AJ

💥 Genres I write:

Paranormal/Supernatural Action Romance

Call of Duty Military Romance Fanfic (yes, there’s smut. no, I’m not sorry.)

🐺 Expect:

Alpha protectors & soft submissive love interests

Age gaps, dominance, soul bonds, soft post-battle intimacy

Angst, tension, and thirst traps disguised as plot

📌 Find me on Wattpad: AJQWrites

📌 Find me on Instagram: ajqwrites

📌 Find me on TikTok: ajqwrites

📌 Find me on A03: ajqwrites

📌 Find me on Pinterest: ajqwrites

📌 Start Here ⬇️

📝 Synopsis & 📸 Character Bios — Main Post

MINORS DO NOT READ THIS PLEASE! This fic contains explicit content, mature themes, trauma, dominant & submissive dynamics, and violence.

📚 Chapters ⬇️

(Links will be updated as posted — reblog, like, or scream in the comment as you go!)

Chapter 108: Rules of Engagement

Chapter 109: Blood and Dust

Chapter 110: Everything Changes

You've reached the end of this master list. Come back again on Sunday or Monday for an update. FYI - There's another Masterlist for you to keep on reading -> Part 4

✨ Extras ⬇️

🎶 Spotify — Under Oath

📌 Pinterest — Main Base for Aesthetics

📁 AO3 Version — Under Oath

📱 Wattpad Version — Under Oath

-----

"I didn't say he wasn't worthy," John growled, swerving to avoid a pothole.

"He's our brother!"

"Half-brother," John corrected automatically.

"Oh, for fuck's sake! That's your problem right there." Lucas turned in his seat to face his stubborn brother. "Is it because he actually has a normal life with weekends off and doesn't get shot at for a living? I get that you two don't get along sometimes."

From the backseat, Nikolai cleared his throat. 

"Perhaps I am missing something," he said with amusement, "but where I come from, family disagreements are best settled with vodka and arm wrestling, not while driving through hostile territory."

John caught Nikolai's amused expression in the rearview mirror. The Russian looked exactly like what he was—a pilot built by war and winter. He'd shrugged out of the bulkier outer shell he'd worn on arrival, but still sat broad and solid in a faded olive shearling-lined flight jacket layered over a charcoal wool sweater, aviators now hanging from the collar. He looked almost too big for the cramped backseat, one arm hooked lazily over his duffel as if he had all the time in the world.

"This one," Nikolai continued, pointing at Lucas, "complains you do not speak of doctor brother to your team. But maybe doctor brother prefers it this way, no? Not everyone wants connection to men like us." He chuckled softly. "My own mother tells neighbors I am accountant. Much simpler than explaining blood on my clothes."

Lucas snorted back in return. "You? An accountant?"

"Yes," Nikolai nodded solemnly. "I count bodies."

That pulled a short laugh out of John despite himself. "Right," he said, eyes still on the road. "I'll make sure to give Robby his full credit. Chief of Emergency Medicine. Beloved by every football mum in the Home Counties."

"Soccer or football?" Lucas asked, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Whereever he planted himself," John said, already annoyed.

"Pennsylvania, John." Lucas deadpanned before settling back in his seat and looking out the front windshield. "Look, Charlie would like him. We both know these two are both do-gooders."

"She already met him," John replied. "He helped her before I stepped foot here."

"Like what?" Lucas asked, still not looking at him.

His expression softened at the mention of Charlie. They were only twenty minutes from the Haven now, and he could feel the familiar anticipation building under his ribs. After work weeks apart, he'd finally see her again. Hold her. Breathe her in.

"Checkups," John said, voice lower now. "Making sure my girl and my precious cargo are doing well."

Lucas blinked and glanced at him. "What?"

"She's pregnant," John answered simply.

His jaw dropped. "You're fucking kidding me."

"Language," John said with a hint of a smile. "That's your future niece or nephew you're cursing around."

"Holy shit," Lucas breathed, staring at his brother. "You're going to be a father again? When the hell were you planning to tell me?"

Nikolai leaned forward from the backseat, clasping John's shoulder firmly. "Congratulations, my friend! This calls for celebration. I have special Russian vodka saved for occasions like this."

"Not for Charlie," John clarified quickly.

"Of course not," Nikolai laughed. "For the proud Da!"

The jeep bounced over a rough patch of road, and John instinctively slowed down as if Charlie were already in the passenger seat with him. Protective instincts.

"How far along is she?" Lucas asked, still processing the news.

"Still in first trimester," John replied, unable to keep the pride from his voice. "Too early to tell about the gender yet."

Lucas shook his head and looked out the windshield again. "Damn, John. A second baby. Does Cam know?"

"No, not yet." John answered briskly.

The Haven came into view in the distance, tucked low against the rugged terrain, its walls sun-bleached and solid against the winter-bright afternoon. Even in December, Urzikstan's cold wasn't the kind that arrived with heavy snow here. It came as dry wind, pale skies, and a chill sharp enough to settle into the joints once the sun started dropping. 

"Been thinking about getting out," John admitted after a moment. "Charlie's already made it clear she's terrified of losing me. She lost her dad young."

"You?" Lucas snorted, turning back toward him. "What would you even do?"

"I don't know." John shrugged. "Maybe open a woodshop. Run a business. Become an instructor for shooting class. I don't know yet."

Nikolai nodded sagely from the backseat. "The moment my sister had children, my brother-in-law left Spetsnaz. Said no mission was worth missing first steps, first words."

The jeep rolled to a stop at the Haven's security checkpoint. John cut the engine and turned to Lucas.

"I'd appreciate if you kept this quiet for now. Haven't told anyone besides Robby and her family."

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Her family?"

John sighed, biting the inside of his cheek before glancing away. "Yeah," he said solemnly. "Her family are not... thrilled about the baby news, including us"

Lucas let out a low whistle. "You've been busy, brother." He shook his head. "But why aren't they thrilled? What's not to like about the great Captain Price?"

"They're traditional," John replied, unbuckling his seatbelt. "And I'm..." he gestured vaguely at himself, "...this."

"A British warrior with questionable employment history and blood on his hands," Nikolai supplied helpfully from the back. "Not every family's dream son-in-law."

John shot him a look. "Thanks for that."

"Just stating," Nikolai shrugged, gathering his gear. "But babies have way of changing minds. Trust me."

"Charlie's father was military," John continued as they drove toward the main compound. "Died when she was young. Her mother remarried a congresswoman—"

"Did you say a congresswoman?" Lucas asked, now curious.

"Yes," John said. "And her mother is also the CIA Station Chief and has already labeled me a danger zone. You haven't met Kate Laswell. She's the one in charge of keeping my Task Force afloat."

"Holy shit," Lucas laughed. "Of all the women in the world, you had to knock up a spook's daughter."

"She's not just a spook's daughter," John growled defensively. "And it was unplanned. We didn't cross paths like some bloody fate-written novel. Soap introduced us before we realized how connected everything was."

"Even better," Lucas said, still smirking.

"Yeah, laugh it up," John muttered. "Try having your future mother-in-law run background checks on you every other week."

Nikolai leaned forward between the seats. "In Russia, we have saying: 'Wolf afraid of hunter's daughter still goes hungry.'"

John and Lucas both turned to stare at him.

"What?" Nikolai said defensively. "Is good saying. Means fear of family should not stop love."

"Or it means I'm fucked," John sighed and continued. "Anyways, Charlie was raised by her cousins and they wanted her to marry some corporate lawyer type, not..."

"A man who kills people for living," Lucas finished.

"A man who might not come home one day," John corrected, his voice dropping.

The jeep pulled into its designated spot, and John killed the engine. For a moment, none of them moved.

"She loves you," Lucas said simply. "That's what matters."

John nodded, a hint of vulnerability crossing his normally stoic features. "And I want her enough to consider walking away from the only life I've known."

Nikolai clapped both brothers on the shoulders. "Speaking of your woman, did you bring gift? Never visit fiancée empty-handed. Bad luck."

John scoffed. "Where do you come up with shite?"

Nikolai gave John a knowing look, one eyebrow raised in disapproval.

"What?" John asked, catching the Russian's expression.

"In my country, no gift for woman means no warm welcome," Nikolai said, hinted with disappointment. "You will sleep on cold floor tonight, my friend."

John's lips curved into a slow, confident smirk. "Already taken care of, mate. Let's just say Charlie's already received her homecoming present." He winked. "The kind that leaves both parties breathless and happy."

Lucas groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fucking hell, John. There are things a brother doesn't need to hear."

"Just being efficient." His smirk widened. "Two birds, one stone—reunion and gift all wrapped up in one package."

"Every damn time," Lucas muttered, shaking his head. "You've been this way since you hit your puberty."

Nikolai burst into laughter. "This I understand! Best gift is one that cannot be wrapped, yes?" He slapped John on the back. "Your Charlie, she is lucky woman."

"Yeah," John said, his voice suddenly sincere as he gathered his gear.

"Come, friends," Nikolai said as he reached the backseat door to step out. "Enough serious talk. Beautiful bride awaits."

As they climbed out of the jeep, John spotted her immediately. Even at this distance, he knew her silhouette before his mind had time to catch up.

Charlie stood about fifty yards away, bundled up against the desert winter in the softest thing she could've possibly chosen.

She wore an oversized cream cable-knit sweater that hung almost to mid-thigh, the sleeves swallowing her hands until she pushed them back. Beneath it, she had on light blue pajama bottoms patterned with sleepy cartoon koalas, the flannel fabric tucked messily into a pair of thick fur-lined snow boots that looked absurdly cozy against the dusty ground. The boots still made John want to laugh—he'd teased her mercilessly for packing snow gear to a desert country until he'd seen how quickly she started shivering once the temperature dipped below sixty. Her sunny blonde hair was twisted into a messy bun on top of her head, loose wisps catching the winter light around her makeup-free face. She looked warm, domestic, and heartbreakingly soft against the rough edges of everything around her.

And pregnant.

Not enough for strangers to notice.

But enough for him to feel it in his chest every time he looked at her.

She hadn't noticed them yet.

Her attention was fixed on a gray-and-white husky with striking blue eyes and a visibly swollen belly. Charlie was kneeling in the dirt, one hand extended patiently as the dog approached her with wary caution.

"That's it, sweet girl," John heard her say as they drew closer. "You're safe here."

The female husky finally pressed her nose into Charlie's palm, allowing her to gently stroke the thick fur behind her ears. She laughed softly as the dog leaned into the affection.

"Looks like you made a friend," John called out.

Her head snapped up and her whole face transformed into joy when she spotted him. But the husky immediately tensed, backing away from the approaching men.

"It's okay," Charlie murmured to the dog, giving her one last reassuring pat. "They won't hurt you."

The pregnant husky gave Charlie a lingering look before trotting away, disappearing behind one of the nearby villas.

"She's been coming around for a few days," Charlie explained as she stood, brushing dust from her knees. "Poor thing's definitely expecting. I've been leaving food out since last month, trying to gain her trust."

John closed the distance between them in long strides, drinking in the sight of her.

"Taking in strays?" he asked quietly once he reached her.

"Can't help it," Charlie replied, her eyes never leaving his.

His lips curved. "Lucky for me." 

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Charlie melted against him instantly, fingers curling into the front of his jacket as she kissed him back with equal hunger. His hand slid to the back of her head, then down—protective and instinctive—until it rested over the still-flat curve of her stomach.

"Missed you," she whispered against his mouth.

"Missed you more," he murmured.

Lucas cleared his throat loudly behind them. "So, are you going to introduce us, or should we give you two the room?"

She laughed and stepped back, though she kept one hand firmly entwined with his hand.

"I'm Charlie," she said, extending her free hand to Lucas with a warm smile. "You must be Lucas. John told me about you."

"All lies, I'm sure," Lucas replied, taking her hand. His eyes crinkled as he smiled, the family resemblance between the brothers suddenly striking. "Except the parts where I saved his arse. Those are definitely true."

"Language," John muttered reflexively.

Lucas rolled his eyes. "Sorry, I forgot there's a tiny Price on board." He looked at Charlie more seriously. "Congratulations, by the way. John just told us about you expecting a baby soon."

Her eyes widened as she turned to John. "You told them just now?"

"Just slipped out," John admitted. "Was bound to happen eventually."

Nikolai stepped forward, bowing slightly with theatrical formality.

"Nikolai Reznikov, at your service." He took Charlie's hand and kissed it gallantly. "I am honored to meet the woman brave enough to tame this British bear."

Charlie laughed, the sound light and musical. "I wouldn't say 'tamed' exactly."

"No?" Nikolai arched a brow. "Yet he speaks of leaving battlefield for wood shop and baby cribs. This is taming where I come from."

John shot Nikolai a warning look, but Charlie's expression had already transformed, her eyes filling with surprised hope.

"You told them that too?" she asked quietly.

Before John could respond, a sharp bark interrupted them. 

The pregnant husky had returned, hovering at the edge of the compound, her blue eyes fixed warily on the group.

"She's back," Charlie whispered, her attention immediately diverted. "Poor thing's probably starving. I'll grab her some food." She squeezed John's hand and looked at him. "Why don't you get them settled in? I'll just be a minute." As she headed toward the villa and into the kitchen, Lucas watched her go with obvious approval.

"She seems perfect for you," Lucas said. "Too good, actually."

"Don't I know it," John agreed, his eyes following Charlie until she disappeared inside.

"She reminds me of our mother," Lucas added softly. "Same kind eyes."

His expression flickered between pain and gratitude immediately when he mentioned about their mother. 

"Yeah," he said roughly.

***

As they entered the villa, the whole atmosphere shifted.

Outside was wind, dust, dry winter air.

Inside was warm.

The villa wasn't fancy, but it felt lived in—safe in the way temporary places sometimes did when the right person filled them. A woven blanket was draped over the back of the couch, a half-finished mug of tea sat on the coffee table, and one of Charlie's soft cardigans had been left over the armchair like she'd only just stepped away from it. The place smelled faintly of laundry smell air freshener, soap, and something homey trying very hard to exist in a war zone.

Lucas and Nikolai settled onto the worn leather couch while John dragged a wooden chair from the dining table, spun it around, and straddled it backward. He folded his arms over the backrest and studied them both. But the moment the villa's door clicked shut after Charlie stepped out, the softness evaporated.

"I spoke to Demid," Lucas began, pulling a folded flash-drive sleeve from inside his jacket and tossing it on the coffee table. The plastic made a soft tap against the wood. "He's been tracking Zakharov logistics for months."

Nikolai let out a low whistle and leaned forward, forearms on his knees.

"Demid still breathing surprises me," John said flatly.

"He's doing more than breathing." Lucas sat, elbows on his knees. "He's untangled the cover companies Zakharov built—medical-waste haulers, NGO supply charities, all squeaky clean on paper. Real cargo is precursors for that Nightshade you have told me about after your friend, Alex, have burned."

His fingers drummed once on the chair back. "Where?"

"Terminal Seven, Berth Four, Port of Los Santos," Lucas recited. "Next month, 0300 local. After that, containers rail to a defunct CDC depot outside Chicago. Same shell outfit owns a freight spur up there."

Nikolai's brow furrowed. "That is deep stateside."

"Demid handed me port credentials, shift rosters—everything." Lucas tapped the flash-drive sleeve. "Your name's circled on Zakharov's kill list, by the way. Mine too. He might target to our close ones as well."

The temperature in John's stare dropped a degree when he looked at both. "Is he?"

"Maybe, not until we find out sooner." Lucas allowed a humorless smile. "I told Demid I'd handle it before Zakharov tries something stupid."

John exhaled through his nose, weighing familial fury against mission calculus. "You want my Task Force backing?"

