a glint in his eye when he watches her. A quiet command tucked behind the warmth.

Yeah, I don’t think their bedroom dynamic is anywhere near vanilla.

“Tell me you saved me one of those chocolate croissants,” he calls out, voice easy—but threaded with expectation.

“You do realize sugar’s not a food group, right?” Malia shoots back, but her hands are already moving, plating two croissants without thinking.

He grins. Knows exactly what she’s doing.

And that look he gives her in return? It’s hotter than hot. Molten doesn’t do it justice.

Blake strides in—calm, exact, every movement economical. That sniper’s stillness clings to him, honed from years of waiting for the perfect shot. His gaze sweeps the room, absorbing details most people would miss without ever appearing to look.

But the moment his eyes find Sophia, the whole world shifts.

That lethal intensity melts in an instant.

And in its place?

A smile. Bright. Boyish. Devoted.

Like the most dangerous thing in the room just became the softest.

He crosses to her with quiet purpose, gaze never straying. Everything about him says: I’ve already found what matters.

Behind them, Jeb steps in. The former Charlie team member moves with a deliberate gait, and the subtle hitch in his step is a reminder of the injury that nearly took him out. He rolls his shoulders, stretching muscles still stiff from whatever hell they just endured, and eyes the espresso machine like it’s personally offended him—like if it so much as sputters, he might put it out of its misery.

“This thing still on its deathbed?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“Hanging in there,” I reply.

Jeb nods once, then adds under his breath, “I could probably rebuild it in an hour if you let me take it apart.”

Malia chokes on a laugh. “You’re not touching my espresso machine, Jeb.”

His expression says otherwise.

And then, there’s Gabe .

He doesn’t just enter—he claims the space.

Dark. Lethal. Controlled.

The others might move like predators, but Gabe moves like the weapon they call in when predators fail. He has a precision to him—like every breath, every step, every flick of his gaze is calculated and earned.

He brings the heat with him.

Not just physical—though the raw strength in his frame is impossible to ignore—but something deeper. A gravitational pull. That quiet, consuming intensity that makes your lungs forget how to work.

He doesn’t spare the others a glance.

His eyes find me, and everything else ceases to exist.

The hum of the café.

The weight of the past.

Even the air between us goes still.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to.

The tension crackling off him says enough: You’re mine. You were always mine.

And God help me—I want it.

Every dark, dominant, terrifying part of him.

My pulse stutters.

His smirk is slight, but it’s knowing.

Then—he keeps moving. Not a word, not a touch—just enough of a look to remind me that I have a very long night ahead of me.

And just when I think the room can’t feel any fuller?—

Rigel steps in. He doesn’t announce himself. He doesn’t need to.

He belongs.

Big. Steady. Quiet in a way that makes noise feel unnecessary. His presence doesn’t demand attention—it commands it.

Not through volume but through gravity. The kind that makes people take notice without realizing they’ve gone still.

He takes in the room with one glance?—

The counter.

The chaos.

The men half-sprawled like they own the place.

Then, that dry, knowing smirk.

“Let me guess. Walt’s calling dibs on pastries. Jeb’s contemplating murdering the espresso machine. Gabe’s silently plotting something that’s going to ruin Ally’s night, and Ethan’s pretending he doesn’t have to babysit you all.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

Blake snorts. “Jesus. You think you have us figured out?”

Rigel shrugs. “You’re not that complicated.”

And somehow, that lands harder than any insult could’ve. The team bursts into laughter—the kind that says he’s one of us now.

And just like that, the space shifts again.

Settles.

Finds its balance, even with all of them here.

But then—I feel it.

That weight. That pull.

A look. A claim.

I glance up just in time to catch Gabe pulling Hank aside, his posture deceptively loose, like he’s just making conversation. But his eyes—sharp, cutting—are locked on me.

They speak in low tones just out of earshot.

But I feel every second of it like a touch I haven’t earned yet.

Hank listens, arms crossed over that broad chest, his jaw tight. One muscle flexing. Containing something.

Gabe says something else—short, decisive.

And then they both look at me.

Not casually. Not coincidentally.

Intentionally.

