Page 64 of Gravity
Beside him, Stone leaned against the rail, gazing into the distance, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of frayed jeans slung low on his hips. Stone had stolen one of his cufflinks and was now toying with it between his fingers of one hand. Dave smiled and took a sip.
Neither of them had said much since the night broke apart in heat and silence. Words weren’t needed then. Now, though, withthe horizon softening into gray, the weight of everything pressed back in.
Dave tipped his cup, watching the creamy brew swirling inside. “We need to talk about Vegas.” His voice was low, rough from only a few hours of sleep.
“First, we need to have a heart-to-heart with Titus. He was supposed to set up the meet. But it was the opposite.” Stone squeezed one fist around the railing.
“He’s on my list,” Dave promised. “But regardless of Titus’s response, Franklin is still out there. We’ll have to move fast before he shifts again.”
“Titus is unreliable.”
“It does appear that way.” Dave gave people the benefit of the doubt…until they proved him wrong.
Stone shifted closer, eyes tracing the line of Dave’s throat. “You sure you’re up for this mission? You scared the hell out of me in that car.”
Dave’s smile flickered, faint but real. “I’m fine.”
“You say that like it’s supposed to convince me.”
He reached out, linking their fingers—a quiet act of defiance and care.
Stone’s gaze slid to him, unreadable in the dim light. “I’m involved this time around.”
Dave huffed—part wry smile, part snort, a sound that surprised even him. He let out a soft chuckle and shifted, their joined hands steady between them. Stone’s grip tightened immediately, warm and certain.
“I was a fool to sideline you,” Dave said, squeezing once. “It won’t happen again.”
Stone’s mouth curved, not the sharp smirk he gave the world, but something softer, meant only for him. “Good. Because you’d be hell to follow, and I’m too damn stubborn to let you run alone.”
Dave shook his head, a breath of laughter breaking past. “Stubborn doesn’t cover it.”
“Persistent, then.” Stone’s tone held that low rasp, teasing. He nudged his shoulder against Dave’s. “Somebody has to keep you alive long enough to enjoy retirement.”
The battlefield kept changing, but the man beside him never did—solid as the ground beneath his feet.
Acufflink rested in his pocket—the one he’d stolen from Dave’s shirt while the world outside was still dark.
The small weight pressed against his leg as he moved, a quiet reminder of how they’d been before the day took hold. He thumbed the cool metal once, remembering the slow drag of breath on the balcony and the warmth that had nothing to do with the wind. The memory was quick, sharp, and useful; it turned something private into a tether.
Stone set the rifle down and let the weight settle against the oak bench.
The estate’s weapons room was colder than the rest of the house, the air heavy with oil and steel. Rows of racks lined the walls, rifles standing at attention, gleaming under recessed lighting. Pistols sat in foam-lined drawers, shotguns cradled in steel brackets. Scopes, optics, silencers—each sorted in labeled bins. Even the ammo crates were stacked by caliber, stenciled markings sharp and exact.
Dave’s room, Dave’s order—every detail squared away like a soldier’s uniform.
Stone stepped toward the wall, drawn without meaning to. Framed glass gleamed under the lights: a row of medals, bronze and silver, ribbons mounted in neat bars. A folded flag at the center. He stood there a moment, respect heavy in his gut.
He hadn’t known Dave back then, when the man had worn a uniform and carried the weight of whole divisions instead of assassin and special ops teams.
But Stone had served too. He knew the grind of barracks life, the stink of sweat-soaked fatigues, the long ache of marches that bled into firefights. He knew how men bled for every ribbon, how some medals were pinned long after the men were gone.
That folded flag in the case belonged to the men who didn’t come home.
Stone’s throat tightened. He’d lost men too—names that still clawed at the dark when sleep didn’t come. Looking at Dave’s medals, he wondered who the man had buried, what ghosts rode his shoulders.
After a breath, Stone turned back to the bench. His palm dragged across the rifle’s barrel, grounding himself in steel again.
They’d left each other on the balcony earlier that morning. Soft, quiet—something Stone wasn’t used to carrying into a mission day.
