Page 19

Blackout Brew hadn’t changed, but it felt different this time since she and Nash had strolled here and talked about it all, including their future. The café was still nestled between the law office and the poetry-only bookstore, still strung with fairy lights that blinked soft gold over the patio. The scent of espresso and vanilla still curled out of the open doorway like an invitation only the right people would recognize. The sign was still in the window. Coffee. Classified.

But Grace noticed things she hadn’t before.

The scuff marks on the wood floors. The faint hum of an old jazz record playing on low behind the counter. The mugs, still mismatched, still chipped in places, but now they felt like they belonged there. Like Nash did.

She glanced at him as they stepped inside.

He was quiet. Not distant, exactly, but… focused. Like there was a current running under his calm, something pulling tight. Charged. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t nothing.

They claimed the same corner booth from last time. Nash pulled out her chair again, of course he did, and sat close enough that their legs brushed under the table.

Grace curled her fingers around her mug when the server brought their drinks. Steam rose into the space between them, softening the edges.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

Nash gave her a slow smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just…thinking about Kento, the guys.”

She squeezed his hand, and that smile got a little brighter. They ordered coffee and when the steaming mugs arrived, suddenly there were loud voices and movement.

Nash looked up and snorted. “There they are. Give me a minute before they rush in like an assault team,” he said as he headed toward them. Four men taking up space, walking like they were clearing rooms instead of out for an afternoon lunch. Lord have mercy.

She wrapped her fingers around her ceramic mug, the steam curling up to kiss her cheeks as she watched him cross to the door. His gait was relaxed now. Loose. That haunting tension he used to carry like an extra layer of gear, gone.

Not forgotten.Just… no longer the heaviest thing in the room. He reached the door at the same time the rest of them did. Four men. Four shadows from the past, now flesh and breath and laughter. They crowded the entrance like they’d been fighting for space since the day they met.

Trigger. Vice. Hitch. Hook. Her heartbeat did something unexpected. It stuttered. They weren’t just Nash’s brothers anymore. They were hers , too.

Nash opened the café door and motioned them in with mock ceremony. “The heroes have arrived.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hook said, ducking inside first with a grin and wind-tossed curls. “I’ve always been the lovable comic relief.”

Grace stood as they approached, her smile small but real.

Vice reached her first, all charm and smelling expensive and the kind of smirk that had to be illegal in several countries. “If this is what debriefs look like now, I’m filing a request for all future operations to end with lattes and beautiful women.”

Trigger rolled his eyes as he slid into a seat. “Jesus, Vice. Let her drink her coffee in peace.”

Grace blinked. “I’m a cyber whiz. I’ll program peace if I need it.”

Hitch cracked a smile, barely. “Hoo-boy. I like you already.”

Nash pulled out the chair beside her. Sat close. Close enough that his thigh brushed hers beneath the table. It wasn’t possessive. It was grounding.

She needed that today.

Hook dropped into a chair, nearly upsetting the sugar bowl, and leaned in with wide eyes. “Okay, but seriously, was it really gone? GRAVITY, I mean? Like gone-gone?”

Grace hesitated.

Nash answered for her. “Destroyed.”

Trigger said nothing, just stared into his mug like it held the afterimage of a lost war.

Vice, uncharacteristically solemn, nodded once. “It gave him back to us.” He looked at Grace, all pretense stripped away. “You gave him back to us.”

The words landed like something sacred.

Nash reached over and threaded his fingers with hers beneath the table. “I didn’t know I needed saving,” he murmured.

She looked up at him. “That’s how it works. We never know until we’re already in too deep.”

Hook sniffed. “If anyone starts crying, I’m stealing their muffin.”

“Touch my muffin, and I’ll wire your toothbrush to a detonator,” Hitch said without inflection.

“Wait, we didn’t get any muffins,” Vice said, leaning back. “No muffins? That’s a tactical mistake.”

Hitch raised an eyebrow. “Tactical muffins...that’s almost kinky.”

