Page 4 of Brawler
“Chris!” He vaulted over the cushions and made a beeline for him. Brawler caught him easily, the weight familiar, grounding. Toby’s hugs weren’t polite or tentative. They were full-body, no-holds-barred, as if letting go wasn’t in his vocabulary. The kind of touch that gave instead of taking it away.
“You’re back,” Toby said into his shoulder. “Did you know the odds of you making it home before eight were only thirty-two percent? But I added a plus-six for Beast because he’s, you know, Beast.” He leaned back suddenly, searching Brawler’s face. “Where is he? Is he okay? I had a feeling he got hurt.”
Brawler’s throat tightened. “He’s okay, buddy. Got grazed, but Twister patched him up and took him to the vet for an MRI. Just want to make sure there are no hidden injuries.”
A voice came from the kitchen doorway. “Told him you’d make it home in one piece.”
Hank Lawson stood there, coffee mug in hand, wearing his usual jeans and a T-shirt, the kind of man who looked like he could fix your truck and beat you at chess in the same afternoon. Hank had been in their lives long enough to feel like family, a steady presence who watched Toby when Brawler was deployed and never once made him feel like it was a burden.
He was the anchor on the home front, the one who baked goodies, played marathon chess matches with Toby, and made sure the world inside their door stayed simple when everything else was chaos.
He gave Brawler a small nod, a quiet, mutual acknowledgment that Toby was safe, the world intact.
Toby nodded like that made perfect sense, then glanced toward the kitchen. “Hank made cinnamon rolls. I saved you one. Well…half of one. I had to test it. Quality control.” His expression was pure mischief.
Brawler laughed. “You’re terrible at saving food.”
“I’m excellent at eating it, though,” Toby countered, already tugging him toward the couch.
They sat, Toby chattering about chess matches with Hank, a documentary on black holes, and a math puzzle he’d been working on. His hands moved constantly, drawing invisible numbers in the air.
At one point, Toby went still, his gaze sharpening. “You’re tired,” he said. “Not just your body. Your eyes look tired.”
Brawler felt that in his chest. “Long trip.”
“You can sit here and recharge. Like my phone,” Toby said, patting the cushion beside him. “But don’t plug into me. I’m already at ninety-eight percent.”
From the kitchen, Hank chuckled softly, like this was just another normal evening in their strange, perfect little world.
For the first time since wheels-up, the static in Brawler’s head eased without effort, replaced with warmth.
Emily zippedthe last pouch on her weatherproof backpack, fingers moving on instinct while her mind drifted. The apartment was dim, the early-morning sky laying a pale gray wash over the blinds.
A news anchor’s clipped voice spilled from the TV. Static crackled around a reporter describing a downed Marine chopper somewhere in South America. Details were vague. Names notreleased. Her breath hitched for half a second, then she pushed the sound away. Not her business. Not her world.
The front door opened.
She turned. Stilled.
Ben Mercer stood in the entryway, pausing like he hadn’t expected her to be awake. His button-up was wrinkled, collar skewed, tie hanging loose. His dark hair looked like it had been raked through by impatient hands. For one jarring moment, Emily thought he’d gone to work hours ago, not even bothering to say goodbye. “I thought you’d still be asleep,” he said.
Emily studied him, a low hum starting in her chest. Typical Ben. Not listening. Not paying attention. “Why would I be asleep? I’ve got a plane to catch. I told you the details two weeks ago.” He didn’t respond, like her words barely registered. “You’re just getting home?”
He arched a brow. “You’re just noticing?”
The air tightened, pulling between them like a taut wire. Emily straightened. “I’ve got a life, Ben. I don’t need to keep track of you.”
He stepped into the living room, scoffing. “Right. Message received. Loud and clear.”
She let the pack slowly slide from her shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve gotten a new job.”
Her hand froze mid-reach for her water bottle. “Where?”
“London.”
The word hit harder than she expected. Relief tangled up with a sharp twist.