"Not the whole Task Force," Lucas said. "Just you and maybe Gaz. Quiet in-and-out, sabotage the shipment, bag Mikhail—the Spetsnaz runner—if we can and go after Raskov."

John leaned back, lash of beard rubbing his collar. "Raskov is dead."

"What?" Lucas frowned.

"How?" Nikolai asked.

"Chambers," John answered. "The CIA agent was well aware of the commotion. That includes Laswell." 

Outside, Charlie's laughter drifted, soft and distant, as she coaxed the stray husky closer. The sound threaded straight through the hardened scar tissue around his heart.

"I can't vanish to San Andreas without cover." John said.

Lucas sighed, trying to think it over since he took a mental note to let Demid know of this update. "Okay, I'll take point," he countered. "You ride shotgun and be a sniper, in and out. I want Gaz on this."

Nikolai cracked a grin. "And I fly the ugly-boy plane. Old times?"

His jaw worked. Responsibility warred with the primal need to protect blood...and the woman in the next room carrying it.

"I'll brief my team after John gets hitched," Lucas decided, scooping up the sleeve. "After that, we plan a run to Los Santos next month."

"Don't forget the CIA pair of two," John added. "I got these two on my line since they'll only need-to-know before I leave. I'll have my Task Force and the ULF to keep an eye on everything here, especially my loves and Robby and his medical team."

Lucas nodded once, relief flickering behind green eyes. "Okay. Oh, and Demid also passed me this." 

He reached into his duffle bag and pulled out the small wooden box, cracking it open. Inside, a matte-black Sig Sauer gleamed under the villa's single overhead bulb. 

"Untraceable," Lucas said. "He says the balance is perfect for you."

His lips twitched. "Old bastard never did understand subtle."

"Subtle is overrated," Lucas shrugged, closing the lid. "We'll need punch when the hammer drops."

From the doorway, light footsteps approached; they fell silent as Charlie re-entered with a bowl of leftover lamb and rice for the husky. The dog padded cautiously behind her, belly swaying.

"Everything okay?" she asked, sensing the charged air.

John rose immediately and slipped the flash drive into a cargo pocket. Then, he crossed to her and pressed a kiss to her temple. "Just catching up, love."

Her eyes lingered on him before Lucas, then Nikolai, reading more than they said aloud. But she didn't push. She simply turned back to the dog. John watched her kneel, sweater pooling around her legs, and something inside him settled with brutal clarity.

Los Santos, after the wedding, then another hunt until it's over and he could embrace a new life.

His eyes met Lucas's over Charlie's bent head, the two gave each other a curt nod before Lucas looked at Charlie as she rose.

"So, tell us about Robby who's been checking up on you. What's the good doctor like in person?"

"Robby?" Her face lit up. "He's great! Nothing like your grumpy brother here." She bumped her hip against John's playfully. "He stops by every few weeks to check on me. Brings me prenatal vitamins that are impossible to get here and sneaks in chocolate when he thinks I won't notice."

"Sounds like him," Lucas chuckled. "Always the caretaker."

The husky, having finished her meal, looked up at them both, her blue eyes seeming to assess the situation. With surprising grace for her pregnant state, she moved closer and placed her head cautiously against Charlie's knee.

"I see you've got yourself a dog already," Lucas added.

Charlie smiled faintly, stroking the husky's head. "She needs a name."

"Shadow," John suggested, watching how the dog's gray and white coloring shifted in the dim light.

Charlie shook her head. "No more war names. She needs something unique or normal." She studied the dog for a moment. "How about Winter?"

As if approving her new name, the husky—Winter—sighed contentedly and closed her eyes, finally allowing herself to rest in the presence of these strange humans.

"Winter," John repeated, testing the name. "It suits her."

The husky's ears twitched at the sound of his deep voice, but she remained nestled against Charlie's leg, seemingly content with her newfound safety.

"Pregnant dogs shouldn't be wandering desert alone," Nikolai observed, his expression softening as he watched the animal. "Many predators out there."

"I'm not letting her back out," Charlie said firmly, her hand protectively covering her own stomach in an unconscious gesture that didn't escape John's notice. "She stays with us."

John exchanged a glance with Lucas, both men recognizing the determined set of Charlie. The Price men knew that look well—their mother had worn it whenever she made up her mind about something important.

"Well then," John said with a resigned sigh that didn't quite hide his amusement, "looks like we've got two expectant mothers under one roof."

Charlie beamed at him, the joy on her face making his chest ache.

"I should get lunch started," Charlie announced, gently pulling away from Winter. The dog whimpered softly but settled when Charlie placed a cushion next to her. "You must all be starving after that long travel."

"Please, allow me," Nikolai said, stepping forward with a dramatic hand to his chest. "I make excellent shashlik. It is tradition in my country for male guests to cook when visiting home of expecting mother."

"Is it really?" Charlie asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No," Lucas snorted. "But he's actually a decent cook, so I wouldn't turn him down."

"Fine by me," John said, wrapping an arm around Charlie's waist and pulling her close. "Gives me more time with this one."

Nikolai clapped his hands once. "Perfect! I saw market on drive in. Will need few supplies. Lucas, you come help carry."

Lucas groaned. "Why me?"

"Because you are younger than me, strong, and need fresh air after complaining whole drive," Nikolai replied cheerfully, already heading toward the door. "Besides, these two need privacy, da?" 

She blushed immediately and John rolled his eyes but didn't argue.

"Fine," Lucas grumbled, pushing himself up from the couch. "But if you make me carry live chickens again—"

"One time! That was one time," Nikolai protested as they headed out the door. "And was freshest chicken you ever taste."

Their bickering faded as the door closed behind them, leaving John and Charlie alone with the sleeping husky. The moment they were gone, he turned to Charlie, his expression shifting from casual amusement to intense focus. His hands framed her face with gentleness, thumbs brushing her cheekbones as he studied her features.

"Let me look at you," he murmured.

Charlie stood still under his scrutiny, her lips curving into a soft smile. "What do you see?"

"Everything," he replied simply. His hand slid down to rest on her abdomen. "How are you feeling?"

"Morning sickness isn't as bad since last month," she said, covering his large hand with her smaller one. "Robby says everything looks good. Strong heartbeat at the last checkup."

His throat tightened. "I should've been there."

"You're here now," Charlie reminded him gently.

Then, he lowered his head and captured her lips with his. 

The kiss started soft, almost reverent, before deepening into something more primal. Her arms wound around his neck as she pressed herself against him, her body molding to his as if they'd been designed as matching pieces. When they finally broke apart, John rested his forehead against hers. "I've thought about doing that every minute I've been away."

"Just that?" Charlie teased, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

His low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Well, it's been two weeks. I waited for you until your pelvic is healed."

In one fluid motion, he scooped her up, one arm behind her back and the other under her knees. Charlie let out a surprised laugh, clutching his shoulders.

"John! What about Winter?"

"She'll be fine," he replied, already carrying her toward their bedroom. "I've been patient long enough to have you."

"What about lunch?" she protested weakly, even as her fingers were already working at the zipper of his military jacket.

"They'll be at least an hour." His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper as he kicked the bedroom door shut behind them. "I intend to make every minute count."

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 111✨

Beneath it sat a dark merino knit henley layered under a lightweight tactical vest, the waterproof pouch with John's wedding scotch secured tight against his chest. His dark cargo pants were tailored more than standard issue had any right to be, tucked into well-worn black combat boots with enough dust and road miles on them to prove they weren't just for show. 

Fingerless leather gloves covered his hands, rings absent for once, though the silver chain at his throat still glinted faintly every time the helicopter jolted. Even out here, in the middle of nowhere, Lucas looked like a man who could either negotiate a backroom deal or put someone in the ground before bourbon.

"If you're smiling like that," Nikolai started, his voice crackled from the cockpit. "It means we're finally here, eh?" The Russian's booming voice carried easily over the rotor noise. "Only you would get excited about this shithole."

Lucas leaned forward, clicking his comm. "Home is where the bombs drop, Nik. You know that."

"And where the vodka flows, don't forget the most important part." Nikolai banked the helicopter sharply, sending Lucas lurching against his harness. 

"Not all of us drown our demons the same way," Lucas shouted back, keeping himself still against the fuselage.

"Your brother will be disappointed if we arrive sober," Nikolai countered, easing the helicopter into its final descent. "Imagine the Captain getting married! Never thought I'd see the day when someone could tie down that old man."

Lucas chuckled. "I still can't believe he asked us both to stand with him."

"Who else would he trust? We've pulled his ass out of enough firefights." The Russian replied. "Though I think his fiancée is the braver one. Taking on Captain Price for a lifetime mission? That requires training."

The helicopter touched down with a bone-jarring thud. Sand swirled around them like angry ghosts as the rotors began powering down.

"You bring the gift?" Nikolai called back.

Lucas patted the waterproof bag secured to his tactical vest. "That scotch cost me three months' hazard pay. My brother better appreciate it."

"He'll appreciate that you are here more than any bottle," Nikolai said, his usual gruffness giving way to sincerity. "It's been what, five years since Verdansk?"

"Six," Lucas corrected. The time since their last operation together had been measured in scars, both visible and hidden.

Nikolai chuckled through his headset. His weathered face cracked into a smile. 

He wore his faded olive flight jacket lined in shearling, the collar kicked up against the cold and stained in places with aviation fuel and age. Underneath sat a thick charcoal wool sweater, stretched slightly at the wrists and collar from years of use, layered over a thermal base that probably predated half the men on the FOB. His cargo trousers were tucked into heavy-duty flight boots, the leather scuffed and oil-marked, built more for survival than comfort. A weather-beaten pilot's harness still hung loose over one shoulder, and his usual aviators sat crooked on his nose despite the rotor wash and dust. Nikolai didn't dress like a polished contractor or some clean-cut agency pilot. He dressed like exactly what he was—a warhorse with too many ghosts to count.

"Well, a month of celebration should make up for lost time," Nikolai said. "Though I suspect Johnathan's idea of a bachelor party might involve tactical drills."

"Or clearing buildings," Lucas agreed, retrieving his duffel near him. "You remember Pripyat? You were there with him when you told me that story."

"How could I forget? My liver still hasn't recovered." Nikolai squinted through the settling dust. "Look—I see him!"

A familiar silhouette appeared through the haze, even at a distance. John stood waiting for them, arms crossed, and a smile visible beneath his beard.

When the helicopter touched down with a bone-jarring thud. Lucas unclipped his harness, gathering his rucksack and the carefully wrapped bottle of thirty-year-old Macallan scotch whiskey he'd bought before leaving Los Santos.

As Nikolai killed the engines, the rotors' whine gradually fading. The dust settled around them, Lucas could see his youngest brother, John approaching. For a man about to be married, he still moved like he was entering a hot zone. Lucas jumped out anyway—boots hitting packed gravel, wind from the rotors clawing at his jacket and biting through the exposed skin at his throat.

"Nik!" John called out, voice gruff as sandpaper. "Lucas! About bloody time. Thought you two got lost somewhere over the Black Sea."

Lucas slung the duffel down, shaking grit from his hair. The wind tugged at the collar of his black jacket, and for a second he looked less like a civilian businessman and more like what he'd once been—another Price brother built for trouble. "Nah." Then, gave him a one-arm hug before patting his back, smiling. "You look older."

"You look late," John answered, voice roughened by a dozen two-a.m. smokes.

They broke apart while Nikolai climbed out next. Aviators, perpetual half-smile, the man smelled of aviation fuel and duty-free scotch. He slapped John's shoulder, held up a brown paper parcel. 

"Wedding present. Do not open before wedding. Lucas told me about your attempt for bachelor party. We will spent all night, getting drunk and be merry until you tie a knot!"

John almost smirked. "No promises."

"Promises are for people who don't follow through," Lucas said, squinting against the sun. "Where's the bride?"

John grinned back. "She's in Dar-Esham, tucked inside the Haven with Gabby and my team." He said. "Safe zone. Two walls, a company of Farah's best. You'll meet her soon."

Lucas opened his mouth—sarcasm queued—then caught the glint in John's eyes and thought better of it. He just nodded, hefted the Macallan under one arm, and fell into step.

They moved as a loose wedge through the shimmer of heat as the two perimeter sentries straightened at the gate, M4s angled toward the ground, their eyes tracking the horizon behind mirrored Oakleys. Lucas followed John past the checkpoint where sand-colored Hesco barriers stacked like giant Legos formed the perimeter, crowned with razor wire that caught the midday sun. Radio masts jutted skyward, their red warning lights blinking lazily against cloudless blue. From somewhere inside came the metallic clatter of a weapons check and another commander barking coordinates into a handset.

Toward the Echo Gate, it yawned ahead. Triple coils of razor wire, blast-blank walls, a single guard shack sunk into shadow. John flicked two fingers; the outer door rolled back with a grinding sigh. Inside, cooler air smelled of CLP, sweat, and dust long since given up on leaving.

"Orientation's quick," John said over his shoulder. "Ops bay, bunks, mess. Gaz has a brew kit that'll peel paint; we'll start there."

Nikolai chuckled, adjusting his aviators and shrugging off some of the cold-weather bulk from his shoulders now that they were inside. "Good. I hate to drink fine whisky on a dry throat."

Lucas hefted the duffel. "Right on. I'm dying to see how the other half lives."

John shrugged while giving them a half-smile. "Keep up, then. FOB tour's short, beer and food's warm, and Gaz swears he's teaching Soap poker without cheating."

When they followed him through a warren of shipping containers repurposed into offices, the steel walls painted desert khaki and stenciled with faded operation names like KINGFISH and ANACONDA. The containers formed a maze of right angles and narrow passages where the midday heat collected like invisible syrup. Soldiers in sweat-darkened t-shirts nodded respectfully as John passed—some straightening unconsciously, others offering the subtle chin-lift of veterans acknowledging one of their own—while their eyes lingered on Lucas and Nikolai with wariness of men who'd learned the hard way that strangers meant variables.

Lucas stood out immediately. Not because he looked soft but because he looked like a man who came from a different kind of battlefield now. Clean lines. Better fabric. Civilian edges over old violence. Nikolai, meanwhile, looked like he'd been flying in and out of war zones since the Cold War and had never once considered changing his wardrobe to impress anyone.

As the base hummed with the controlled chaos of a forward operating position—radios crackling with static-laced coordinates, the asthmatic thump of diesel generators fighting the heat, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through it all like gunfire.

"Still running things like a Swiss watch, I see," Lucas remarked, ducking under a low-hanging bundle of communications wire.

"Have to," John replied. "Local insurgents tested the perimeter twice last month. Nothing serious, but enough to keep everyone on their toes."

Nikolai snorted. "Perfect timing for a wedding."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," John said, a rare softness entering his voice.

As they rounded a corner into what had once been a mess hall but now served as the FOB's central hub, maps covered one wall, marked with red and blue pins. A cluster of weathered operators huddled around a tactical table, their conversation dying as the trio entered.

"Boys," John announced, "my brother Lucas and our old friend Nikolai."

A broad-shouldered man with a Scottish brogue and a face like carved granite stepped forward first. "About bloody time. The Captain's been checking his watch every hour like a schoolgirl waiting for prom before brief." He extended a calloused hand. "Soap MacTavish."

"The legendary Soap," Lucas said, grasping the offered hand. "John's told me stories."

"All lies," Soap replied with a wink.

"Most of them," a lean man with sharp eyes interjected, approaching with a steaming mug. "Welcome to our humble shithole, Lucas." Gaz nodded toward the makeshift bar in the corner. "Tea's hot. Beer's cold and ready. Help yourselves."

Lucas set down his duffel and the Macallan on a nearby table. "Brought a special kind for the occasion."

John's eyes lit up at the sight of the bottle. "You remembered."

