Page 59 of Rescuing Aria
Storm strolls in, easy swagger, shirt damp, hair still wet from his last workout.
“You’d have to land a hit first. I watched that last round. I’ve seen toddlers move with more unpredictability.”
“Bite me,” Razor says, but there’s no real heat.
“Tempting, but you’re not my type.” Storm grins, takes a long drink, then jerks his chin toward me. “Besides, I know better than to throw hands with Jon unless I’ve updated my will.”
“Smart choice.” I grab my water, crack the cap.
The three of us breathe in the stillness—sweat cooling, adrenaline thinning, just the low hum of the ventilation system above and the distant clank of weights from the other room.
“You know, I was thinking about this earlier—something weird about our team setup.” Storm wipes his mouth, still watching me.
“Just one thing?” I give him a look.
He smirks. “Blaze has his callsign. Razor’s got his. Hell, even Mac’s stuck with his because, let’s be real, the guy’s built like a damn truck.”
“Dude’s a walking refrigerator with arms.” Razor chuckles.
“Exactly. And Jenny?” Storm asks.
“No one’s dumb enough to slap a name on her. She’d rip you in half.” I can’t help the cheeky grin. I almost want him totryto see the fireworks.
“You’re the only one who’s just… Jon.” Storm’s eyes stay locked on mine. “What gives?”
“Nobody ever gave you one?” Razor turns toward me.
“Plenty tried.” I twist the cap off and take a drink. Cold water, sharp in the back of my throat. “None of ‘em stuck.”
“You? Quiet. Unshakable. Intimidating as hell. No callsign?” Storm tilts his head. “That’s just—unsettling, man.”
“Don’t.” I point my bottle at him, voice low but clear. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying… It’s a missed opportunity.” Storm’s grin sharpens.
“Try giving Jenny a nickname,” I say. “If you survive that, we can revisit the topic.”
Razor laughs.
“Hey, I like living.” Storm’s brows pinch together, thinking. “I’ll start with something easier. Like poking a bear with a short stick.” He’s still smiling. Still thinking.
“I suggest you don’t…” I know damn well he’s not letting this go.
“Sounds like a challenge.” Razor chuckles.
“It’s not.” I glance between them. “You try and stick me with something, I’ll make you regret it.”
“Alright, alright. Damn.” Storm whistles low, hands raised in mock surrender.
But he’s still smiling and already filing through options, as if a challenge’s been issued, whether I meant it or not.
And just like that, the room feels different.
The rhythm between them—the joking, the shots thrown and caught without flinching—it’s starting to land.
Not forced. Not artificial.
Just—settling.