Gabe’s gaze rakes down my body like he’s already deciding what he’s going to do with it.

Hank’s is colder. More restrained.

But no less possessive.

Heat curls low in my belly, dark and heavy.

I shift in place, trying to pretend I don’t feel it.

But my heart pounds harder.

My thighs press tighter .

And I know—I know—whatever they’re talking about?

It’s me.

It’s them.

And it’s coming.

Before I can spiral too far into that slow burn, Rebel breezes past, catching my stare.

She arches a brow, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Your men look like trouble today.”

I exhale slowly, trying to play it cool?—

But my gaze lingers on Gabe and Hank, still speaking in quiet tones.

Not trouble.

Ruin.

And I’ll beg for it.

“Should I tell Jenna I’m going to be late again?” I murmur, voice dry.

Rebel doesn’t answer right away—because we both turn, looking at Jenna.

She’s already watching.

Standing behind the pastry case, arms crossed, one hip cocked, assessing the situation with the kind of resigned irritation only a woman who’s seen this play out a dozen times can muster.

Her eyes flick from Gabe to Hank to me, then back to Rebel, and she slowly raises a single brow.

Rebel snorts. “Jenna’s already figured that out.”

The café feels different now.

More crowded, more alive—a shifting of energy that settles deep in my bones.

“Look alive, ladies,” Malia mutters, sliding closer with a wicked grin. “The chaos committee has arrived.”

Carter Jackson saunters in like he owns the place—identical to Blake in face, but all swagger and sun, golden-boy charm wrapped around lethal Guardian precision.

And he’s headed straight for Jenna.

He leans in across the counter, voice dropping to that low, teasing rumble that turns heads.

“How about a kiss?” he says, eyes locked on hers.

Jenna doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t blush.

She grabs a wooden stir stick and taps it once—sharp—on the countertop like a ref blowing the whistle.

“No PDA in the workplace, Carter. House rules.”

He grins—broad, cocky, unapologetic.

“Technically, we’re in an espresso bar. Not a house. And technically… I never follow the rules.”

And then he proves it.

Before she can stop him, his hands are on her—one sliding around her waist, the other tilting her chin up.

And then—he kisses her.

Not a peck.

Not a tease.

A full-body, toe-curling, breath-stealing kiss that dares the world to interrupt.

The café erupts. Laughter. Cheers. Someone actually claps.

Mia gasps in mock outrage. “Jenna! What happened to ‘no PDA in the workplace?’”

“Yeah, Jenna!” Rebel calls, grinning like a heathen.

Jenna finally shoves him back—barely.

Her face is flushed, but her tone is pure fire. “You’re impossible.”

He winks. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Malia groans. “And she was just lecturing us about sex-starved men making women late for work.”

Sophia smirks. “Pretty sure she’s the only one getting swept off her feet on company time.”

Jenna shoots us all a death glare, which only makes the laughter worse.

Carter, meanwhile, pockets a sugar packet like a trophy and strolls off like he didn’t just wreck her whole damn composure.

Jenna exhales hard and smooths her apron like it might erase the kiss from history .

“Not a single one of you say a word,” Jenna warns, breathless and flushed.

We all grin.

And then—we all say words.

“Dayum,” Malia breathes, fanning herself with a to-go lid. “That kiss came with a scorch warning.”

“I think the espresso machine just went into cardiac arrest,” Sophia says. “You need to take that outside before the health department gets involved.”

“Or the pantry,” Mia offers sweetly. “We’ve got things covered here. Go finish the rest of it off.”

Rebel grins, practically vibrating with glee. “Seriously. We’ll man the fort.”

Carter starts to stand, all too willing to play along.

“Absolutely not. Not here. Not now.” Jenna’s arm flies out, palm braced against his chest like she’s warding off a demon.

Carter just grabs her hand, lacing their fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His smile turns lethal.

“Then let’s go home.”

The room howls.

Jenna’s glare could melt steel. “You are not helping.”

“Not trying to,” he says, smug as sin.

“Jenna’s gonna murder him,” Sophia whispers.

“Yeah,” Rebel grins, “but not before he makes her come first.”

Jenna groans. “I hate you all.”