"Some things stick," Lucas said. "Even after six years."

Gaz eyed Lucas up and down. "Still the same smartass I remember at Moscow years back."

"Except for this," Lucas patted his stomach with a weathered hand. "Wife's cooking. Hazard of domestic bliss."

"Shit, you're getting ancient," Gaz teased, corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Lucas leaned in and said, "Old enough to teach you some manners, son."

Which made Gaz chuckle back before he pivot and extended his hand to Nikolai. The ex-soldier Russian held his hand firmly before delivering a companionable slap to Gaz's shoulder.

"So! When will we meet the bride who has managed to do what bullets could not—capture the heart of Captain Price?" Nik asked, in a teasing manner.

A chorus of laughter rippled through the room.

"Very funny," John replied, running a hand through his beard. "I'll escort you both to Haven—scheduled time with my girl this weekend." He turned his focus to Lucas. "Robby is around, by the way."

"Yeah, I'm aware." Lucas answered.

John arched an eyebrow. "You do?"

"He told me beforehand that he's gonna spend time here for who knows how long. Have you seen him yet?"

"No."

Lucas frowned in return.

"Not yet," John clarified quickly. "Operations have kept me occupied."

"Bullshit."

"Robby?" Nikolai blinked and he frowned, trying to swift through his memory bank from his head before his eyes widened. "Oh! You mean the Jewish-Russian brother of yours, right?"

"Yes." John said, keeping his expression neutral.

Nikolai chuckled, eyes crinkling when he lifted his aviators. "That skinny man who could eat three meals and still look like a fence post? Hard to forget."

"Really?" Gaz became curious. "Our boss didn't tell us much about his other family except Lucas."

"Yeah... no wait..." Soap replied before he paused. "How many uncles does Cam have, boss? I wasn't aware."

Lucas scoffed. "There were three of us once. Marcus was the oldest, before Robby joined the family. Both are older than me and John, but, Robby is a goody two-shoes and we aren't. So, Cameron's got just the two uncles now. There were four of us, total."

Soap's eyebrows lifted slightly. He nodded, a low "Mmm" escaping as he folded his arms across his chest, the muscles in his forearms tensing beneath faded tattoos.

Nikolai's eyes darkened momentarily. "I remember Marcus always found the worst corners of London." He crossed himself once, quick and subtle. "But enough ghosts." He stepped forward, gripped John's shoulder and forced brightness into his voice. "We're here to toast the Captain's last days of freedom, da? Let's crack that whiskey before someone gets shot!"

Soap and Gaz laughed, breaking the tension. Which Lucas offered a tight smile, eyes finding John. He returned the look—a silent exchange loaded with understanding; The team's surprise about Robby's presence confirmed Lucas's concern: John had kept their half brother's existence compartmentalized. 

He knew he had to deal with him today.

"Does Cam know Robby is around?" he asked, already suspicious. 

"No," John answered it straight away. "Not yet either."

He groaned in return.

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 110✨

Men like Raskov didn't disappear unless someone powerful wanted the blood scrubbed before questions started. Which explained why Langley had suddenly appeared in Urzikstan wearing polite smiles and expensive jackets. That was the part he found out after the operation have went sideways.

Sort off.

Least, December had crept up on him; another month gone in the blur of deployment. 

The hut was a welcome respite from the bitter Urzikstan winter, even if the region rarely saw more than a dusting snow this far down. Outside, the air had been sharp enough to bite through fabric, dry cold slicing across exposed skin and settling deep in the bones. Heat blasted from portable units in the corners, fighting off the chill that clung stubbornly to boots, gear, and the canvas walls. Five faces turned toward him as he entered the briefing room—his team plus the intelligence officers who'd called for this briefing.

John hadn't bothered changing after patrol.

He still wore his cold-weather SAS field kit, broad shoulders carrying the weight of a weathered Multicam combat jacket layered over a sand-colored quarter-zip thermal and plate carrier harness stripped down for base movement. The Union Jack patch on one sleeve was dulled with wear, the SAS insignia on the other half-shadowed beneath the hut lights. 

His combat trousers were dusted at the knees and shins with pale Urzikstan dirt, bloused into heavy tan boots still carrying the crust of frozen mud from outside. A pair of black gloves had been shoved into one cargo pocket, and his shemagh hung loose around his neck, catching traces of desert dust and winter cold. Even out of full kit, he looked every inch what he was—not a man who belonged in offices or briefings, but in the field with a rifle in his hands.

"Nice of you to join us, Captain," Ryan said, his tone clipped but not hostile.

John shifted his eyes briefly toward Natalie. 

Rumor said she'd disappeared inside Moscow once for three weeks and walked back out with names Langley still refused to discuss. Worse, she carried herself like someone who knew it.

Farah hovered at one end of the table, arms folded over a fitted olive-drab combat shirt layered beneath a weatherproof tactical vest, the sleeves pushed down against the cold. For once, she was without a head covering, her dark hair tied back into a ponytail, though loose strands had escaped around her temples and ears from the wind outside. She looked like winter hadn't softened her one bit.

Beside her, Alex wore his pair of cargo trousers and desert boots bearing the scars of countless field operations. The dark charcoal field jacket he'd thrown over his faded henley remained zipped halfway, a practical choice against the cold rather than any concern for appearance. A knitted beanie bulged from one pocket, abandoned the moment he'd stepped inside. Between callused fingers, he flipped a pen back and forth, the motion betraying the same restless energy that never seemed to leave him.

At the opposite side stood Central Intelligence Agency emissaries Jack Ryan, who was sitting next to Natalie Chambers: matching matte-black laptops, identical polite smiles that never reached their eyes. 

Ryan looked exactly like what Langley liked to send into war zones when they wanted to appear field-capable without ever truly blending into the mud. He wore a dark navy softshell jacket over a collared tactical shirt, clean-lined and understated, the kind of cold-weather gear issued to men who spent more time in secure compounds than in active firefights. His boots were polished enough to suggest he hadn't walked through nearly enough dust today.

Natalie, meanwhile, looked composed despite the environment. Her tailored charcoal wool coat had been shed and draped over the back of her chair, leaving her in a fitted black turtleneck layered beneath a sleek tactical-cut blazer, paired with dark field trousers tucked into expensive but practical leather boots. She looked warm without ever appearing bulky, polished without losing the edge of someone who knew exactly how much of her appearance was part of the game.

As John stepped forward, he dropped a fistful of satellite photos onto the table; images fanned like cards in a losing hand. 

"Let's hear why my hit-team walked into a bloody three-way between Russians, Americans, and Al-Qatala."

Farah turned her gaze to John. "Because Atlas and Wagner were already on site, protecting bigger than guns. We destroyed the cargo—thermite, no survivors." She slid a charred specimen photo forward. "Biological containment cylinders. Russian serials, U.S. refrigeration coils. Nightshade."

"You made the right call with containment. The Agency values that kind of action in the field." Ryan began as his eyes moved to the screen in front of him and back to them.

"Save the medals," Alex growled. "Your Agency jammed our comms, pointed rifles at us, zip-tied Razor, and tried dragging us into a black site before we even knew who the hell was shooting at us."

"Operational security. DNI's orders because every operator on that ridge was compromised until proven otherwise," Natalie replied coldly. "Including yours."

"Operational bollocks," John muttered, frowning as he crossed his arms. The movement pulled the fabric taut across his chest and shoulders, the muted gear creaking faintly with the shift. "Every fucking time Langley touches a battlefield, bodies pile up while suits argue over clearance levels."

"Because the last time this information moved through unsecured channels," Ryan said evenly after closing his laptop, "three analysts vanished and an entire server farm in Virginia burned to the ground."

"Every minute you sit on that drive, Atlas edges closer to weaponizing a targeted virus. My country is a test field!" Farah hissed. "My people survived Barkov. Russian gas. Occupation. Mass graves." Her eyes burned toward Ryan. "And now Americans arrive talking about containment while another chemical spreads through my country?"

Nobody answered.

She jabbed a finger toward the photographs. "You call it Nightshade." Her expression hardened. "I call it another empire deciding my home is disposable."

Natalie met her glare. "And if the data leaks before we've isolated the funding network, the test field becomes the entire Gulf. Patience, Commander Karim."

John uncrossed arms and leaned forward, palms flat. The cuffs of his jacket pulled back just enough to reveal scarred hands roughened by cold, work, and war. "Patience won't stop Zakharov's next loadout. Ghost have briefed me on what he saw what this chemical does. There were men locked in cages beneath that cabin. He paused, allowing his tone to stay level headed. "Some still looked human. Some didn't. They reacted to commands. Coordinated movement. Aggression triggers. His stare landed on Ryan. "So don't stand there and tell me patience matters more than containment. Since Khalid gave us a rail schedule—Los Santos CDC depot soon. Does Langley plan to intercept, or are we still debating clearances?"

A flicker crossed Ryan's eyes—surprise or admiration, hard to tell. "We verify Khalid's intel overnight. If it holds, joint tasking will be drafted."

"Joint," Alex echoed, sardonic. "Meaning we kick the door while your satellites watch."

"Meaning," Ryan said evenly, turning his glance to Alex, "we share targets and stay out of each other's lanes. Atlas can't know we're coming."

Natalie tightened her jaw, almost imperceptibly.

Berlin had already proven that.

When her gaze shifted toward the satellite photos spread across the table. It gave her a brief moment to collect her thoughts before her eyes shifted back to Ryan before the rest.

"The moment I killed Raskov," she said quietly, "Atlas started purging assets faster than we could track them."

Alex frowned. "Meaning?"

"Meaning Berlin scared them," Natalie answered. "Safehouses burned. Couriers vanished. Accounts emptied overnight. Somebody higher up realized we're coming after them. Zakharov doesn't operate alone."

John stared at her. "So Raskov mattered more than Langley admitted."

"He was logistics," Natalie replied. "Transport schedules. Chemical routing. Contractor access. He knew where Nightshade was moving before the cargo even crossed borders."

A tense silence followed.

Farah frowned in return and added, "then Al-Mazrah was next long before we found those containers."

John exhaled sharply through his nose before landing his gaze on them. "Alex, Farah—gear up. Two of you with me." He shifted toward Natalie, eyes hardening to blue ice. "Chambers, you're in the field with Gaz and Razor. Put that intelligence to practical use." His chin jerked toward the analyst. "Ryan remains at base with Levi while I go on foot. Ninety-six hours until containment protocols activate." He checked his watch. "We need to find Khalid before he disappears. I expect full cooperation from everyone in this room."

"Levi?" Ryan frowned, confused.

"Levi Dunn."

"And who exactly is he?" Ryan asked.

"A civilian asset," John replied plainly. "Cybersecurity, surveillance systems, encryption. Freelance analyst."

Alex gave a dry chuckle. "That's the polite version."

"He helped my task force back in London," he continued. "Built counter-surveillance tools for us. Cleaned digital footprints. Tracked movement through burner networks when official intelligence hit dead ends."

Her eyes narrowed slightly with interest.

"Meaning unofficial support," Ryan said, folding his arms. 

"Meaning effective support," John corrected. "He was the one who flagged unusual financial traffic moving through shell accounts tied to Russian contractors. Eventually those trails led toward Zakharov. Without him, we would've walked blind into half the safehouses we hit back at home."

Ryan studied him carefully. "And what about Michael Harkin?"

At the mention of the name, John stared at him as his expression hardened almost known.

"Harkin got involved through intermediary channels tied to Makarov's network," John said. "Middle-man work. Logistics. Money movement. Levi uncovered enough digital overlap to realize Harkin wasn't operating alone."

Natalie frowned faintly. "So your friend exposed the connection."

"He exposed part of it," John said, moving his glance to her. "Enough for Zakharov's network to start cleaning house after I terminated the target, given by Laswell order."

Ryan exhaled slowly and said, "Okay."

"Now he's under my protection," John replied coldly. "Right now he's one of the few capable of predicting where Zakharov will move next."

Ryan glanced briefly toward Natalie before returning his attention to John. "You trust him that much?"

"Enough to stake lives on his intel."

Her expression hardened. "The Agency protocol clearly states—"

"Changed." His wintry blue stare pinned her. "My operation means my rules of engagement. If you're eager to track Zakharov, you'll do it from inside the transport with my team." He pivoted his gaze toward Alex. "Pack minimal. Radio silence maintained until we clear the dry riverbed."

"Yes, sir." Alex straightened.

Farah grabbed the laser-pointer, red dot skimming the wall map to a dusty valley. "We infil here, follow the dry riverbed to the rail spur. Silent until dawn. Price will be on the other side in air before landing."

Ryan stood up and stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "Langley doesn't take orders from field operators, Captain."

The corner of John's mouth twitched upward, cold as gunmetal. "Atlas doesn't care about chain of command while they're weaponizing a plague. If you want Nightshade contained, I need those intel before civilian panic starts." His jaw tightened as Charlie's face flashed in his mind. The thought of her caught in quarantine zones made something twist in his chest. He leaned forward, eyes never leaving Ryan's. "I won't watch people die because some desk jockey wanted to follow proper channels."

Ryan studied him a beat, then nodded once—decision made. "I'll open the channel."

"Good choice," John murmured.

In brief silence, Ryan stared at him before pressing his lips thin and stepped back. Grabbing his laptop, he stepped out of the room, leaving Natalie alone with John while Alex and Farah stepped out as well.

"You're making a mistake, John," Natalie said once they were alone. She closed her laptop with a definitive snap. "Joint ops work when boundaries are respected."

"And you're gambling with lives," John said sternly, reaching for the satellite photos. "Every minute we waste on protocol, Zakharov's team moves closer to deployment while your agency can't decide which secrets are worth sharing."

"Those boundaries exist for reasons beyond your clearance," she countered, collecting her things with practiced ease. "Nightshade isn't a bioweapon. It's engineered with targeting parameters—ethnic specificity. The wrong data in the wrong hands..."

"Save it," John cut her off. "I've seen what happens when your people compartmentalize." He stepped closer, invading her space. "Prague should've been flagged now. Instead, operators walked blind into a biochemical testing site because somebody buried the intelligence behind classification walls."

"That information wasn't verified." Natalie said.

John scoffed. "Funny. The bodies looked real enough to me."

"You don't trust me," she said, her tone less a question than a verdict.

"You're riding with Farah because I need eyes on you. Not your cooperation," he said, ignoring her previous comment. "Trust gets earned downrange. Not handed out with a badge."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Fair enough." She shouldered her bag. "But Zakharov has people inside your command structure. That's why we're here."

The accusation hung between them as she strode toward the door, pausing at the threshold. She glanced back. "Oh, and by the way, Captain Price. I've read your field. Fifteen years of operational conditioning. Zero emotional liabilities." Her eyes settled on him. "Then Charlie changes every metric on the page." She turned back toward the door. "People above your paygrade have a word for that."

His expression remained stone. He caught her arm and pulled her back before she could cross the threshold.

"Careful," John growled. "Speak to her like that again and I'll remind you where your clearance ends including my patience."

Natalie narrowed her eyes, assessing him with newfound interest.

"So that's how it is," she said. "Attachment. The one vulnerability no amount of training can eliminate." She adjusted her shoulder strap, professional mask firmly back in place. "My concern is operational security, not your personal life. But history shows what happens when operators get entangled."

In brief silence, her face flashed through his mind.

The warmth of her hands. 

Her laugh. 

The unborn child growing inside her.

Then the memory twisted.

Containment zones. Quarantine fencing. Men screaming inside underground cages.

His stomach turned.

No.

"Charlie is not part of your operation," John moved toward her with the deliberate pace of a predator. "You put her name inside another Langley report, another risk assessment, another contingency file..." His eyes hardened into something lethal. "...and I promise you, there won't be enough black ink in Washington to erase what happens next."