Trigger didn’t look up from his coffee. “I’m not responding to that.”

Vice turned slowly toward Hook, his expression pure mischief. “You’re thinking about baking one, aren’t you? Sick bastard.”

Complete silence.

Then Grace, deadpan into the void. “Sick or not, that sounds amazing.”

Vice pointed at her like she’d just passed some elite operator litmus test. “First, it’s the red hair. Then it’s that steel trap of a mind. Then she gets our humor?” He looked at Nash. “Hey, brother, you wanna come to the range with me?”

Trigger didn’t even blink. “Don’t take him up on that. He’s got a bullet with your name on it.”

“God, I missed you freaks,” Nash muttered, shaking his head.

“No one threatens my man and gets away with it. You like that security clearance you have there, Vice? A few keystrokes will be all it takes.”

He almost spit out his coffee. “Oh, it’s on,” Vice said. “Sir, we’ve got a Code Grace. Deploy the tactical muffins. Copy that. Cinnamon swirl and direct eye contact.”

It degraded from there. Grace glanced around the table. The banter. The ease. The scars that still lived in their silences but now had space to breathe.

She saw them then.

Really saw them.

Taylor “Trigger” Stone still looked like he could neutralize a threat with a raised eyebrow. His blue eyes missed nothing, and his shirt hugged his arms in ways no respectable man needed at a brunch table.

Anton “Vice” DeLeon was the devil in a linen button-down, golden skin, ink on his fingers, and a voice like slow jazz under moonlight. He winked at the server before she even took their order.

Devon “Hitch” Klein was granite and fog, broad-shouldered and silent, the kind of man who didn’t need volume to be heard. His presence anchored the group like a deep ocean current, constant, unseen, impossible to fight.

Jace “Hook” Milner was already halfway through a second pastry, sugar dusting his hoodie like stardust. His curls were a mess. His eyes gleamed with mischief and memory and too much caffeine.

They weren’t just operators.

They were survivors.

She blinked fast and sipped her coffee to hide it.

Vice caught the shift anyway. “Don’t cry, carino . It’ll ruin my reputation.”

“It’s allergies,” she lied.

“To what?”

She smiled. “Sentiment. Testosterone. Excessive tactical flirtation.”

Hook leaned over the table, eyes wide. “So, like… all of us.”

Nash laughed under his breath, his arm now resting along the back of her chair, warm and steady.

“You’re good for him,” Trigger said suddenly. Not loud. Not warm. Just… truth.

Grace met his eyes.

“So are you all.”

Four special operators cleared their throats, big men shifting in their chairs.

They were halfway through muffins and second coffees when Hook wiped cinnamon sugar off his hoodie and leaned back like he was about to deliver a TED Talk.

“Okay,” he said. “Tell her the one about the chicken coop.”

Grace blinked. “Chicken...coop?”

Across the table, Vice groaned. “You’re never letting that die, are you?”

Trigger didn’t look up from his coffee. “It’s part of your legacy, man. Own it.”

Vice turned to Grace, all solemn intensity. “We’re in Syria. Pre-dawn op. Silent approach. Tier One-level precision. I breach the far compound door like a professional.”

She nodded, trying not to smile.

“Clear left. Clear right. I roll into the courtyard like something out of a movie. I go down. Hard. ”

Grace raised a brow. “Enemy fire?”

“Chicken coop,” Hook said helpfully.

“Full tactical tumble,” Vice said. “Into a wooden crate of demon poultry. Gun up, feathers everywhere, trying to radio through a goddamn squawk-pocalypse. ”

Hook choked on his coffee. “He got pecked.”

“I got pecked,” Vice confirmed, deadpan.

Trigger added, “You screamed.”

“I shouted strategically. ”

Grace was breathless, holding back laughter with her hand. “You were tactically compromised by poultry ?”

“I lost a full mag. The rooster never gave it back.”

Hook, completely straight-faced. “Cluck and cover.”

Grace lost it. Full-body laugh. She doubled over in her chair, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

She barely noticed Nash watching her, until he reached over and touched her knee under the table. Steady. Present.