We laugh harder.

We do not stop.

Carter’s already tugging on her hand again, eyeing the back hallway like he’s seriously considering it.

“The supply room’s right there,” he murmurs, all wicked innocence. “Bet it locks.”

Jenna yanks her hand free, face on fire. “You so much as open that door, and I will take you.”

“Kinky.” He leans in, brushing his mouth near her ear.

She shoves him toward the espresso machine with a firm palm to his chest. “Go drink your damn coffee.”

Carter goes—but he’s grinning the whole way.

And while we’re still cackling in his wake, Rigel moves in quietly.

He makes his way to where Mia is prepping drinks and leans against the counter.

“How’s my favorite barista?” His voice is low and rough, meant only for her.

But I see it—the way her cheeks flush, the way her lashes dip as she slides him his drink without a word.

“Better now,” she murmurs.

His fingers brush hers as he takes the cup, the touch lingering just a moment too long to be accidental.

“Still on for tonight?” he asks, and Mia nods, her smile small but unmistakably happy.

“Ally,” a deep rumble snaps my attention as Hank approaches the counter. My breath tightens almost reflexively. “Cappuccino. And don’t ruin it this time.”

I know he’s joking, but I fake a gasp anyway, clutching at my imaginary pearls.

“Ruin it? Excuse me? Did you want weak espresso with that cappuccino, too, sir?”

“Depends,” he fires back smoothly, folding his arms against his chest. “Are you planning to serve me with that signature latte-art amoeba again? Or have you gotten better?”

The bubbling of the steaming wand barely masks Malia’s choked laughter somewhere next to me as I grab a fresh shot glass and pour new espresso into it.

“You’re lucky you look as good as you do, sir,” I say, letting sarcasm lace the words just enough. “Otherwise, I’d be spitting in this drink.”

His voice drops to a rough whisper, just for me. “I love hearing you call me ‘Sir,’ but if you keep saying it in public, I’m gonna get hard—and then you’ll have to deal with that.”

My hands falter, a quick, betraying motion I try to play off, though heat creeps up my neck. His smirk deepens, slow and deliberate like he knows exactly how much he’s unraveling me.

Hank doesn’t let me recover.

His smirk lingers, dark and knowing, but his voice dips even lower—just for me.

“Speaking of things you’ll have to deal with…” His fingers drum lightly against the counter, casual, unaffected—the exact opposite of how I feel right now. “Gabe filled me in on your little… oversharing problem.”

My stomach tightens.

My grip on the milk pitcher wobbles.

Hank notices. Of course, he notices. His smirk curves just a little sharper.

“You’ve earned yourself a punishment, luv. And we both know Gabe isn’t one to go easy on you.” His arms stay folded, muscles flexing as he tilts his head, watching me. “The real question is—should I be merciful? Or should I make it worse?”

The air leaves my lungs.

The milk froths too fast, spilling over the edge of the pitcher, ruining my latte art. Malia bites back a laugh next to me.

“Oh my God,” she mutters under her breath. “Ally, I think you actually forgot how to function for a second.”

I snap out of it, slamming the steam wand off, shoving my composure back into place. I lift my chin, feigning unbothered confidence. “Hank, you don’t have a merciful bone in your body.”

“You’re right.” His grin deepens, pure, wicked amusement.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders, trying to ease the tension knotting in my stomach. But it doesn’t help—not when he leans in, dropping his voice to a low, sinful rasp.

“But just so you know, luv…” His fingers skim the counter, slow, deliberate. “Whatever Gabe has planned? It’s only the beginning.”

My hands falter again.

I swear I hear Malia mutter a quiet, “ Dayum .”

Hank leans back like he hasn’t just completely wrecked me in public. He holds out a hand, waiting for his cappuccino like he’s the most patient, unbothered man on the planet.

I slide it toward him, my grip just a little too tight.

“Enjoy,” I say sweetly. “Don’t burn yourself.”

His smirk says it all. I’m the one who’s going to burn.

In the background, Sophia and Blake are locked in a heated, overly dramatic argument about the perfect angle for caramel drizzle, their voices rising above the chatter like they’re staging a Food Network showdown.

