Page 71 of Zorro

She was breaking him open, and Zorro was letting her. That was the way the fucker worked, and the courage he had, the surrender and the understanding rocked Bear, leaving him with something so deep that he didn’t know how to define it.

Flint made a soft, aching sound, and Bear looked down at him. “Let’s go, boy,” he whispered. Bear pulled off his tee, throwing it on one of the chaise lounges, leaving him in nothing but his black compression shorts. The two women at the bar watched him walk with the black dog, sighing.

Bear shifted slightly, crossing to the edge of the deck, sliding into the water, Flint following. As Zorro reached them, Bear started his own swim right beside him, Flint flanking him on the other side. For a long time they swam laps that way, and the tension in Zorro’s shoulders eased a little.

Zorro grabbed the side and braced his arms on the ledge, water trailing down his bare chest, his face shadowed but exposed. No mask. No grin. Just raw. “You okay?” he asked.

That made Bear huff out a laugh. “You would ask me about my shit when you’re dealing with your own.”

Those sharp eyes watched him. “You know that means nothing to me when someone I care about is in pain. Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, voice hoarse with emotion.

Bear didn’t smile. Just met his gaze. “Didn’t try.”

They stayed in silence a moment longer. Flint walked up the stairs and shook himself, droplets flinging at them. Then he sat down in front of them like a sentinel, watching Zorro with a quiet understanding only animals seemed to carry.

“Does your shit have anything to do with a certain CIA operative who showed up unexpectedly. Not on an op, in a hotel with all these beds?” Zorro murmured.

Bear’s jaw clenched.

Zorro lifted a brow.

“Fuck you and your damn intuition. How did you?—”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her. Those moments when that stoic, hardass face softens. She’s fucking stunning, so sharp she cuts, and her instincts are off the charts. I get it.”

“It’s a stupid fucking dick ache,” Bear muttered. “She’s vital to ops. Don’t dip your wick in the place where you work.”

Zorro tilted his head, water still trailing down his jaw. “Right…a dick ache.”

Bear didn’t rise to the bait. “She’s based in DC. I’m in Coronado. We only collide during missions. That’s it. That’s reality.” The silence that followed wasn’t long. But it was deep. Bear heard the lie as it left his mouth. Then, softer, quieter…was it?

Zorro didn’t press. Didn’t tease him anymore. That wasn’t who he was, not when it mattered.

Bear looked at him fully now. At the fatigue in his bones. The restlessness in his swim. The ache he hadn’t spoken out loud.

“She’s a thoughtful and mostly fair person, Z. She was fed some bullshit by her dead husband. We all know that if Joker was involved in that op, it was clean,” Bear said softly.

Zorro’s eyes closed. “I can’t put it down.”

Bear’s voice dropped into something raw. “Don’t then. If you can survive Operation Ropeburn…” He chuckled softly. “I’m sorry I missed it. You can work this out with the Doc. She’s so into you. I saw her face when she came out of that examination room. That was a woman who was running from something she wanted desperately. You, kola. She wants herself some of that Martinez energy.” He rolled his eyes. “Spirits watch over her.”

Zorro let his head fall forward, water dripping off his chin. “Fuck you, and your spirits.”

He huffed out a breath, voice thick. “She kissed me. Once. When I was unconscious.”

Bear didn’t move.

“She’s been running ever since. Every look, every word, half desire, half guilt.”

He dragged a hand over his face, breath catching. “That mix? It makes me want to fucking howl at the moon and find some way to heal her.” He choked back the next word. “I’m not good at waiting when I know what I want.”

Bear thought of Ayla. Of the ache that had never eased. Of Bailee. Of the terrible gravity of hope. “Sometimes,” he said quietly, “wanting something you can’t have is a kind of grief too.” Zorro looked up. Bear met his eyes. “Sometimes,” he said, voice low and fierce, “it’s just about thinking with the right head at the right time. We are cursed with that dilemma.”

Zorro swallowed.

The lights of Rio shimmered across the pool, catching on every ripple between them.

Bear grasped the edge and pulled himself out, water dripping off him. He bent and picked up the towel he’d dropped, going to his knees to rub it over Flint’s fur. Zorro followed, grabbing up his own towel.

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