God, it felt so good to laugh like this. To belong.

She wiped her eyes. “Okay. Nash. You have to have one.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave her a look that said careful, firecracker, before leaning in.

“All right,” he said. “So we’re running a training op. Burner’s on overwatch. Everything’s smooth. Someone…” He looked at Hook. “… accidentally brought a Bluetooth speaker in their kit.”

Grace covered her mouth. “No.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Somewhere between flashbang and flash-clear, the speaker pairs and starts blasting…” He paused, just long enough. “…‘Call Me Maybe.’ Full volume.”

She wheezed.

“Echoed off the walls like it was part of the mission briefing.”

“Great distraction tactic,” Hook added. “They never saw us coming.”

“Burner didn’t talk to us for a week,” Hitch said without looking up.

Grace’s stomach hurt from laughing. “Please tell me there’s footage.”

“There is,” Nash said. “It’s classified.”

Vice winked. “We might be willing to trade for muffin rights.”

As the server dropped off their drinks, Grace blinked at the four wildly different mugs.

She looked at Vice. “What coffee did you get this time?”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“I could tell you, mi reina ...but then I’d have to kill you.”

Nash muttered, “ Ya Allah .”

Hook leaned in and stage-whispered, “It’s got cinnamon, cayenne, and oat milk foam shaped like a skull.”

Vice took a sip, smug. “Operationally spicy.”

Trigger sighed into his black coffee. “I hate all of you.”

Hitch, voice low. “So… are we doing it?”

She frowned. “Doing what?”

Hook’s eyes gleamed. “ Sailing. ”

Nash groaned. “You said we were waiting until next weekend.” He looked at her, offering her an out.

“Schedules change,” Trigger said. “Weather’s perfect.”

Vice reached for his coffee. “Besides, if Grace can’t handle sailing with us, how’s she going to survive the cookouts?”

Grace tilted her head. “Sailing. As in… water?” The memory of that plunge off the bridge came back to her, but for some reason, when she looked at Nash, all she could see was a man who had saved her. She wouldn’t be alone on that boat. She would be with five men who knew water like it birthed them. No fear. No panic. No damn problem.

Hook’s grin widened. “Don’t tell me. You can crack government encryption, but you can’t swim?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I float. Sometimes. In bathtubs.” Their laughter made her smile. Nash’s anxiety turned to a proud grin.

Trigger blinked. “Jesus.”

They met at the marina twenty minutes later, the air brisk and sharp enough to make her grateful for her fleece-lined jacket. The sky stretched pale and bright overhead, the kind of blue that promised clarity, and absolutely no forgiveness if you screwed something up on the water.

Nash helped her out of the SUV, brushed her hair back from her face with one gloved hand, and murmured, “You ready for this?”

Grace raised a brow. “Five SEALs. One sailboat. This is either going to be a tactical bonding exercise or the start of a Hallmark hostage movie.”

Nash grinned. “Stay low. Don’t volunteer. If Vice tries to assign you a station, run.”

The boat itself was sleek and long, too shiny to be for work, too lean to be for luxury. Vice’s boat, apparently, which he’d named No Comment . Grace didn’t ask.

The docks creaked under her boots as she stepped onto the weathered boards, the wind cutting sharp and cool off the water. It smelled like sea salt, pine sap, and poor decisions wrapped in yacht-club swagger.

Hook stood on the dock already, wearing wraparound sunglasses and a sweatshirt that read Wind Whisperer in faded letters. He tossed her a life vest with a grin that said chaos was imminent.

“Ever sail before?”

“I float in bathtubs, remember,” Grace said dryly. “But I do so without a life preserver.”

“You’ll fit right in,” Hook said cheerfully, like drowning was a team sport.

Trigger was already on deck, inspecting the rigging with the focused intensity of a man who’d clearly been betrayed by rope before. His brow was furrowed. The lines were tight. He still looked personally offended.