Walt is teasing someone from Logistics, accusing them of stealing his prized pen while grinning like it’s all a game.

The coffee shop hums with life—noisy, buzzing, overlapping dynamics somehow blending into a cohesive rhythm.

Chaos. Comfort. Controlled caffeine-fueled madness.

At first, Gabe sits beside Hank near the back, a picture of lethal relaxation. But I can feel his attention long before I meet his gaze.

When I glance up, he’s already rising. Smooth. Lethal. That kind of movement that draws eyes without trying. His gaze finds mine, already locked and loaded, moving with that deliberate power that makes it impossible to look anywhere else.

His eyes never leave mine.

He stops at the counter—right across from me—just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. Leans in just enough to make the air shift.

“I sent you something,” he murmurs, like he’s offering me sin on a silver platter.

I shouldn’t check it.

I’m working. I’m surrounded.

But it’s him.

So I do.

Can’t wait to have you over my knees tonight. Going to swat your ass until you can’t sit for a week, then put you on your knees and fuck that pretty mouth until you’re begging for my cock somewhere else. Hank’s already picked out the restraints.

Oh. My. God.

My spine locks. Heat slams into me like a brick wall.

And then—before I can blink—Jenna snatches the phone right out of my hand .

“JENNA!”

Too late.

Her eyes scan the screen. Widen.

And then?—

“Oh my fucking GOD,” she screeches. “Gabe!”

“Give it back!” I lunge for the phone.

She spins, holding it up like it’s the damn Ark of the Covenant. “Malia. Look at this. Your girl is about to get demolished.”

Malia’s already crowding in. “Wait, our Ally?”

Mia peeks over her shoulder and reads the text while my entire face turns crimson.

“Holy shit. That’s not sexting. That’s a scene outline.” Mia passes my phone to Sophia, who reads aloud.

“Put you on your knees and—oh wow. Okay. I’m… Wow…”

“Give. Me. My. Phone,” I growl, grabbing blindly as the entire café explodes in laughter.

“Ally, your face is beet red,” Rebel gasps, clutching her chest. “This is so on brand. Gabe turned the tables on you. He definitely wins this round.”

“Not fair.” I stomp my foot and groan. “I’m supposed to drop the filth,” I groan. “I set the tone. I write the smutty soundtrack. Not him.”

Jenna howls. “Oh honey, the soundtrack just dropped—and it’s a whole damn album.”

Meanwhile, Gabe?

Unbothered. Unrepentant. Absolutely victorious.

He leans on the counter, dark eyes glittering with amusement. “Did I overshare, sweetheart?”

His voice? Molten silk laced with smug.

I snatch the phone back and glare at him. “You planned this.”

His smirk says of course I did.

I set the phone down slowly, like it might detonate again. Then look up, my voice dripping sugar and venom.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” Gabe leans in closer, gaze locked on mine.

“Not a thing.” I feel his heat like a brand pressed against the inside of my thigh. “Not. One. Thing.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because that was just a teaser.”

That voice—a velvety purr edged in dark steel—slides over my skin and lands low and hungry. My pulse stutters.

I force myself to meet his eyes.

He’s not watching Jenna. Not the commotion.

Just me.

That smirk. That utter confidence.

He knows exactly what that text did to me.

And I hate how much I love it.

His grin?

Absolutely feral.

Then, his gaze flicks past me—barely a glance—but I know exactly what he’s looking at.

The chalkboard on the wall.

The new column added this morning.

A big, curling O at the top.

Still blank.

No one’s written a single thing under it yet. No one’s had a chance.

Gabe’s breath brushes my ear, velvet over a blade.

“Let’s put the first tally on the board, sweetheart.”

I freeze.

Sure, I joked about it earlier. Teased the girls. Smirked when Carter practically dry-humped Jenna in front of God and caffeine.

But this?

Me?

Now?

I swallow hard, eyes flicking around the café. Everyone’s here. Jenna. Malia. Rebel. Blake, Walt, Ethan. Even Carter, still smug from his kiss-and-conquer maneuver, is perched at the corner bar watching like he’s got money riding on this.