Natalie held his gaze before he brushed past her shoulder and disappeared down the corridor.

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 109✨

🎓 School Update

On the personal side of things, I finally accomplished something I’ve worked very hard for since 2016:

I graduated with my Associate degree in SNHU.

There were days when balancing work, school, and writing felt impossible. Some weeks I spent more time staring at assignments than chapters. Other weeks I spent more time writing than sleeping.

But somehow, I made it. Now I’m continuing on to pursue my Bachelor’s degree, and I’m excited to see what the future holds. I don’t know exactly where the road leads yet, but for the first time in a long while, I’m looking forward to finding out.

📚 Reading vs. Writing

Ironically, I’ve spent so much time writing over the past six months that I’ve barely had time to read.

And if I’m being honest, I miss it because there're SO many books sitting on my shelves and Kindle waiting for me to return to them. Between writing, school, and life, reading has taken a back seat.

I think it’s time I change that.

Writers should never stop being readers.

🖤 A Special Thank You

I also want to take a moment to give a huge shoutout to my best friend, writing partner, and overall partner-in-chaos: @callsign-denmark

I really wouldn’t trade our friendship for anything.

Over the years, we’ve shared ideas, encouraged each other through writer’s block, celebrated milestones, laughed at ridiculous plot ideas, and survived more fandom messes than I can count. Watching our friendship continue to grow has been one of the greatest gifts writing has given me. And if you haven’t already, go check out her story:

📖 Perfectly Broken (Book 1) (Previously titled Fearless and her reads are 21.5K ✨) - they're also available on Wattpad.

The story follows her awesome OC Gabby alongside Simon “Ghost” Riley during the events of the Modern Warfare II reboot timeline.

If you’re a Ghost fan, I highly recommend giving it a read.

🤖 One Last Thing

I’ve become aware that some people on Tumblr have been making assumptions and accusations about me regarding AI. So let me clarify something.

I DO NOT USE AI TO WRITE MY BOOKS!!!!!

Never have and never will!

The stories I’ve published are written by ME! Besides getting the covers made for me (for a time being until I have enough money to hire a legit designer).

Every chapter and every late-night draft are all ME!

People are free to have opinions about AI, but I think it’s important that criticism remains grounded in facts rather than assumptions. So, at the end of the day, I’d rather spend my energy writing stories than arguing with strangers online because life is too short.

To everyone who has supported me over the past six months:

Thank you for reading and for believing in these stories. Thank you also for giving a writer a reason to keep going.

No helicopters thrummed in the distance. 

No patrol dogs barked. 

No ULF scouts lurked on the ridge. 

Only the wind, dragging sand across the road like a ghost's breath, and the stolen documents tucked inside the weatherproof satchel pressed against Khalid's ribs, their weight a second heartbeat.

He dismounted, his combat boots sinking into the sand with each step, the grains whispering secrets as he moved. The satchel's contents—taken from Farah and Alex—burned against his side. Forty paces ahead, a thin, amber glow seeped from the control building's cracked doorway, a beacon in the desolation. Khalid approached, his hand hovering near the concealed Makarov at his hip, its cold metal a promise of violence if needed.

Inside, the air was thick with the stench of rust, stagnant water, and diesel fumes baked into the concrete. Emergency chem-lights, their eerie yellow glow clinging to the walls, cast long, jaundiced shadows across the narrow passage. Broken gauges lined the control panels, their needles frozen in time, while old pressure maps curled from the walls like the parched skin of a corpse. 

Somewhere deeper in the building, water dripped into an empty catch basin with the slow, rhythmic persistence of a dying man's breath. Khalid passed a room choked with dead machinery, its gears and pistons still as the grave, before stepping into the main control hall. The space was no longer empty.

Seated at a makeshift command center—a rusted Soviet desk, its surface buried beneath a labyrinth of modern equipment that clashed violently with the ancient concrete—was a man whose presence dominated the room more effectively than any weapon. 

The amber light caught the sharp angles of his face, carving deep shadows beneath his prominent brows and the strong, unyielding line of his jaw. His close-cropped hair, peppered with streaks of salt, framed features that bore the weight of hard years and harder decisions, weathered yet refined, like a blade forged in fire and honed by time. A Cuban cigar dangled from his fingers, its ember glowing crimson in the gloom as he drew deeply, the smoke curling around him like a shroud. His tailored charcoal suit—immaculate despite the squalor—hugged his broad shoulders, the fabric whispering of European craftsmanship, its formality a stark contrast to the desolation around them. His steel-blue eyes, cold and calculating, tracked Khalid's approach with the predatory focus of a wolf sizing up its prey.

"You're late," Archer said, his voice a rough-edged baritone, the faintest trace of an accent lingering beneath the polished English. A remnant of a past he had spent decades erasing. He tapped ash into a makeshift tray, the hollowed-out casing of a 155mm artillery shell, before straightening a platinum cufflink with practiced indifference. The gesture revealed the worn grip of a custom Sig Sauer, its tactical holster peeking from beneath his jacket like a secret he couldn't quite hide.

"There were... complications," Khalid began.

Archer exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the tendrils curling toward the crumbling ceiling. "There always are." He stood, his movements fluid despite his imposing frame, and extended a hand for the satchel. The subtle lines around his eyes deepened, each crease a testament to secrets buried in shadows, to years spent navigating the murky waters of violence and intrigue. 

Unlike his associates, who wore their Russian heritage like a badge, Archer cultivated an air of ambiguity, his origins as carefully obscured as his network of informants. "The documents," he said, not a question but a command, his signet ring catching the light—a symbol akin to Zakharov's, yet subtly different, marking him as something more.

"First, my guarantee," Khalid countered, his fingers tightening around the satchel's strap.

A cold smile ghosted across Archer's face as he reached inside his jacket. Not for a weapon, but for a satellite phone, its screen casting an eerie glow in the dim light. "Zakharov has already transferred the first half of your payment. The second follows when I confirm what you've brought is genuine." He gestured with the cigar, its ember glowing like a malevolent eye. "You understand our caution. The last operative who claimed to have these plans delivered nothing but fakes—clever, but fakes nonetheless."

Khalid frowned. "What happened to him?"

"Alamik is no longer in a position to disappoint anyone." He exhaled another perfect smoke ring, its shape drifting lazily toward the ceiling before dissolving into the darkness. "Now, shall we proceed with business, or would you prefer to join him?"

Khalid stared at him before his jaw tightened. The threat hanging in the air like the acrid smoke from Archer's cigar, thick and inescapable. He had known men like this before—men who draped themselves in wealth and refinement, their polished exteriors masking something far more sinister. Men who spoke of death as casually as they discussed the weather. With a sharp exhale, he slid the satchel across the makeshift desk, its contents shifting like the weight of his own mortality.

"It's all there," Khalid said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. "The complete schematics for the nuclear deployment system, access codes for the Black Sea facilities, and the communication protocols. Nightshade manifests. Karim's team burned the samples, but the trail lives in these pages."

Archer didn't immediately reach for the documents. 

Instead, he studied Khalid with clinical detachment, his gaze dissecting, cataloging weaknesses for future reference. Then, he opened the satchel, his manicured fingers—calloused from years of handling weapons—extracting the first document. The amber light caught the classified watermarks as he spread the papers across the desk, his expression unreadable. Yet Khalid noticed the slight dilation of his pupils, the only betrayal of the interest simmering beneath the surface.

"These access codes," Archer murmured, tapping a particular page. "How recently were they verified?"

"Three days ago. I watched Commander Petrov input them myself."

Archer nodded, seemingly satisfied. He reached into his jacket again, this time producing a small ultraviolet light. The documents bloomed under the purple glow, hidden markings flaring to life like secrets unwilling to stay buried.

"And what else did you see at the facility?" Archer asked, his attention still fixed on the papers. "Besides what's detailed here."

Khalid hesitated. This wasn't part of their arrangement. "Nothing relevant to our transaction."

"I'll decide what's relevant." Archer said and glanced at him sharply.

Which made the air in the bunker grew colder, the weight of the threat pressing down like a physical force. Khalid calculated his options—the distance to the exit, the probability of outrunning a bullet, the likelihood that Archer was working alone. The odds were not in his favor.

"There was a secondary research wing," he admitted finally, the words tasting like betrayal. "Biological in nature. I couldn't access it."

Archer closed the file, his expression unreadable. "Couldn't? Or wouldn't?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Never mind. The satellite uplink will confirm whether these are authentic." He activated the phone, inputting a complex sequence of numbers from memory. While he waited for the connection, he opened a metal briefcase resting against the desk leg. Inside lay not stacks of money, as Khalid had expected, but a sleek laptop, its surface marked with military-grade encryption symbols.

"Verification protocol seven-niner-alpha," Archer spoke into the phone, his accent shifting subtly, the Slavic undertones rising to the surface like a ghost from the past. "Authorization Blackwood."

Khalid tensed. 

Blackwood wasn't a code he recognized, and he had infiltrated the highest echelons of three separate intelligence agencies. Whatever operation Archer was running, it extended beyond the usual channels—beyond even what Zakharov had implied.

"You did well," Archer said, ending the call. His voice was almost approving. "Assuming you've been honest with me."

Khalid couldn't stop himself. "If these documents help you start a war? What then?"

His expression softened into almost genuine. "Oh, my friend," he said, sliding the documents into his own waterproof case, "wars are merely theater. It's what happens during the intermission that matters."

Khalid fell silent, removing his dark glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on him. "I did what was required. Now answer your end of the bargain, Archer. Zakharov moves his next shipment from Los Santos—when and where?"

"Berth Four, Terminal Seven. The medical NGO cover will hold until the containers clear the harbor. After that, eleven hours by rail to a disused CDC depot outside Chicago. From there—distribution."

"And will he still believe he'll keep the lion's share?"

This made Archer to smirk. "Trust me, Zakharov believes what I design him to believe."

As Khalid moved his gaze to the maps tacked to the wall—threads of red string looping across continents, arrows stabbing at capitals like the veins of some monstrous beast. Archer's fingers brushed along a dashed line connecting Cairo and Riyadh before sliding into his jacket. "Plans within plans," he murmured, almost to himself. "Let them sharpen the West and East on each other. I decide when the sword drops."

As his eyes met Archer, his pulse hammered in his throat.

It dawned on him a second too late.

Archer was no longer holding the cigar.

In its place rested a compact pistol fitted with a matte-black suppressor, the weapon steady in his hand as if it were an extension of his arm. The sleek lines of a custom SIG Sauer P226 caught the amber light for only an instant before the suppressor swallowed most of the reflection. Worn stippling marked the grip from years of use, and the threaded barrel disappeared into the cylindrical suppressor mounted to the front.

There was nothing hurried about the way Archer held it.

The realization hit like ice water flooding his veins. Archer had known exactly how this meeting would end long before Khalid arrived.

"I gave you what you needed," Khalid growled, stepping around the folding table. The single bare bulb overhead cast his shadow long and jagged across the sandbag walls, a specter of his own making.

"I believe your usefulness has ended," Archer added casually.

"Try it, and by dawn, every tribe in Al-Qatala will know your name." Khalid said, this time, his expression hardened.

"Hmm," Archer smiled at him. "Did you know that your brother, Malek, had whispered it to Langley last night since someone reported back to me. And let's not forget that your pathetic cousin is playing chieftain already. Loose ends get messy, you know?"

Khalid opened his mouth—to argue, to plead, to curse—but the words died in his throat. In that heartbeat, the bulb overhead flared white-hot, searing the darkness.

Phfft.

A single subsonic round shattered the silence. Khalid's ribs buckled inward, the impact driving the air from his lungs. He staggered, his hand flying to his chest as blood seeped between his fingers, dark and viscous as ink on parchment. His knees hit the sand-slick concrete, the world tilting violently. He collapsed, his robes pooling around him like a funeral shroud, his eyes wide and unseeing in the harsh glare.

Archer watched the last tremor leave Khalid's chest, then exhaled—a soft, almost in relief sound, as if he had merely set down a burden he never meant to carry. The bunker door groaned open, and two silhouettes slipped inside, their faces wrapped in keffiyehs, and their movements silent as shadows. One cradled a shovel, the other a length of a body bag. They froze at the sight of Archer holstering his pistol.

"North dune ridge," Archer said flatly. "Dig two meters deep. When he's down, leave the mouth open. Let the dirt finish the rest."

The men nodded, their eyes flicking to Khalid's body before they moved to lift him. His arm dangled limply, the satchel still clutched in his grip. Archer stepped forward and delivered a deliberate kick to the canvas pouch, sending it skidding beneath Khalid's outstretched hand. 

A final exchange, a last piece of insurance.

***

Outside, the moon cast its pale light over a matte-black Hilux idling on the ramp, its headlights hooded, its engine a low, predatory growl. Archer climbed into the back seat, brushing sand from his shoulder as he settled in beside the broad-shouldered driver, whose nose bore the flattened contours of countless street brawls. The suppressor's chrome edges glinted in the dim light.

"Make it clean," Archer instructed, his voice calm. "But leave some behind. I expect my brother to play soldier."

The driver tugged his chin in acknowledgment, shifted into gear, and the truck rolled forward, its tires whispering across the sand. In the window's reflection, Archer traced the dunes as they stretched toward the horizon—an empty canvas, waiting for fresh ink.

The Hilux's taillights vanished into the night, and behind it, the outpost light flickered once before dying. Only the wind remained, stirring the dunes until the bunker and Khalid were swallowed whole, their existence reduced to nothing more than whispers in the desert.

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 108✨

When his eyes swept across the courtyard as they walked. There was more pairs of ULF fighters sat against a wall sharing cigarettes, while other soldiers were quietly arguing over something in Farsi he couldn't understand what they're talking about. But, he did saw Langdon stood far from the courtyard talking with Mel.

It bothered him a little.

It's not that he distrusted Langdon with Mel—they'd been colleagues long enough. Still, something in their body language caught his attention. Since arriving in-country, Langdon had been hovering near her, finding excuses for check-ins that never happened back in Pittsburgh. Robby knew about the divorce papers waiting stateside, the custody battle brewing, the financial noose tightening around Langdon's neck. Perhaps that explained the man's newfound attentiveness.

His feelings toward Langdon were complicated. Sympathy flickered briefly when he considered the man's current predicament, but it quickly hardened when he remembered the betrayal. The memory still stung about discovering Langdon had been stealing patients' opioids for his own undisclosed back pain. A year had passed, but the betrayal remained fresh—a colleague he'd trusted, helping himself to medication meant for others in genuine suffering. Some mistakes couldn't be undone, and this felt like one of them. If Langdon had just come clean about his pain instead of resorting to theft, maybe things could have been different.

When the firelight's warm glow welcomed them to where Cam, Danny, and Roach had staked their claim on a mismatched collection of crates and chairs. Danny straddled her chair backwards, forearms resting on its back as she chatted. Beside her, Cam had stretched out on a crate, one combat boot perched on the fire pit's metal edge. Against a wooden post stood Roach, arms crossed over his chest, alert despite his casual stance.

Cam saw them afar and her eyes caught them first. 

"Look what the cat dragged in," Cam called, sliding off her makeshift seat.

"Told you I'd get him here!" Charlie replied, her face lit up.

Danny let out a low whistle at Robby's approach. "Holy shit," she said. "She actually coaxed the hermit doctor out of his cave."

A quiet sigh escaped Robby.

"Hermit?" he echoed.

"Come on," Danny said, her lips curved into a smile. "You're practically the poster boy for brooding mountain men."

"Nah," Cam countered with a snort. "Uncle's just got chronic RBF."

"What do you mean?" Charlie tilted her head.