Hitch didn’t say a word. Just handed her a pair of gloves like he was issuing a death sentence and pointed at a coiled rope near the stern, one she was definitely going to mess up.

Then came Vice.

Boat shoes. Aviators. Smugness in human form.

His hair , dark, thick, and loose. It curled just enough to make him look unreasonably dangerous, like a pirate who’d sold his soul to Armani. The wind kept lifting strands across his cheekbones, and somehow it made him look more lethal , not less.

She was 98% sure he’d sunk a boat before. On purpose.

“Grace,” he said, all relaxed posture and weaponized charm. “You’re on winch duty. Just wait for the call.”

She blinked. “The call?”

“You’ll know,” Hook chimed in, hopping onto the boat like he was immune to gravity. “We’ll all start yelling at once.”

Nash leaned in beside her, his smile crooked and warm. “Just remember, you’re the only civilian. Which makes you the smartest person on this boat.”

He looked way too happy to be here. Like this was a second kind of combat. One he enjoyed .

“God help us,” Trigger muttered from across the deck. “At least no one’s been drinking this time.”

“But caffeine…” Hook said, glancing toward Vice with real concern. “His hair is loose. We’re all going to die.”

Grace turned to Nash, deadpan. “Is he serious?”

Nash tried, really tried , to keep a straight face. “Um, don’t worry, babe. If we capsize, the hypothermia will get us before we drown.”

Trigger grunted. “I’m going to kick your ass for scaring her, Nash. But...he’s not wrong.”

“You can try, big man,” Nash said, stretching like he had all day. “If a blast didn’t kill me, you’d be wasting your time.”

Grace exhaled slowly, pulled on the gloves Hitch gave her, and muttered, “I might just kick his ass.”

That did it.

All five operators broke into peals of laughter, echoing off the hull like a frat party on a covert op.

“I’m telling you, man,” Vice said, adjusting his sunglasses like the sun was for mortals. “Put a ring on that. Any woman not locked down is up for grabs.”

Grace gave him a look. “You capsize this boat, Vice, and I’m going to drown you.” He grinned like the devil he was. Vice wore the smug confidence of a man who'd absolutely sunk something before.

Her heart fluttered, adrenaline deploying. She stepped aboard, boots hitting fiberglass with confidence she didn’t entirely feel. “I won’t be waiting for hypothermia.”

Vice let out a low whistle. “God, I love her.”

“Don’t,” Trigger growled. “She’s Nash’s.”

Vice just smirked. “I said love. Not steal. I’m reckless, not stupid.”

They cast off like it was a breach op. Grace held on tight, hair whipping, heart racing as the sail snapped into place and the boat caught the wind like it knew where it was going.

It wasn’t graceful. It was violent.

She loved it instantly.

Especially when the boat tilted hard, and Grace threw her weight into the winch, winding the line with everything she had.

“I said trim, not haul!” Vice yelled from the wheel.

“Do I look like I speak sail?” she shouted back.

Hook was laughing so hard he dropped his sunglasses. Hitch caught them midair without looking.

Nash moved in behind her, wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her. “You’re doing great,” he said, kissing the shell of her ear as she braced her feet.

“I might be terrible at this.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Keeps your ego in check.”

The sail caught hard.

The boat heeled sharply, tipping at an angle that stole her breath and sent adrenaline screaming through her veins. Water sprayed up the side as the hull sliced through the sea like a knife through silk.

Wind roared past her ears, slapping her hair back from her face, tangling it into the collar of her jacket. She was soaked, shaking, and absolutely enthralled .

She braced herself on the rail, heart pounding. The water rushed past just inches below her. It shimmered with sun and speed, alive.

She stretched out one hand.

Trailed her fingers through the ocean.

It was cold and wild and infinite.

Other than racing her horse bareback across fields in her teens, this, this , was the most freeing thing she'd ever felt. She laughed, loud and unrestrained, the sound whipped away by the wind.

Nash anchored her against his chest. His chin rested on her shoulder. Warm. Steady.

She let herself lean into him, fingers still slicing through the rushing blue below.

