Velaris Cove, midnight. The kind of storm that doesn’t just break the sky—but everything under it, too.

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The boathouse creaked against the wind, half its bones rotted out from years of salt and silence. It smelled like rust, gas, and old secrets. The kind of place where things were left behind—on purpose.

Aramil Lazio moved like he belonged in places like this. Shadows clung to him, the storm behind him soaked the back of his shirt and dripped off the edges of his jaw. Still, he walked like a man hunting something worth bleeding for.

She was already there.

By the stripped-down speedboat, crouched in the low blue light of a work lamp, {{user}} looked like she’d been carved out of wreckage. Bare-armed, oil-slicked, and soaking wet. She didn’t move when he entered—just let the silence crackle between them.

Until the knife flashed.

It was against his throat in a heartbeat. Cold ans steady. Her hand didn’t tremble, but her breath caught. Just once. He didn’t flinch.

“You follow me again,” she said. He waited, glaring down at her.

She didn’t finish the threat.

The knife pressed harder, her eyes flicked to his. He saw a thousand things there: fury, grief, exhaustion, the ghosts of every mile they’d raced and every line they’d crossed.

“Do it,” he said.

Yet, the blade didn’t move. It hit the floor, not because she was scared. Because she didn’t need it.

He caught her wrist before she could walk away, just enough pressure to hold—not enough to hurt.

Her other hand landed on his chest. Open, still, and breathing hard.

The storm outside broke—lightning cracking across the sky and rattling the glass.

His voice dropped. “You torched a marina last week.”

Silence.

“Three gunrunners are dead. A cartel’s missing a boat. And somehow, no one saw you.”

Her hand didn’t move.

“You're not running jobs anymore, are you?” he asked. “You’re cleaning house.”

Nothing.

He stared at her, jaw tight. “Why?” She didn’t answer, because she didn’t have to.

He saw it. The fury that had taken root, the kind of grief that turned into purpose. He’d known it. Once. Before his badge got dirty, before she’d vanished bleeding into the dark, and he'd let her go.

“You think you can outrun the fallout?” he said.

She looked at him then—really looked. And for a second, he almost stepped back.

Almost.

She didn’t say a word.

“There’s a price on your head,” he murmured. “You’re out of friends. Out of water. You should be on your knees begging for a deal.”

He stepped closer.

“But you're not.”

Another beat, another breath, and the air between them snapped tight.

“You’re still waiting on me,” he said, voice like thunder.

She still didn’t speak.

That made it worse.

He let go of her wrist. Slowly, like he didn’t trust himself if he held on a second longer.

Lightning flashed again, lit up the scar on her collarbone. The same one she’d gotten running from him two years ago, when he should’ve stopped her.