"Resting bitch face," Cam replied flatly.

Charlie blinked twice before understanding dawned. "Oh."

She sank into an empty chair by the flames, her fingers finally releasing their grip on Robby's arm. The spot where her hand had been suddenly felt exposed to the night air. Robby hovered uncertainly until Cam pointed to the crate beside Charlie. 

"Park it, Uncle. Your looming is creeping everyone out."

He eased down onto the crate, his frame still dominating the circle despite sitting. Heat from the crackling fire warmed his face, carrying the scent of charred wood mingled with desert sand.

Danny tipped her chair back, fingers curled around the backrest to keep her balance. The firelight caught the edges of her deep- neckline black shirt— definitely not military standard—and glinted off her white sneakers where they crossed at the ankles beneath torn jeans. Her messy bun had come half-undone in the desert wind.

"You know, I thought my family being Italian and Jewish meant we had family popping out of the woodworks all the time. Just then Cam's got Uncles and shit coming out of the cracks like sand and it's hard to keep up with." 

When Roach shifted behind her a bit as more soldiers and med personnel moved into the area, Danny shot him a look to check in, a silent question passing between them.

"What does that mean?" Robby asked, perplexed. "I'm Jewish Russian."

"That explains the brooding," Danny quipped, her smile widening. "Jewish Russian? That's like being born with existential crisis as your default setting."

Roach snorted, the sound barely audible over the music. His eyes never stopped scanning the perimeter, even as he participated in the conversation.

"You say that like your Italian-Jewish combo is any less dramatic," Cam countered, reaching for a beer from the cooler. She popped the cap against the edge of her crate and offered it to Robby first. "Guilt from both sides of the family tree."

Charlie watched the exchange with amusement dancing in her eyes. The firelight caught the honey highlights in her hair, turning them to molten gold. "I'm just boring old American mutt. Nothing exotic."

"Nothing boring about you," Robby said quietly, accepting the beer from Cam. The words slipped out before he could catch them, hanging in the air between them.

Danny's eyebrows shot up, and she exchanged a quick glance with Cam.

"Well, well," Danny drawled. "The hermit doctor speaks. And flirts."

"It wasn't—" Robby started, but Charlie laughed them him off.

"Leave him alone," Charlie said, her shoulder brushing against his as she leaned in. "He's being nice."

The contact, brief as it was, sent an electric current up his arm. Robby lifted the beer bottle to his lips and drank deeply, thankful the firelight wasn't bright enough to reveal the flush spreading across his skin. He cleared his throat and pivoted. "So what has John actually shared with you about the family tree? Me, his other brothers, all that complicated history?"

Charlie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "John mentioned you, Lucas, and Marcus. Something about his mom and dad...and your dad?" She glanced at Cam, then back at Robby. "The family tree gets fuzzy after that."

Robby tightened his jaw briefly before he exhaled through his nose.

"Typical," he murmured, then louder. "The Price-Robinavitch saga isn't exactly Christmas card material." He took a pull from his beer. "My father Joseph and his mother Olivia lived together for years—never married. I grew up calling Olivia 'Mom' since she raised me after my birth mother left. Never met John's biological father either."

The firelight caught the subtle shift in Charlie's expression. "You never knew your real mother?"

"Olivia was my only mother," Robby said quietly, his fingers picking at the beer label. "Blood doesn't always make family. But it does make for complicated holiday dinners."

"How complicated are we talking?" Charlie asked, her voice gentle as she navigated the conversation's undertow.

His mouth quirked into something not quite a smile.

Cam jumped in and addressed Charlie. "Family was always a bit messy. I didn't even know all of my uncles and cousins and whatnot right away growing up. My Mom, Penny, as you know my Dad told you about her, kind of kept me away because of my grandparents, so it wasn't until years later when Dad opened up about stuff that I learned who people were." Cam leaned forward so her elbows were resting on her knees, her dark blue hoodie with a gold 'US Navy' written on the front and some jeans were her outfit of choice for the night. Her curls loose and wild down her back.

"Again, I thought my family was all kinds of crazy. But shit, even Gabby has a fucked up family tree. Guess none of us are normal." Danny laughed softly.

Robby's smile faltered as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth, the edge of his mouth disappearing into his beard as his gaze shifted from Charlie to Cam.

"Your mother," he said, gesturing toward Cam with his beer bottle. "Penny had this... special nickname for me. 'Lanky weird dude.' I was all bones back then—like a coat hanger with skin." He shook his head, a half-smile playing on his lips. "She was a wildcard, I'll tell you. She even tried to get John to do crazy shit when they hit puberty."

Cam smiled fondly at her uncle, pushing some of her curls off her face. "Dad says I get my "fuck all" attitude from her, but honestly, I'm just a carbon copy of him, I just look like Mom."

"Lord help us. Do we really need another John Price?" Danny chirped, earning a middle finger from Cam. It made the group laugh. Roach finally sat down next to Danny, but his eyes kept bouncing around to all the new people moving about. Danny reached out and laid a hand on his knee, getting his eyes to meet hers. She gave him a knowing smile and he dipped his head in thanks, before letting his body relax a bit.

"So, where is Gabs? I figured she'd be heading this way with you guys?" Cam asked Charlie.

"Uh...." Charlie thought about it until she added, "no she wasn't ready when I texted her. I know she said she'll meet us when she feeds and bathes Ivory and you know, Gambit, he didn't want to wait since he's impatient, you know?"

Robby exhaled sharply, his eyes sweeping across the gathering before settling on Roach and Danny. He watched their subtle touches, the way they leaned into each other's space—a language of intimacy he recognized but wouldn't comment on. Turning back to Charlie, the corner of his mouth lifted.

"Someone should teach those impatient types that rushing gets you nowhere but mistakes," he said, voice low enough just for her.

Charlie smiled to him briefly. "Good luck explaining that to Gambit. Or John, for that matter."

"God," Robby said with a soft laugh, shaking his head. "In medicine, you learn quickly that hurrying costs lives. Some lessons stick with you." His eyes held hers a moment longer than necessary.

"Sounds like a metaphor for life," Charlie replied, her voice softening as she held his gaze. The firelight danced across her features, highlighting the curve of her cheek. "Taking your time with what matters."

It made his skin prickle with awareness as he took another swig of beer to ease the sudden dryness in his throat. As the current song played until it was over, another started playing and it was a bass-like country acoustic began playing The Outsider by Ben Miller Band.

Around the fire, conversations ebbed and flowed like tides, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. A group of ULF fighters had started a makeshift dance circle on the far side of the courtyard as their movements fluid despite their combat boots.

"Speaking of taking time," Danny said, her eyes tracking the dancers, "how long before Simon realizes this is an actual party and not some tactical briefing he needs to monitor?"

Cam snorted. "Give it another hour or half. He'll either loosen up or find some excuse about perimeter checks."

"Ten bucks says he shows up in full kit claiming there's a situation," Danny added smugly.

Robby watched Charlie watching the dancers, noting how the firelight played across her features, softening the angles of her face. Her profile against the flames reminded him of renaissance paintings—all golden light and shadow.

"So, Doc," Danny leaned forward, her voice dropping slyly, "what's your poison? Besides beer, I mean."

"I'm not much of a drinker," Robby admitted, rolling the bottle between his palms. "Whiskey occasionally. Why?"

Danny grinned. "Because Gambit smuggled in actual liquor, and I'm trying to figure out if you're the type to loosen up after a shot or two."

"Danny," Cam groaned. "Leave him alone."

"What?" Her innocence was performative at best. "I'm just making conversation."

Charlie laughed, the sound carrying over the crackling fire. "Don't worry, Robby. Danny is curious or interrogates everyone, whichever helps to start a conversation."

"It's how I gather intel," Danny corrected, winking. "Knowledge is power."

His mouth quirked in return. "In that case, whiskey makes me philosophical, not loose. Disappointing, I know."

"Philosophical?" Charlie turned toward him, curiosity evident in her expression. "Like how?"

Before he could answer, Gabby made her way towards the bonfire, Ivory on her hip. She wore an Aztec print sweatshirt and light jeans, her twisted X moccasins on her feet. Her long hair was down, not something she normally did, but felt like it for the night. She moved with purpose as she got closer to the fire, stopping for a moment to yell at Dingo. 

"Dingo, you asshole, don't eat all the marshmallows. Save some of the rest of us!" Only to have a said marshmallow thrown at her head. It bounced off her temple and Dingo shot her a devilish smile before shoveling three of them into his mouth. "Idiota tonto y su estúpida hambre interminable. (Dumb idiot and his stupid never-ending hunger)." She muttered before taking a seat next to Roach. 

The man smiled at Ivory who was sitting now on her lap and he wiggled his fingers at her, making the baby laugh. Gabby blew some of her hair out of her face and let out a long sigh, before looking around the fire. "Sorry I'm late. She didn't want to finish dinner." But said it with a smile as she hugged the bouncing baby in her lap closer to her chest, then kissed the top of her blonde haired head.

When Robby turned around and faced Gabby, for the first time, or has it been awhile since he had last seen her years back at Oklahoma? He had remembered her youth in her early twenties and compared her features of today, still in youth but there was so much maturity in her that his grey eyes fell to a baby in her lap, whom Gabby was bouncing closer to her chest. It caught his attention suddenly that the baby had her mother's eyes and the hair wasn't hers but a father (he had never met or known).

"Gabby? You look the same as before we last met," Robby quickly smiled and got up. "And how old is the baby?"

Gabby looked up at him as Robby approached, and smiled. "It's been seven years, Doc. I definitely don't look like that twenty-one years old anymore. I'd say you haven't changed, but to be honest I was so high on pain meds I don't really remember what you looked like." She chuckled as he moved closer. She then looked down at her daughter and brushed some curls off her face. "This is Ivory. She's turning a whole year old on December sixteenth." She looked back up at Robby and tilted her head to the side some. "Would you like to hold her?"

"Oh, sure!" He smiled big suddenly as he glanced at Ivory and opened his hands wide as if he was ready to carry her. "Hi Ivory, you have pretty eyes from your mother. I'm a gentle giant."

"Trust me," Gabby said leaning back in her seat, "your size won't scare her. Her father is tall as he is built. He ducks through most doorways. She loves tall people." Danny handed Gabby some food on a plate and Gabby took it with a smile. She looked around the group, noticing that the med crew kept separate from the soldiers. Even she has a knife on her belt, and Roach had a gun strapped to his leg. She felt that maybe they were intimidated by all the weapons around them. 

"Your team should come sit with all of us. Join in and hang out. It's the only way we can all bond and trust each other going forward."

Robby cradled Ivory against his chest, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he bounced her. His face transformed completely—gone was the serious doctor, replaced by soft murmurs and exaggerated expressions that made the baby gurgle with delight. Charlie found herself watching him, a smile playing on her lips. Something about watching this near-stranger's tenderness with the child stirred something in her chest. For a moment, she pictured John holding their future child, wondering if he would reveal this same softness beneath his hardened exterior. The thought of her fiancé—commanding and intense—melting for a tiny being that was part of them both made her breath catch.

Her chest tightened watching him with the baby. Something primal stirred inside her—the sight of those large hands so carefully cradling Ivory's tiny form. She caught herself wondering if he would be different from John with his own family someday—not a soldier like his brother, but with this same tender vigilance that seemed to come so naturally to him.

Robby shrugged. "They've got their comfort zone, we've got ours." He bounced Ivory gently in his arms. "I was planning my escape route until this little charmer decided to hold me hostage." His eyes drifted to Charlie, catching her distant expression snapping back to awareness.

"Earth to Charlie," he said softly.

"Sorry, what?" Charlie blinked rapidly.

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Lost in thought, Char?"

"No—I mean, yes, I was listening," she stammered, color rising to her cheeks.

"Robby!" Langdon's voice cut through the moment. "Since when do you handle infants at parties?"

Robby arched an eyebrow at Langdon while bouncing Ivory gently. " I'm holding a baby, Frank. And Charlie here," he nodded toward her, " was kind enough to introduce me around. Following orders to mingle, as requested."

"Seems like you're settling in just fine," Langdon said with a half-smile.

"Where'd Mel and Abbott disappear to?" Robby asked, shifting Ivory to his other arm.

Langdon scanned the gathering. "Mel's in the bathroom. Jack's over there with—" he gestured to where Jack sat deep in conversation with Dingo "—making friends, apparently."

"Bring them over when they got time. I want you to meet Gabby." Robby smiled at the woman. "We go way back. Oklahoma, remember? You were so doped up on painkillers you kept calling me 'Doctor Sasquatch' in that thick southern drawl I'd never heard before."

Langdon studied Gabby, then Cam, before turning back to Robby with newfound curiosity.

"You never mentioned having family here."

"You never asked," Robby replied simply. 

Langdon moved his gaze to Charlie before he quickly looked away. He turned to the group with a practiced smile.

"I'm Frank Langdon. Frank is fine."

Cam spoke up first, smiling at Langdon. "Hey, I'm Cam. I'm his niece." She pointed to Gabby. "That's Gabby, one of our lieutenants, and her daughter Ivory, who my uncle has all but kidnapped at this point." Which made Robby stick his tongue out at her, but she just rolled her eyes and smiled back. 

"I'm Danny. I'm a pilot like Cam." She then nodded to Dingo who was still talking to Abbott. "That's Cooper over there. But he goes by Dingo." She leaned forward in her seat. 

Roach nodded his head in hello, but didn't really make any eye contact, instead moving in his seat to sit a bit closer to Danny. She squeezed his knee with her hand, but didn't say anything more, knowing he hated the attention on him.

"There are a few others in our Task Force that are missing, my husband among them." Gabby added as she smiled up at her daughter, who was happy being blinded in Robby's arms.

Langdon jabbed a finger toward Roach. "What's his deal?"

"Leave it alone, Frank." Robby said casually while he bounced Ivory. "Not everyone's eager to chat with strangers."

Langdon furrowed. "I don't understand."

"He can hear you just fine," Robby said, his attention still on the baby.

"Then why won't he look at me? Can't he speak for himself?"

Robby tightened his jaw in return. "Not everyone operates on your social timeline."

"I'm just asking a simple question," Langdon pressed, straightening his posture.

His expression darkened as his eyes flicked between Danny and Gabby. "Don't push this tonight."

When Langdon held his gaze before scoffing and stepping forward, his hand reaching toward Roach's shoulder. 

Suddenly, Gabby clocked the movement of Langdon as he reached for Roach. In a heartbeat, she sprang was up on her feet, flicked open a switchblade. The polished steel tip hovering inches from Langdon's chest but squarely between him and her sergeant.

"Back off." She growled, her tone low. Her eyes went dark, wild, she was no longer in her civilian mode, she was a full soldier, assassin. "Don't you dare put your hand on my Sergeant."

Cam and Danny were both on their feet as well. Cam had reached for her Pistol which was on her hip, and Danny was up and standing beside Gabby. Roach was standing, his hand resting on his gun that was still in his holster. Dingo and Abbott were also up on their feet, moving towards the group. 

The rest of the patrons froze, eyes wide, but Gabby paid them little mind. Her eyes were locked on Langdon. "I don't take kindly to people messing with MY team. And right now, I am their leader. Roach doesn't speak to people he doesn't know and trust. Respect that, and maybe I'll let you keep that hand."

"Gabby–" Charlie started, concern etched on his face, but a second voice cut him off.

"Hey woah! What's going on?" Gambit rushed forward, hazel eyes darting between the switchblade and Langdon's widening gaze. The others shifted, hands drifting toward holsters. "Nobody needs to get hurt here. Robby, fill me in."

Robby exhaled, sweaty palm stroking Ivory's head as she nuzzled his chest, whimpering softly. "I warned Frank that Roach doesn't talk to strangers. He brushed me off."