Behind them, Vice shouted something obscene into the wind about trimming faster and how he liked his danger served medium rare. Hook was howling. Trigger grunted commands. Hitch adjusted sail tension with military precision.

It hit her then. All that bravado on the dock?It had been camouflage . These men weren’t just operators.They were master sailors . They moved like the boat was part of them, like the wind took orders and the water respected them. The cohesion. The trust. The bond. It wrapped around her like rope and pulled tight.

Grace’s heart clenched, but not for herself. For them. For Nash, the man who loved this, lived this, lost so much in this. Ben. Burner. Superman.

Without warning, she shouted into the wind. “This is for the ones we lost!” The wind took her voice and carried it . Tears blurred her vision, gone the moment they slid down her cheeks, blown away, salt into salt. She shouted again, louder this time, the words breaking free from someplace deep, “Benjamin Riggs. Luis Marroquin. Kento Kobayoshi.”

Nash’s arms tightened around her, locking her to him like the only thing anchoring him to the earth. Grace lifted her head to the wind again. Then, her losses. “For everyone I couldn’t save. For the voices we still carry. I release them now.” She closed her eyes. Her voice trembled, but her heart was steady. “May they find eternal peace in the gentle waves and endless horizons. Their spirits shall forever dance with the tides, whispering through the winds, and shining in the depths of the sea.” Her voice cracked, soft now. “In this vast expanse, they are free, cherished, and remembered always.” Then, louder, “Fair winds and following seas!”

The boat cut hard across the water like it heard her . Nash buried his face against her neck. She could feel his grief. His pain. His love. When she turned, his eyes met hers. Raw. Shining. Around them, the others stood quiet. Trigger dipped his head. Hitch raised a fist in silent tribute. Hook wiped at his eye like it was sea spray. Vice leaned against the mast and said, rough, “SEAL babe.” Then louder, for everyone to hear, “Honorary fucking SEAL babe.”

In that moment, Grace wasn’t just home. She belonged.

They sailed hard for an hour, tacking, trimming, yelling, nearly losing Vice to a rogue boom.

Hook growled, “Man overboard protocol is not optional .” At one point, Grace genuinely thought Trigger smiled.

As they docked, muscles aching, Grace leaned against the railing and looked out at the water with softness and peace in her heart. Nash stepped beside her, slid his fingers through hers. “Well?” he asked.

She smiled, hair wind-wild and cheeks pink. “I see why you love it.”

“It’s like combat,” he said, going for levity. After her emotional tribute it was welcome. “Only with better snacks.”

“You were right, though.”

“About what?”

“Five SEALs on a sailboat.” She squeezed his hand. “Definitely not boring.”

“Oh, wait. When it gets warm. You’re learning to swim.”

“Yeah,” Vice said as he passed. “SEAL style. It’s called drown-proofing.”

Without missing a beat, Trigger pushed Vice off the dock into the water. The man came up sputtering and swearing like a sailor, treading water enough to give Trigger a double bird. Everyone doubled over. But dammit if that man didn’t look twice as sexy with wet hair. Then every one of them dove off the dock into very cold water. Grace just shook her head. “Maybe we should find some hot chocolate and your blankies so you toddlers can get warm and rested during your needed naptime. I swear.”

“A SEAL babe would join us,” Vice said.

“Nice try,” she said. “When you're done splashing, I’ll be in the car.”

Fifteen minutes…fifteen before they came traipsing to the car. Before she could draw breath, they were all stripping down. She averted her eyes, but not before she saw wet flexing, sculpted backs, thickened biceps, and some of the finest asses ever molded by Uncle Sam, but Nash…all she could see was him. Of course, they were prepared for a dunking. Grace stepped out. She hugged each of them. “You have a safe trip back to base.”

“Cookout initiation,” Vice said, his drying hair looking like black silk. Then he bent down and kissed her cheek. The rest of them did the same. “Later, Prophet.” Vice said. “Put a fucking ring on it.”

Then they were gone.

* * *