Page 79 of Gravity
Boston pushed up, tucked his knife into his boot, and crossed the room in a few long strides. He plucked the bandage roll out of Rip’s hand before Rip could stop him.
“Hold still before you bleed out all over the sheets.”
“Don’t need a damn nurse,” Rip grumbled, but he let him.
Boston ignored the protest, looping the bandage clean and tight, fingers quick and sure.
Rip muttered under his breath, but his gaze lingered—caught on the sure strength in Boston’s hands, the way his head tilted down in focus, curls falling loose across his forehead.
For a second, the room’s noise thinned, fire crackling louder than the banter.
Boston tied the last knot, looked up with a flash of that wicked grin, and Rip felt something shift under his ribs.
He broke eye contact first, dragging his arm back with a grunt, covering the moment in gruffness. But the impression stayed—steady hands, sharp edges, and something that had Rip watching longer than he meant to.
The fire popped in the hearth, heat spilling across the room. Outside, the desert night was wide and cold, but in here, Rip felt the edges of something he hadn’t in a long time—interest stirring where he didn’t expect it, maybe even something dangerous.
Viper stood just outside the cell door, arms folded tight, watching Doc check over both Franklin in one cell and then Titus in the other. Both cells smelled of copper and sweat.
His eyes landed on Titus.
Viper’s jaw ticked.
He’d known Titus by presence more than name—that infuriating mix of command and sharp-edged danger.
A fucking magnet he avoided like the plague.
The spark that sat between them was a live current. He’d hated himself for feeling it.
But now?
It was fucking gone.
Titus barely glanced at him.
No fire in his eyes, no challenge curled under his words. Just a dull grunt when Doc cinched the bandage around where a bullet had grazed his arm.
Viper frowned, heat coiling low in his chest—anger or disappointment, he couldn’t tell.
Had he imagined it before? Had he built something in his head that had never existed?
“Anything else you need?” Doc asked, glancing between them.
Viper shook his head. His boots stayed planted, his arms locked over his chest. He wasn’t ready to walk away.
The man on the bench finally looked at him. Pale eyes, flat as river stone.
“You got a problem, soldier?”
The voice was right.
The face was right.
But the words landed wrong—the rhythm off, the weight missing.
Viper’s mouth curled. “Just making sure you’re still breathing.”
He turned before the silence stretched, shoving down the gnawing edge of confusion clawing through his gut.