Gambit then focuses on Langdon. "Man, what were you thinking?"

"I..." Langdon tried to find words but the way his eyes focused on Gabby and the knife, it made his heart thump faster as if he ran a marathon. Instead, it was something else entirely that he isn't sure if this woman he never met gave him a scare of his life. "I... I was just... trying to be friendly."

"You ignored Robby's warning," Abbott said, frowning when he frowned. "That's insubordination."

Immediately, Langdon twisted his glance to Abbott. "Insubordination?! I didn't do anything, I was just trying to be friendly."

"Ever hear of trauma response, Pal?!" Danny said angrily, "it's Roach's way of dealing. So sit down and respect his ways."

In brief silence, Langdon licked his lips and swallowed, cheeks hollow. He exhaled, shoulders slumping, raised his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for any of this." He flinched as if sheathing an invisible knife. "Ma'am, I promise I'll keep my distance."

"Frank," Charlie jumped in, "it's not your fault. You didn't mean too. Roach doesn't sit well with strangers so it takes awhile for him to open up. Kinda like a chosen mute, but really, he's okay. He doesn't talk to me either. Still getting to know me."

Abbott filed that away, glancing at Roach with new understanding of the silent guard around him. Langdon nodded slowly, relief and embarrassment warring in his posture.

Gambit turned back to Gabby, mouth twisting quizzically. "Right, uhm... ma'am? Have you... used that knife before? This looks more like a compact pocket piece."

Gabby rained herself back in, and flipped the knife shut. It was the same knife Simon had given her on their first mission together. "Trust me, this knife has seen more shit than you can imagine." She slipped the knife back into her belt and cocked her head to the side. "For the record, I know how to kill a man thirty-two different ways with a paperclip. So I am very well trained in handling and using that knife. Which I have used to save not only my own life, but countless others." 

"Did you say thirty-two different ways... with a paperclip?" Someone asked from the med group, and Gabby turned to face them. 

"Yes. I'm a very well decorated soldier. It comes with the territory."

Cam huffed and put her pistol back in its holster. "She's also the top assassin and spy for the States. She's like Black Widow, but real."

In a brief moment, Robby stared at Gabby. 

"Wait a minute, are you really?"

"What did I miss?!" Mel jumped in and her smile widened as her ponytail bounced and her glasses were known since she was still in her tank top and her comfortable pants with sneakers she had run from her villa to here.

Abbott and Langdon looked at her and they were unsure what to say next. Which made her smile faded when Mel glanced at them. "Did something happen?"

Robby then looked at Mel and nodded slowly. "It's best you don't want to know earlier." Then he moved on and looked back at Gabby. "You are a soldier, right? They don't deal with this real spy and sh–I mean... more, right?" He corrected himself because of Ivory near him.

"Are you for real?" Charlie asked finally, looking at Gabby.

Gabby shot Cam a dirty look before looking back at Robby. "First off, spies and assassins are very much real." She rubbed a finger into her temple. "Second off, when you meet me, I was with The Ghosts. They are elite soldiers that are very, very convert. We did and they still do a lot of... well... it's things so under the radar that like five people in the government even know what they are doing." She paused for a moment. "As for me, I went solo four years ago after Marsh was killed-"

"Marsh was killed?" Robby cut her off, looking shocked. 

Gabby looked up, sadness flashing over her whiskey colored eyes. "Yeah, guess Merrick doesn't share everything with everyone... but I went solo. I worked for the CIA, and the leading General in the US government. I was his personal assassin. Trust me... even if I wanted to tell you the things I got up to, I couldn't. It's part of the reason I'm part of this Task Force. I'm a skilled sniper, hand to hand combat, I can hack and code, I can speak multiple languages, impersonate multiple accents, and I can go deep undercover. I'm pretty sure four of my undercover personas are wanted in like eight countries." Gabby finished off, looking around at the shocked faces and rolled her eyes. "You want me to prove it or something?"

"No!" Abbott said outright.

"Yes!" Langdon said next, still scared, before Abbott gave him a dirty look.

"Oh... my god..." Charlie whispered, and her eyes moved to the bonfire. "John didn't tell me of this about you."

Mel stared at Gabby and the rest before she raised her hand, unshocked and said, "I love Black Widow."

Robby ignored her word and the surroundings as he hadn't torn away from Gabby. "Are you serious? Task Force? The Ghosts... and... what do you do for a living? I thought you were just a soldier from the Army."

Gabby placed her hands on her hips and let out a sigh. "Okay this is not how I expected all of this to go down. Robby, I am a soldier... a very, very well trained soldier. So is everyone on this Task Force. Cam, Me, Danny, Roach, Dingo, the others that aren't here... we are VERY well trained in what we do. We aren't 'normal' soldiers," she explained. "As for the team you treated and started sending medical supplies too, they are called The Ghosts... and most of them are dead in the eyes of the government. It's how they can operate outside the wire." She then narrowed her eyes at him and smiled something dark. "I can prove to you right here and now that I'm a spy, Robby."

He gave her a worried look, his eyebrows raised in question. 

"When you were sixteen years old, you went on a dare from your brother to get your nipples pierced and you got it done, only for it to get infected three days later so you removed them and let it heal up, never putting them back in because you were embarrassed by it, and it also sparked a bit of an interest into medicine for you, but you never told anyone but your brother that you got it done. Later in life, you became a doctor and you removed it from your medical records because you had to have a doctor remove them for you when they got infected." She was smiling like the Cheshire cat now, watching as the horror was clear in his eyes. "Proof enough or should I go on?"

The words died in his throat. 

His teenage indiscretion—that impulsive decision he'd made on his brother's dare—had remained buried for years, a secret file he thought no one could access. Yet here stood this woman, casually unlocking it before everyone around the fire. His face burned not just from embarrassment, but from the dawning realization that everything else she claimed might actually be true. Robby swallowed hard. 

"That's... accurate," he admitted, his voice dropping an octave. "Lucas put me up to it when he was barely twelve. I was sixteen and stupid."

Charlie stared at him while her eyes widened. Her lips parting then pressing together again as she processed this revelation about her soon to be brother-in-law.

"Did John ever...?" she whispered, unable to finish the question.

Robby shook his head firmly. "He was just a kid then. Eight years old. Never knew about it."

In return, Langdon tried not to snicker and Abbott's eyebrows had practically disappeared into his hairline.

"Well, that's—" Abbott began.

"We're done discussing this," Robby cut him off with a glare that could melt steel.

Mel's jaw dropped, her glasses sliding down her nose as she stared at Gabby with newfound awe. 

"Holy shit," she whispered, barely audible over the crackling fire. "You're not just military—you're actually... like... the real deal." Her voice rose with each word, hands gesturing wildly in excitement.

Gabby shrugged nonchalantly, though her eyes held a glint of satisfaction at their collective shock. "The real deal," she echoed, accepting Ivory back from Robby's now-stiff arms. "But tonight, I'm just a mom having a drink with friends."

"But how did you even—" Langdon started, then caught himself as Gabby's gaze snapped to him.

"Information is currency," she said simply. "I know things about everyone here. It's my job to know."

"How about we all take a breath?" Gambit suggested, his eyes scanning the circle. "The night's still young, and I'm pretty sure there's whiskey somewhere that needs drinking."

"Thanks for the suggestion, Gambit," Robby replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because alcohol is exactly what this situation needs right now. Maybe we can all get drunk and share our deepest secrets while we're at it."

Gambit rolled his eyes and waved off Robby's sarcasm with a dismissive hand gesture. He turned his attention to Gabby, studying her with newfound interest as she settled Ivory against her hip.

"So wait," Gambit said, leaning toward her with newfound respect in his eyes, "you're saying you're the person they send when they need someone to... disappear? Like, professionally?" His voice had dropped to a near-whisper, despite the music covering their conversation.

Gabby adjusted Ivory on her hip, the baby now contentedly playing with her mother's long hair. "That's oversimplifying it a bit, but yes, sometimes. Other times I'm gathering intelligence, or infiltrating organizations, or training others." She shrugged as if discussing grocery shopping rather than covert operations. "It depends on what the mission requires."

"That explains a lot," Gambit muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "The way you move, how you're always watching exits, the knife skills... I just figured you were regular special forces."

"Regular special forces," Danny snorted. "Like that's a thing."

Roach's lips twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile.

"Where are you from exactly?" Abbott turned his focus from Robby to Gabby. "You don't look like you came from the South but your accent does carry southern routes and maybe Mexico? Am I right?"

Gabby cocked her head and stared at him hard for a moment. "I'm from Texas, born and raised. But my parents are from Las Almas, Mexico. I'm Latina American. So yes, my accent is very much Texan." 

Abbott smiled at her slightly and nodded his head. "Okay, I can see it now. Spicy like the girls in the south. I like it." 

This earned him an eye roll from Gabby before she clocked a movement behind the rest.

Out of the shadows, Simon emerged into the firelight, but only Gabby saw him first. After years of seeing him move among the shadows like it was his home, she got used to spotting him almost in an instant. He moved slightly, stepping around the group until he got to her side. His eyes went soft as he looked down at her, and then he went stiff as he saw Robby holding his daughter.

"Hola mi amor. (Hello, my love)." Gabby said to him. 

"Holy shit," Danny whispered. "He's actually here. And in civilian clothes."

"Pay up," Cam extended her hand to Danny, who grudgingly fished a crumpled bill from her pocket.

But before he could say anything in return, Langdon spoke up after seeing Simon standing next to Gabby. 

"What's with the mask, Ghostface?" 

Simon turned his head to eye him up, blinking slowly before replying in an almost bored tone: "To hide my face." This made Gabby choke on a laugh, along with Cam who has to bite her fist to keep from laughing. 

Simon looked back to Ivory who was now pulling away from Robby and holding out her hands for her father. Robby met Gabby's eyes, and she nodded, signaling for him to hand over the baby. Once Ivory was in Simon's arms she was cooing and smiling, pulling on the edge of his mask a bit. "No, Little Bunny. Leave Daddy's mask alone." Simon hummed to the child, and she listened right away. 

"This is Simon." Gabby addressed the group. "My husband and fellow lieutenant." 

"Woah, wait," Langdon quickly stopped and looked at Simon and Gabby. "Is he British? That's the first time I hear someone we just met has a British accent."

"Uh... yeah, he is British and tall... and scary," Mel added.

"Scary is right," Abbott commented as he looked at the man before Gabby and the rest. He turned and looked at Robby. "What do you think?"

"Who the hell is the leader of the Task Force?" Robby frowned in return as he ignored Abbott's comments. "It can't be Gabby since she's an acting lead."

"Uhm... Robby," Charlie called him meekly.

He turned his face and looked at her, his brows almost creased. "What?"

She pressed her lips thin and her chest raised before she exhaled. "John is the Captain of 141 Task Force. He's the leader of this whole operation we are all in, well... except me."

He blinked twice and this time, his forehead creased more. "What do you mean?"

"I... I'm under a strict protection order by everyone, including my cousin, Alex."

His stare lingered on Charlie as the pieces clicked into place. Alex's evasiveness about her presence in an active war zone while pregnant suddenly made sense. He'd rarely bothered with formal chain of command—never imagining his step-brother John would actually hold captain's rank. The fact that he hadn't spoken to John in—what, years? After their mother passed since 2011. The revelations hit him like incoming artillery, making his chest constrict. His pulse quickened as he struggled to process it all, jaw muscles working beneath his beard.

"You," he began slowly, "are under protection by everyone in here, right?"

She nodded.

"And my brother is the Command and Captain of his own Task Force? 141?"

She nodded again. "Yes."

In a few moments, he shuts his mouth, a muscle twitching along his jawline as his teeth ground together.

Fucking hell John! Why hide yourself from your only family?!

"Robby?" Langdon called him.

"WHAT?"

Mel and Langdon flinched backward. Even Gambit's eyes widened slightly. Only Abbott remained steady, watching him with knowing eyes.

"Robby, brother," Abbott murmured, palms raised as he approached like someone might a cornered wolf. "Your face is fixing to turn red, I know you—"

"Oh, you can see it?" Robby chuckled without humor. "Then explain to me how my brother runs a classified task force, puts a pregnant woman in a war zone?" He jerked his chin toward Charlie without meeting her eyes, "How my niece enlists in the Navy and I hear about it from strangers? " I'm just supposed to stumble across all these secrets like landmines?"

His shoulders dropped as Abbott massaged the back of his neck. "Look, I get it. But there's layers to this situation you haven't even touched yet."

Cam sighed and stepped forward so she was standing next to Charlie. She put a hand on her shoulder and looked up at her uncle. "There is a lot to unpack Uncle Robby. There is a lot Dad doesn't share. Hell, this team is still learning shit about each other a year later, because Dad is not great on sharing.... Let's sit, we'll answer questions as best as we can... some things we can't share, but we'll do our best." She waved towards the chairs and logs around the fire. "Don't take it out on your team or us and Charlie, she's still learning, still adapting to this life. The rest of us have had years of this... we all carry things with us because of it. Dad is no different. But it's not our fault."

Robby scoffed and shook his head. He was already feeling a pinch of headache, slowly from the back of his head and the front. Rubbing his tired face, he scrubbed his beard before looking at Charlie.

"I think I'm going to call it a night since this is a lot. What else did I miss?"

She stared at him before biting her bottom lips before letting it go.

"I'm going to get married by the end of December."

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 107✨

Above them, a new moon hid its face behind olive branches. Stars speckled the inky sky, and Edison bulbs strung between beams cast a soft amber glow. Across flagstone pavers, laughter rippled through clusters of soldiers and medics. White folding tables bowed under the weight of open coolers—lids propped like tired knees against tree trunks. A battered speaker nestled on a stump, throbbing with a country and mellow beat. At the perimeter, ULF troops lounged with rifles slung low, fingers drifting along triggers even as they chatted in hushed Arabic.

Folding tables groaned under bowls of salad, variety of food, and metal trays of flatbread. Coolers cracked open, their icy breath wooing a cluster of soldiers who stood around with rifles slung low, joking in hushed, Farsi dialect. A portable speaker thumped a steady beat, low enough not to hurt your ears but strong enough to stir your pulse.

Robby spotted Mel near one of the tables. Her blond hair, usually pulled back, fell in behind her shoulders, and her black tank hugged lean arms as she laughed at something a local medic said. Langdon hovered a few paces off—scrubs rumpled, top half untucked, sleeves rolled—holding a beer bottle loosely, as if he couldn't decide whether to lift it to his lips or just look casual. Probably too tired to join in the chatter, Robby guessed, or maybe he was savoring the rare chance to breathe.

When they found a quiet corner where string lights cast only a gentle glow. Abbott fished two beers from a cooler beside a wooden crate that served as tonight's bar, beneath a crooked banner hanging on sun-bleached plaster. The cap twisted off with a sharp hiss as Abbott handed one to Robby, who accepted it and took a long gulp before settling onto a stone bench. Their backs pressed against gnarled roots, Robby inhaled the mingled scents of night jasmine and soldier's sweat. His gaze drifted across the gathering—catching Mel's laughter while Langdon's nodding toward a middle eastern medic volunteer, who was telling them either a joke or a story. He searched for Gabby but found no trace. No Levi either and John—his stepbrother's absence felt like both blessing and wound.

Abbott stretched his legs out, the rough edge of the bench pressing into his calves. "Long day."

Robby exhaled slowly, the beer sweating in his hand. He counted off today's toll, two surgeries, one shrapnel extraction, three collapsed from dehydration, a child's fever that wouldn't relent. Each number settled over him like a stone.

"You good?" he asked, bringing him back from his thought.

