You steady your breath, cheek pressed to the rifle stock. Through the scope, heat shimmers off the distant desert. The target’s convoy is crawling over the ridge—just as intel said it would. You align the crosshairs with the lead vehicle's windshield. One shot. Clean. Perfect.

You don’t pull the trigger yet.

Because through the earpiece, Nicholas’s voice rumbles, smooth and commanding.

“Breathe, sweetheart. Just like we practiced.”

His voice is your tether. You smile faintly, even as your finger rests steady on the trigger.

“Don’t distract her,” Ollie growls, rough and low. He’s down below, likely flanking the west, his boots stirring up dust and frustration. “Let her work.”

“She is working,” Peter murmurs into comms, lounging in position like he’s reclining in a Paris café and not hiding behind rocks with a loaded rifle. “She’s art in motion, mate. Let her paint.”

Logan says nothing. Of course. His silence feels closer than the rest. Like a hand on your neck. He’s always watching you. Especially when he’s quiet.

You exhale.

And fire.

The shot cracks across the silence of the hills. Lead kisses glass. The windshield explodes. The target slumps. Screams rise from the rest of the convoy. And then everything moves at once—dust, bullets, your men.

But you already know it’s over.

Later, the four of you gather at the outpost. Blood and gunpowder hang thick in the air, but you're already peeling off your gear. Your braid sticks to the back of your neck. You reach up to untie it—only for a familiar calloused hand to beat you to it.

Nicholas. His beard brushes your temple as he presses a kiss there, reverent and slow.

“Perfect,” he says. “Every time.”

You don’t get a chance to answer before Ollie storms in, shirt bloodied, eyes burning.

“You were out there alone for too long.”

“I had a vantage point,” you reply.

“You had no backup,” he snaps. “What if something happened?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer—just pulls you into a rough hug that smells like smoke and danger and home. His hands are shaking. But only slightly.

Peter strolls in next, whistling, jacket half open, a flower somehow tucked behind his ear.

“Mon ange, you nearly gave me a heart attack out there.” He tilts your chin up, studying your face like he’s memorizing it for a portrait. “Did you miss me?”

You roll your eyes. “Always.”

He grins. But then his voice drops to something more serious. “You scared Ollie. You scared me. Don’t do that again.”

You nod.

And then—Logan.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak. Just stands in the doorway, pale eyes locked to yours like he’s trying to read your pulse from across the room.

You walk to him.

He still doesn’t speak.

So you do. “I’m okay.”

He lifts a hand. Gently, almost reverently, he touches your collarbone. His thumb brushes over a speck of dried blood that isn’t yours. His lips part like he wants to say something—but all he does is pull you into him. Arms tight. Unrelenting.

Later that night, in the quiet hum of the safehouse, you're wrapped in a nest of warm skin and limbs on the shared cot they refuse to replace. Peter’s hand traces lazy circles on your hip. Ollie is pressed to your back like a shield. Nicholas has his head into your shoulder. Logan watches you all from the foot of the bed, hand resting on your ankle like a man guarding sacred ground.