“No way in hell,” I breathe, pulling back just enough to catch Gabe’s eyes. “Not with all of them watching. Knowing.”

Gabe just raises a brow. “Not a request. ”

He steps back half a pace, then leans in one last time, low and unyielding.

“Hank gave the order.”

I blink. “What?”

He straightens, all casual command. “Meet me in the storeroom in three minutes. Nothing longer.”

My pulse slams into high gear.

“If you’re late…” He shrugs. That dark smile returns. “I’ll just add it to the punishment already coming tonight.”

Then he walks away. Like it’s settled. Like it’s already happening.

Because it is.

And that’s the worst part.

I know damn well—I’m going.

Three minutes.

I wait.

Thirty seconds.

Sip my coffee. Pretend to clean the counter. Avoid eye contact.

Then I slide toward the hallway, slow and casual, like maybe I’m just going to the back for napkins or… I don’t know, a deep existential scream.

I make it five steps.

“Uh-huh.” Malia’s voice rings out behind me, suspiciously chipper. “And where exactly do you think you’re going?”

I freeze.

Jenna’s voice follows, wicked. “Better hurry, babe. Gabe’s on a timer.”

Mia glances at the clock. “She’s got, what? Two minutes and twenty seconds?”

“Two-fifteen now,” Rebel announces. “Hope she stretches first.”

“How do you …”

My face ignites.

Sophia cups her hands around her mouth. “Don’t forget the chalk, Ally.”

Laughter erupts. The whole café is howling.

Even Max barks, tail wagging like he’s in on the damn joke.

I shoot them all a murderous glare over my shoulder, but it’s useless. I’ve already been outed. There’s no dignity left.

Only heat. Anticipation. And the slow, aching crawl of submission sliding into place.

I straighten my spine. Smooth my apron.

And walk toward the back.

The storeroom door clicks shut behind me.

Gabe’s already there—waiting.

One look. That’s all it takes.

He grabs me.

There’s no warm-up. No pretense. Just hands and teeth and the kind of kiss that devours every thought. He spins me, palms flat on the prep table, my body bent where he wants it—where I want it.

He doesn’t even take his pants off.

Fingers.

Mouth.

Ruthless precision.

He takes—until I’m coming against his hand with a cry he swallows whole.

Then he flips me, hauls me up onto the metal table, and fucks me with two fingers and nothing but dominance between his teeth.

“Second one,” he growls, biting my jaw.

And I break.

Again.

He doesn’t stop.

“This one,” he growls, fingers circling tight and fast, “you’re going to feel all day.”

The third orgasm rips through me like a shockwave.

I don’t even remember catching my breath. One moment I’m trembling. The next—he’s gone.

Door swinging shut behind him.

I stagger out five minutes later, half-wrecked, hair a mess, pulse still skipping.

Straight to the chalkboard.

I grab the pink chalk.

One tally mark .

The girls lose their goddamn minds.

“No way!” Malia gasps.

“She actually did it,” Jenna shrieks.

“That is a victory strut if I’ve ever seen one,” Mia mutters, grinning into her latte.

Rebel leans over the counter. “Was it a tallied one or a screaming one?”

I don’t answer.

Just mark a second.

Sophia covers her mouth like she’s watching royalty take the crown.

Then—a third mark.

The shriek that leaves Rebel might crack the espresso machine.

Malia bangs a spoon on the counter like a gong. “All hail the queen!”

Meanwhile, the guys?

Totally confused.

Blake leans toward Ethan. “Why are they yelling?”

Walt frowns. “Is it a code? Is there an op?”

Rigel deadpans, “You don’t want it to be an op.”

Gabe strolls past them, smug as ever. “It’s a scoreboard…”

Hank doesn’t even glance up from his coffee. “For orgasms.”

Silence.

Stunned, male realization silence.

Blake blinks. “Wait. You mean like?—”

“They’re keeping track,” Gabe confirms.

“Publicly,” Walt mutters, staring at the board like it personally offended him.

Carter whistles, low and admiring. “So that’s what all the pink chalk is about.”

“They started a competition,” Hank says, setting his cup down with quiet finality. “Didn’t think we’d notice. Or care.”