He lifted the bottle to his mouth, buying time for the cold liquid to slid down his throat. "I'm great."

He frowned almost. "That's not what I asked."

Robby set the beer on the stone beside him and met Abbott's gaze. "I'm here."

He studied him before he continued, "You don't have to be strong all the time."

He released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "I'm not."

Abbott let out a soft laugh, then took a swallow of his own beer. "Yeah, sure. You've been running hard."

"It's only day five."

Abbott shook his head slowly. "And you're already carrying it like it's month six."

"I don't burn out," Robby shot back.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Everyone burns out."

"Not if you manage it."

Silence curved between them as the party's distant laughter rolled over the courtyard again as Abbott gave Robby a long look, then a small nod, as if granting permission to simply sit—and let it be. Abbott took another slow pull from his beer.

"Mel told me that Charlie stopped by the annex this morning," he said casually. "You spent a while with her."

Robby clenched his jaw, this wasn't another question Abbott would ask also. He glanced sideways. "She had some cramping," he answered evenly. "First trimester irritation. Not uncommon."

Abbott hummed, like he was cataloging the tone more than the words. "Emergency?"

"No."

"Was she scared?"

Robby shrugged one shoulder. "Anyone would be. It's her first pregnancy. Spotting'll do that."

He nodded once, eyes still on the crowd. "And?"

"And what?" he asked, finally turning his head.

Abbott met his gaze without blinking. "You know, she's your soon-to-be sister in law, right?"

"I'm aware," he said, ignoring his statement. "Heartbeat strong. Cervix closed. No active bleed."

He didn't smile, but there was something in his eyes that said that wasn't what he meant. He waited for another moment before Abbott said, "Just making sure."

"What does that mean?" Robby asked, blinking a few times.

Which made Abbott look away toward the lights overhead. "Nothing."

Robby scoff before continuing, "She was embarrassed about the... cause."

"Like what?" Abbott said, glanced at him back and lifted his brow.

"My brother was with her last night," he added, keeping his tone clinical. "He didn't know she needed pelvic rest."

"And how did that sit with you?"

Robby let out a quiet laugh in response, shaking his head. "How do you think it sat?"

 "I don't know," Abbott shrugged. "You get weird when it comes to her."

Robby narrowed his eyes before looking away. He leaned back against the stone and glanced up above the dark sky where tiny hints of stars threaded between olive branches. "It wasn't an emergency," he repeated. "She's fine. That's what matters."

"Hmm," Abbott hummed before he took another drink. "You don't sit around talking about patients after your shift. You don't stare off into space because somebody had mild cramping."

"She's pregnant, Jack." Robby said before closing his eyes.

"So are thousands of women." Abbott pointed out. "Now, tell me about your brother. John, right?"

Robby opened his eyes and shifted his gaze back to him. "What about him?"

"You didn't know he was around?"

"No." He frowned suddenly.

"How come you weren't aware he wasn't around?"

"Because nobody tells me that my half brother showed up." Robby said, almost irritated. "And he never tells me anything."

"So, let me get this straight." Abbott began. "She came to you because of that, and he never told you he was around? Right?"

Robby stared at him, still frowning. "Yes. What does that concern you?"

"From what Mel told me what happened, it sounded like whenever you life to her talk about your brother. You get all tensed up or pissed off for no reason." Abbott stated.

Again, Robby chuckled bitterly. "Why would I care?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure you out."

There it was.

The conversation he'd been avoiding all day.

Robby exhaled sharply through his nose, mentally cursing the hospital grapevine. Of course Mel would tell Abbott everything. His shoulders bunched, muscles knotting beneath his shirt, and he rolled them once—as if the physical motion could somehow dislodge the memory of Charlie's worried eyes looking up at him from the exam bed. Robby rolled the bottle between his palms. 

"She's fine. I already told you that."

"You planning to see your brother while he's here?" he pressed.

"Since when is my family drama your concern?" The words came out sharper than intended, but Abbott just took another swig of beer, unflinching.

"First of all, I've known you long enough to recognize when you're full of shit." Abbott pointed out rhetorically. "Second, you're not invincible as you think you are. I'm worried about you, Michael," He paused, studying Robby. "And three, you've been acting weird whenever Charlie is around. Is there something you want to say, Michael?"

Robby swirled the beer in his bottle, teeth working at the inside of his cheek as he looked away. The urge to deflect rose in his chest—that familiar impulse to shut down or walk off whenever conversations cut too close to the bone. But Abbott wasn't just anyone. He was the ex-Marine who'd traded combat boots for surgical scrubs years ago, who'd been there through the 3 AM terrors that had Robby gasping awake long before either of them had chosen emergency medicine as their refuge.

"I'm dealing with it," he finally said

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got." Robby drained the last of his beer in one long pull. "Charlie's pregnant with my brother. The same half-ass brother who spent most of my childhood reminding me I wasn't blood while my dad gave all of us his fists and belt." He set the empty bottle down with little force near him. "And now he's here, in my space, where I'm supposed to be focused! You don't leave that poor woman in this strange state while we're out here, putting our lives in line. This doesn't add up and that is fucking driving me crazy! Her cousin won't tell me anything about her staying over."

Abbott didn't immediately respond, just reached into the cooler and extracted another beer, twisting off the cap before handing it over.

"You know what else bothers me?" Robby continued, accepting the bottle without acknowledging. "She came to me and I had to stand there, be all professional, while she described how my brother fucked her hard."

Abbott winced. "Oof, really?'

"Yeah." Robby took a swig and the beer tasted bitter now. "So I'm managing it by not thinking about it. I want to beat the living shit out of him for being rough with her!"

"Hmm," Abbott hummed as he listened until a brief pause when he took a swing of another drink for himself. "You ever consider that avoiding it isn't working?"

Robby shot him a sideways glance. "What's my alternative? Hunt down John and beat his ass? Ignore Charlie completely?"

"You could try talking to her."

Robby rolled this eyes back and continued, "Right and say what? 'Hey, sorry my hands were inside your vagina this morning, checking for damage John has caused'?"

Abbott snorted while his lips quirked. "I'd workshop that opening line."

The string lights above them flickered as a breeze swept through the courtyard. In the momentary dimness, Robby caught sight of movement at the entrance. 

His lungs seized. 

Charlie. 

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she entered, the rest tumbling loose down her back. The wind lifted a few strands that caught on her lip gloss, and she brushed them away with fingertips that barely peeked from cream-colored sleeves. Her sweater rode up when she reached to hug someone, revealing a creamy of skin above her jeans before she tugged it back down, smoothing the fabric where it stretched across her middle. 

When she turned to laugh at something Gambit said, her gold hoop earrings swayed against her neck, catching the light alongside the thin chain at her throat. She navigated between groups with ease, her scuffed ankle boots carrying her confidently across the courtyard. Twice, her hand drifted to rest on her stomach, lingering there as she spoke. The third time, she looked up mid-gesture and caught his gaze across the crowd. 

His chest burned before he remembered to inhale.

"Shit," he muttered.

Abbott followed his gaze, and his expression changed almost. Not like an irritation but understanding. Like he'd just solved a puzzle he'd been staring at for days. "Ah."

He glanced at him quick. "Don't start."

"I didn't say anything," Abbott quickly retorted as he whipped his focus back to him.

"You were about to," Robby said before setting the bottle down near him with a sharp click against stone. "I'm going back to my space."

"Woah, woah!" His hand shot out, gripping Robby's forearm. "Running won't fix it."

"Nothing needs fixing," Robby said, voice flat.

"Then why are you hiding the second she walks in?"

He yanked his arm free. "I have to go."

"Bullshit."

"Jack, I'm serious."

"Yeah? So am I." Abbott said sternly. "Whatever's going on between you two—"

"There's nothing going on between us," Robby cut in.

"—it's affecting you! And out here, distractions get people hurt when you don't focus, Robby."

Charlie had spotted them and left Gambit's side. Each step seemed to tighten something in Robby's chest.

"She's coming over," Abbott said unnecessarily.

He frowned in return. "I see that."

"You going to run?"

"I was until you stopped me." Robby gritted his teeth.

"Good." Abbott stood. "Because food sounds good and I'm hungry. You'll survive without me." Then, he disappeared into the crowd before Robby could stop him. 

Suddenly alone on the bench, Robby watched Charlie navigate between clusters of people toward him. Each deliberate step brought her closer, the overhead string lights casting a golden halo around her hair as she moved beneath them.

"Hey," she said when she reached him. "I didn't know you were around."

"Charlie." He didn't stand and smiled quick. "Uh, yeah... my friend dragged me here so I can't get out now. How are you doing?"

A soft giggle slipped past her lips, and her smile widened—bright teeth catching the light, dimples pressing gently into her cheeks. "Good." She gestured to the empty space beside him. "May I?"

"Of course," Robby said, shifting immediately, clearing space for her as if the bench belonged to her and he was the guest.

She eased down beside him, palm pressing into the cushion for balance while her other hand drifted back to her stomach, fingers resting there without thought. His eyes lingered on the way her hand rested over her stomach before he forced himself to look up at her face again.

"You feeling better?" he asked.

Charlie nodded. "Yeah. The cramps stopped. Gabby practically forced me to sit still all morning until in the afternoon, I took a nap."

"That was a good call," Robby said. "Your body needs time to adjust."

She smiled faintly. "You sound like you're giving me medical orders again."

"Force of habit."

Her shoulders relaxed a little at that, and for a moment they simply listened to the surroundings of the party around them for a few moment until Robby cleared his throat. "So... where's John?"

Her smile faltered, though not in a way that created tension between them.

"He can't come here during the week," she answered.

Robby frowned at her. "What do you mean?"

She shifted on the bench, turning slightly so she could face him better.

"There's a directive rule," she explained. "Something about separating commanders from civilian safe zones during active duty."

His brows pulled together. "I'm sorry—what?"

Charlie gave a small, apologetic shrug. "It's called Separation After Dusk, I think... or Directive 17-B." She gestured vaguely toward the outer walls of the compound. "Since John is in the commanding rank, he's not allowed to be at Dar-Esham in nighttime."

Robby stared at her, trying to process the logic. "So he just... what? Never shows up in the city?"

"He can during the day," she said. "But he has to leave before the sun goes down."

"That's... specific," Robby said, taking a mental note.

Charlie laughed softly, though there was no humor behind it. "It's a security thing." She lifted one shoulder. "Basically if bad guys figure out where the commander sleeps, they go after him along with the civilians involved."

It took a few moments for Robby to take all of the details before connecting the dot. He hummed in understanding. "So the solution is to keep him away from the civilians."

"Yep."

Robby glanced around the courtyard—the olive trees, the lanterns, the doctors and medics trying to pretend for one evening that they weren't working in a war zone. Then his eyes returned to her. 

"So when do you see him?"

"Weekends," she said simply.

"Only weekends?"

She nodded again. "Yeah, during the day if he can sneak away for a few hours from base. But he can't stay." She exhaled softly. "By sunset he has to be back at the base outside the city."

His brows furrowed as he processed what she was telling him. "And that arrangement works for you?"

Her fingers traced a slow circle over the knit fabric stretched lightly across her stomach.

"It doesn't," she said quietly.

Robby watched the shadow play across her cheek as she turned slightly away. "You talk about it like it's just another inconvenience."

"What else can it be?" she replied. "Rules are rules."

A beat passed between them before he exhaled softly.

"True" he muttered.

Then, another brief silence settled between them again and Charlie glanced sideways at him.

"Why do you ask?"

Robby shrugged, picking up the bottle he'd set beside him.

"I just wanted to see him," he said. "That's all."

"You probably will," she said.

"When?"

"Saturday."

Robby huffed quietly, taking a drink.

"Okay," he murmured.

Suddenly, she shifted on the bench and a breeze caught between them. His breath hitched. Cherry blossoms. The scent his stepmother, Olivia, and her garden used to grow in terracotta pots on the balcony. His eyes closed for half a second, muscles tensing as he inhaled against his will. When he opened them again, she was still talking, but his heartbeat had already betrayed him. Her head tipped slightly as she studied him before adding, "Are you okay? You look tired."

Robby opened his eyes quick and glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, I'm okay. I always look tired."

Her lips pursed slightly, though her eyes crinkled at the corners. "Mm. No. Sometimes you're all scowls and frowns." She tilted her head, studying him. "But right now? Those shadows under your eyes tell a different story."

His exhale came with the ghost of a laugh as tension melted from his shoulders. "You've got me all figured out, huh?"

"Maybe."

There it was—that smile unfolding across her face like a secret being shared. Her brown eyes didn't flash or dazzle, but they held him with a quiet intensity that made him feel truly seen. Robby found himself staring a heartbeat longer than he should have before forcing his throat to work. He needed another topic—fast.

"How's the cramping?" His voice came out even, clinical.

She dropped her eyes to her stomach, fingers smoothing lightly over the fabric before looking back at him. "Gone." A small pause. "I've been resting."

A single nod. "Good."

Her glance slid sideways, playful but testing. "Are you always this bossy with your patients?"

"Only the ones who pretend they follow instructions."

Her brows lifted before she slowly smiled like she'd just been handed a challenge.

"Oh?" she murmured. "You saying I look like a rule-breaker, Doctor?"

Robby leaned back slightly where he stood, arms folding across his chest. The movement was casual, but the way his eyes tracked her was anything but calm and observant. The kind of look that made people feel like he'd already figured them out before they'd speak.

"I'm saying," he replied evenly, "you strike me as the kind of patient who nods while I'm explaining the treatment plan... then goes home and does the exact opposite."

Charlie let out a soft laugh, tilting her head. "That is a wild accusation."

"Is it?" His gaze flicked briefly to her natural pink lips and her warm, chocolate brown eyes before he continued, "You'd skip the follow-up appointment. Forget to take the medication on schedule. Probably Google the symptoms instead of calling."

Her mouth opened in mock offense. "I would not—"

"You would absolutely Google it."

"I take my time and read multiple sources," she corrected primly. "And form an informed opinion."

His mouth twitched. "Which you'd then argue with your doctor about."

Charlie pointed at him. "That sounds like a you problem."

Now he actually smiled—small, crooked, the kind that barely showed but warmed his voice.

"No," he said. "That sounds like a patient who needs supervision."

"Oh really?" Her eyes sparkled at that.

"Really."

Charlie leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice just enough to make the moment feel conspiratorial. "And what would you do about it, Doctor Robby?"

He didn't move for a second.

Just watched her.

A little too aware and amused when he said calmly, "Keep a closer eye on you."

Charlie blinked once, the teasing still on her lips—though something softer flickered underneath it now.

"Strict?" she guessed.

"Thorough," he corrected.

His eyes held hers, steady and unflinching, the intensity in them making promises his voice hadn't. Heat crawled up her neck as she glanced away, only to find herself drawn back to his gaze a moment later.

"You're something," she commented it.

"Am I?" Robby said, his voice was low, almost private despite the party around them.

Charlie pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, studying him with those expressive grey eyes that seemed to catalog every microexpression crossing his face. When she released her lip, it was slightly redder than before.

"You know you are," she replied. "Most doctors I've met are either too clinical or trying too hard to seem approachable. You're..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Honest."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Both," she admitted. "It's intimidating, but also... reassuring." Her hand found its way back to her stomach, an unconscious gesture that drew Robby's attention despite his best efforts.

"Does it feel different?" he asked before he could stop himself. "Knowing there's life growing inside you?"

Her expression softened. "Every day. Sometimes I wake up and forget for a split second, then it hits me all over again." She glanced down at her barely-there bump. "It's strange to love someone you've never met."

Robby watched her fingers trace small circles over the fabric. "That's normal," he said quietly. "The attachment forms early."