“They were wrong,” Ethan says flatly.

“We should make them work for it,” Hank adds, deceptively casual. “Withhold for a while. Let them sweat. ”

Every man pauses.

Considers.

Then, collectively?—

“Oh, hell no,” Walt says, shaking his head.

“Not a chance,” Carter echoes.

Blake runs a hand down his face. “That’s not strategy. That’s suffering.”

Rigel smirks. “We’re competitors. Not monsters.”

Hank lifts a brow, just slightly. “So… we’re doing this?”

Gabe’s grin is all teeth. “With extreme prejudice.”

“Gentlemen,” Walt murmurs, cracking his knuckles. “It’s game time.”

And just like that, the atmosphere shifts.

Heavy. Electric. Intentional.

At the counter, the girls slowly fall quiet.

Malia’s laughter fades first. “Wait… what just happened?”

Rebel narrows her eyes. “Why do they all look like they’re about to go full combat mode?”

Jenna follows their line of sight—every man now watching them like prey. “Oh, shit.”

Mia exhales. “That’s… that’s the look they get before they breach a compound.”

Sophia leans in, eyes wide. “Did we just… start something?”

“Yeah,” I say, throat suddenly dry. “We declared war.”

And judging by the way Gabe just crooked his finger at me from across the room—we’re going to lose.

Gloriously.

Their attention never strays far.

Charlie team settles into watchful, easy conversation—but it’s all a smokescreen. I can feel the shift, like static prickling across my skin. Every glance from Gabe or Hank carries weight now.

Promise. Threat. Claim.

I retreat behind the espresso bar, focus on the milk frother, trying to pretend my thighs aren’t trembling from remembering. The hum of steam grounds me. Sort of.

But then there’s Gabe—leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, his gaze locked on mine like he’s still picturing me bent over that prep table.

Hank? Still lounging like a panther in repose. Dangerous. Calculating. Smirking.

A flush creeps up my neck as I ferry a tray of drinks to the table of logistics guys, aware of every subtle glance, every silent message exchanged between the Guardians. They’re planning something.

No. They’ve already planned it.

I settle into the rhythm of the shop, but there’s no escaping the anticipation coiling low in my belly.

It’s comical, really—me, Ally Collins, daughter of a tech billionaire, child prodigy in quantum field theory and controlled nuclear fusion—now steaming oat milk and dodging sexual warfare at a secret paramilitary coffee shop.

And somehow? I’ve never felt more alive.

I glance up just in time to catch Hank’s smirk.

Heat floods my chest. My core.

They’re coming for me tonight.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Tonight won’t be about tenderness.

It’ll be about surrender.

And I already know I’ll beg for every second of it.

But then—an alert chimes.

A sharp, synchronized vibration from every phone at the table. Phones are checked. Expressions shift. All amusement vanishes like smoke.

Gabe’s buzzes on the counter beside his half-finished espresso. Hank’s is in his hand before the second buzz hits.

The shift is instant. Ethan’s already on his feet. Blake’s coffee sits untouched as he rises. Walt curses softly. Jeb is already rolling his bad leg like he knows what’s coming. Rigel exhales sharply, gaze darting toward Mia. Carter’s smile drops, and even Max sits straighter at the sudden shift in energy.

Hank’s already moving. He kisses my cheek.

“Mission?” I whisper, throat tightening.

“Duty calls.” He cups my jaw. The kiss is hard.

“We’ll find you when it’s done.” Gabe follows, his fingers brushing my wrist—soft, lingering.

Then he’s gone.

The rest of the team follows, a parade of silent goodbyes—calloused hands on cheeks, quick kisses, lingering glances that say everything their lips don’t have time to. Blake presses his forehead to Sophia’s for a heartbeat. Walt murmurs something against Malia’s temple. Ethan gives Rebel a single look that steals her breath.

And then they’re out the door.

Gone.

The silence they leave in their wake is deafening. The café feels colder. Too quiet. The scent of espresso still hangs in the air, but all the heat is gone.

I exhale slowly, every nerve that had been primed for pleasure now fraying under the weight of absence.

Tonight won’t be about surrender after all.