She smiled almost. "Is that the doctor talking?"

"Just an observation."

"Well, your observation is correct. I already..." She hesitated. "I already love this baby more than I thought possible."

Something twisted in Robby's chest—sharp and sudden. He took a quick drink to mask whatever might have shown on his face.

"John must be excited," he managed, the words tasting like ash.

She nodded in return, still smiling. 

"Yeah," she added. "He wants to be part of every moment, even from a distance."

"That's good," Robby said, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. He shifted on the bench, creating an inch more space between them. "But you do know distance is hard, right?"

"Uhm..." she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear again, a nervous tell he'd already cataloged. "Yeah but I knew what I was signing up for when I came here. The separation, the rules, all of it."

"Did you?"

The question slipped out before he could stop it. She blinked at him before her eyes became alert.

"What do you mean?"

Robby set his beer down, turning slightly to face her fully. "Did you really know what you were getting into? War zones, separation protocols, medical complications without proper facilities?" He gestured vaguely toward her stomach. "Pregnancy in a place where the nearest NICU is four hours away by helicopter—if weather permits?"

She stiffened. "John wouldn't have brought me here if it wasn't safe."

"Safe is relative," Robby replied, his voice gentler than his words. "This isn't Colorado or even Kabul. This is Urzikstan's contested territory."

"I'm not naive."

"I didn't say you were."

"You implied it."

Robby exhaled slowly. "I'm just saying that pregnancy complicates things. Changes risk assessments."

Her fingers curled protectively over her stomach. "I can handle myself."

"I have no doubt," he said. "But can John?"

The question landed like a stone between them. Her expression almost hardened, defensive walls rising visibly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Robby knew he should back off, change the subject, laugh it away. But something drove him forward—concern, frustration, or something deeper he didn't want to examine.

"It means he left you alone, pregnant, in a conflict zone where he can't even stay overnight to watch over you."

"He's doing his job," she shot back.

"And you're carrying his child."

Her eyes flashed. "Which is why I'm here. So we can be together whenever possible, instead of oceans apart."

"Together?" Robby couldn't keep the edge from his voice. "You just said you only see him on weekends."

"That's better than nothing."

"Is it?" He leaned forward slightly. "Because this morning, you were terrified you were losing the baby, and where was he?"

The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Charlie recoiled as if he'd slapped her, color draining from her face.

"That's not fair," she whispered.

"You're right," he said immediately, running a hand through his hair. "That was out of line. I'm sorry."

She stood abruptly, arms crossing over her chest. "You don't know anything about my relationship with John."

"Charlie—"

"No," she cut him off. "You don't get to judge what works for us. You're my doctor, not my therapist."

Robby rose to his feet, towering over her but careful to keep space between them. The string lights cast half his face in shadow as he struggled to find the right words.

"You're right," he finally said. "I overstepped. I'm sorry."

Her shoulders remained rigid, but something in her eyes softened—just barely. "Why do you even care?"

The question caught him off guard. In the silence that followed, he pressed his lips tight before he answered. "Because..." He hesitated, wrestling with the truth before settling on a safer version. "Because I've seen too many people get hurt out here. Physically and otherwise."

Charlie studied him, her expression unreadable. "Is that really it?"

His jaw tightened as he held her gaze. "What else would it be?"

A beat passed between them, their eyes hadn't left and his reply died on his tongue.

Across the narrow gap, she waited—cheeks pink from the lantern-light, lashes fanning over eyes the color of chocolate brown in the fire-glow. A single freckle sat high on her left cheekbone; he'd never noticed it in the infirmary's harsh fluorescents. Now it tugged at him like a target only he could see. Her lips parted, just enough for a breath he felt rather than heard. Gloss caught the light, throwing back a shimmer that made him imagine warmth melting against his tongue. He wondered—unbidden—if the sweet note would linger after he kissed her, if it would coat the back of his throat the way morphine sweetness sometimes clung after an IV push.

Stop.

He catalogued instead: the quick pulse fluttering in her throat, the way the neckline of her sweater dipped as she inhaled, the protective curve of her palm over the barely-there swell beneath knit. Every detail fed his physician's precision, but something darker—wanting—slipped through the clinical seams, whispering what he could do for her if she let him. He'd brace her spine with his long hands during the long med-evac flights back to home, shield her ears from the chopper noise. He'd press heat packs to her lower back when cramps returned, memorize the exact pressure that made her sigh in relief. He'd hold her hair, not in lust but in simple tenderness, should morning sickness steal her composure. The fantasies weren't carnal, not entirely; they were reverent, possessive in a way that scared him more than anything.

"You never answered," she murmured.

Robby blinked. "Answered what?"

"Why you care." Her voice was low, but not fragile—testing, almost daring him.

Because you deserve someone who never makes you brave the night alone, Robby wanted to say this. Because the idea of you bleeding or hurt where I can't reach you bothers me.

Those were the answers he wanted to say but instead, he cleared his throat. 

"Because it's my job to worry about every patient under this roof." The lie tasted thin even to him.

Her brow arched. "You and I both know bedside concern doesn't usually come with this level of interrogation."

"I'm thorough," he said, echoing his earlier tease, but the word carried a rasp now. Thorough in checking vitals. Thorough in kneeling between her thighs and mapping every gasp—

Easy, Michael.

Charlie nodded slowly, her hand drifting back to her stomach in that unconscious gesture that made his chest ache. "Well, your patient is fine. And she'd appreciate it if you stopped questioning her life choices."

"Noted," he said, forcing himself to step back. "I won't bring it up again."

"Good. For what it's worth, I'm not as fragile as you think I am."

He gave her a tight smile before she turned her glance away from him until her face lit up.

"Oh!" she said suddenly. "There they are."

Robby blinked, automatically following the direction of her gaze. Three figures stepped through the wide archway that opened into the courtyard, the soft amber light from the string bulbs spilling across the stone path beneath their steps. The first woman caught his attention immediately. She moved with confidence like someone who'd lived in boots and discipline most of her life. A navy hoodie hung loose over her frame, the bold gold U.S. Navy lettering stretched across the front, a small American flag stitched proudly along the sleeve. Dark jeans hugged her legs, worn in the way denim gets after long days and hard miles, and black sneakers scuffed lightly against the flagstone as she walked.

Her hair was a wild storm of red curls spilled over her shoulders, the firelight from the courtyard pit catching in the strands until they glowed like burning embers. Her posture was straight without trying, shoulders squared the way soldiers carried themselves long after training ended. Next to her walked another woman who carried a completely different energy.

Where the redhead moved with quiet focus, this one moved like the world was already her playground. Her blonde hair was twisted up in a messy high bun, a few loose strands catching the warm lights overhead. She wore a black long-sleeve top laced across the chest in crisscross ties, the neckline dipping just enough to give her an easy confidence without looking like she was trying too hard.

Her ripped light-wash jeans clung to her legs, shredded at the knees and thighs in a way that looked intentional rather than careless. White sneakers padded against the stone as she leaned back slightly on her heels while talking, flashing a bright smile toward the redhead beside her.

Behind them followed the third figure was a man, who was near the second woman. Short and sandy haircut framed his face, and a light stubbles shadowed his jaw. He was wearing a dark denim jacket sat over a simple cream sweater, the layers casual but solid, like someone who preferred practical clothing over anything flashy. Faded blue jeans fit comfortably along his legs, tucked loosely above worn brown boots that had clearly seen more pavement than parade ground.

His brain started assembling the details one by one and the familiar shape of the first person he hadn't seen in years, until it clicked.

...Cameron?

The courtyard lights caught his niece's silhouette, and time folded like origami between present and past. In his mind, Cam was still that seven-year-old shadow at his heels in John's London flat, firing "why" and "how" questions faster than he could answer them during his rare visits home. Those weeks when John had been housebound after the IED blast—cursing his injuries, refusing help, while Cam absorbed everything around her with those watchful blue eyes.

Robby remembered those days.

All the days, his young stepbrother had complained about how he didn't want to be a burden to anyone. But Robby had to stop him from complaining and to just relax and rest. He had remembered that the neighbor, an older woman, used to come home after long hospice shifts and immediately slipping into the rhythm of the household. Cooking, cleaning, teaching Cam the small life skills that slowly turned a child into a responsible young woman.

Cam had been bright even then.

Curious.

Fearless in the way only kids could be.

Now she's here in the middle of somewhere, halfway across the world where he was currently residing.

Something wasn't adding up.

"Cam!" Charlie called and waved as she slid off the bench beside him, smiling brightly as she lifted her hand.

He watched as Cam whipped her head at the sound of her name and her wintry blue eyes landed on Charlie and him, which her face broke into recognition.

"There you are!" Cam called back, weaving through a couple of pardons. "Danny swore you'd already found food and abandoned us."

The woman beside her—Danny—laughed and commented to Cam. "Don't listen to her, Charlie. You did the right thing by leaving us since Gambit was impatient. She was too busy petting that dog, who was hanging around lately outside that zone."

"That dog was friendly," Cam defended and looked at Danny.

Roach said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched as he chuckled.

Charlie turned halfway back toward him. "Robby, these are my friends."

Friends.

The word echoed strangely in his head until Cam finally moved her gaze to Robby, and her eyes widened. "...Uncle Michael?"

"Good to see you again, kiddo." Robby said, the corner of his mouth lifting. Something tightened in his chest—the seven-year-old with scraped knees who'd watched him study anatomy charts was now this confident woman in military gear. 

Her gaze darted between them. "Wait—you know each other?" 

Danny leaned forward slightly, clearly sensing drama, while Roach remained still, his observant eyes missing nothing. 

"I'd say so," Cam replied, her voice somewhere between shock and amusement. "He's my uncle." 

"Oh my God," Charlie breathed, pressing her fingertips to her lips. "John's brother—I completely forgot the connection."

Robby chuckled in return. "Seems there's a lot about our family John hasn't shared with you."

Danny snorted and crossed arms. "Looks like it. Our Captain really needs to open up more."

"Well, I hope Charlie has told you about us. But if not, let me introduce you to my friends. This is Danica," Cam pointed at Danny, who smiled big and placed her hands on her hips after she said, "hey". 

"And this is Gary, but Roach is his callsign, if you want to call him," Cam explained as she looked at Roach, whom he stayed closed with Danny when his hands were bunched inside his jacket pockets. His face was hard to read since Robby could tell he doesn't talk much. "He doesn't talk much, so don't get offended if he ignores you. He doesn't talk to strangers."

"Is he... deaf?" Robby guessed.

"No," Cam said. "He does sign language but he'll talk if he's comfortable with you."

Robby blinked a few times. "Okay? Does he prefer Gary or... Roach?"

"Either."

"Does he love bugs to get that nickname?" Robby asked again, still confused but interested.

"Oh, no! That's not the case," Cam quickly clarified. "You see, he earned that nickname because of what happened in his early days in the military since he was from SAS also, but it's a long story so I won't waste time with details."

"Ah," Robby said before he nodded.

"When did you get here?" Cam asked when she changed the topic.

"Not long ago," he answered.

"You're working here by yourself or...?"

"Just an assignment," Robby finished the answer and shrugged. "It may be indefinite."

Cam nodded slowly, her wintry blue eyes fixed on Robby with the stunned expression of someone who'd just witnessed a ghost step out of an old photograph. She blinked twice, as if confirming he wasn't a mirage conjured by the desert heat—her long-absent uncle standing improbably before her in this dusty military outpost thousands of miles from home.

"Figures," she muttered under her breath. Then her gaze shifted to Charlie "So, how exactly did you two meet?"

Charlie glanced between them, clearly aware she'd just been handed the spotlight. Her hand lifted in a small, vague gesture toward Robby "He's been checking on me lately," she answered.

Cam raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Robby caught the shift instantly—the subtle tension in the air, the way his niece's curiosity sharpened like skepticism, and maybe a little bit protective.

Very much her father's daughter.

Robby ran a hand through his hair, the sleeve of his jacket riding up to reveal a medical watch. "I rotate through the trauma unit here—patching up the wounded, managing the medical staff, and making sure everyone is alive."

That earned a faint huff of amusement from Cam.

"I met Charlie that night when your friend, Gabby, called me before I was fixing to join the bonfire," he continued. "Turns out she'd been drinking sparkling water while pregnant and surrounded near the heat."

Charlie pressed her lips together thin, almost like her cheeks became light pink.

"You're kidding," Cam almost smiled.

"I wish," Robby replied dryly. "She was dehydrated. Nothing bad, but enough to worry the people around her." He glanced briefly at Charlie before returning his attention to Cam. "So I made sure she got fluids, ran a few checks, and now I keep an eye on her whenever she wanders too close to the sun."

"Well," Cam said slowly, folding her arms across the front of her hoodie as she studied Charlie with exaggerated seriousness. "Poor ol' Charlie has low self-preservation instincts. Terrible survival skills. Absolutely no awareness of when to stop accidentally walking straight into trouble."

Danny snorted beside her.

"Which is impressive, really," Cam continued casually. "Considering trouble apparently finds her faster than a heat-seeking missile."

Charlie gasped, clutching a hand dramatically to her chest.

"I do not!" she protested. "I just—"

Cam raised her palm, cutting Charlie off mid-protest. "Relax" she said, her lips curving into that familiar half-smile. "Just messing with you." She took a step back toward the orange glow pulsing across the courtyard. Danny trailed behind, still snickering, with Roach shadowing them both like a silent guardian.

"Fire's calling our names," Cam called back, already half-turned away. "You two enjoy your... medical consultation." Something knowing flickered in those ice-blue eyes as they darted between Charlie and Robby. "And maybe drink some actual water this time?" With a mock salute that would've earned her pushups from any real officer, she melted into the darkness toward the flames, Danny and Roach in tow.

Her cheeks flushed as she spun to face him. "Did you really have to tell them that?"

"Just stating facts," he said with a slight lift of one shoulder. "Your hydration awareness could use some work."

She folded her arms tight across her chest. "Well, Doctor Know-It-All, you're joining us at that fire whether you like it or not. Consider it payback."

His chest tightened like someone had cinched a belt around his throat.

"Char, wait—I don't think—"

"Come on, Robby. It'd be fun to reunite with your niece and get to know her friends," she convinced him. "Plus, it would help you unwind."

He stared at her for a few moments before he huffed a sigh. "Alright, I give up."

She smiled in return.

For a second—just once—he allowed himself to imagine a world where she wasn't taken. He pictured something simple like a dinner somewhere in Pittsburgh or wherever she belongs in a state. He'd take her to a restaurant, pull out her chair. Watch the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she got shy. Memorize what she ordered and they would talk all night before he would take her to his apartment. He would like for her to stay in for a night. He could imagine her there, standing in his kitchen barefoot, wearing either a shirt or a tank top while he wanted her to be comfortable. She could sit on a chair in the island and watch him pour her a drink—non-alcoholic, obviously. He'd make sure she was comfortable with him. He'd ask her questions about herself, her fears, her dreams, everything. 

He'd listen.

Maybe listen to her soft voice and how her heart-shapes lips move. 

He could see himself testing that boundary. Giving her every chance to step back, if he comes around the island and gets close to her.

She wouldn't back away.

If their eyes met, and none would say anymore.

He could pick her up and carry her in bridal style to his bedroom. Imagine how her weight could be felt in his arms before laying her on his bed, before crawling over her and how she'd fit against him—small over his large frame. With their clothes removed one by one of each, he wondered what sounds she'd make.

What it would feel like to map every inch of her skin with patience. To make her look at him while he took his time. To show her how good it could be when someone wasn't careless.

Like his half-brother, John.

No.

Robby swallowed hard and forced his thoughts back into a box.

If circumstances were different, he would've taken her in a heartbeat.

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 106✨