Kant

Fadel got me some clothes and a towel so I could change and shower. By the time I stepped out, toweling my hair, Fadel was on the phone. His voice was clipped and efficient, his usual curt self as he spoke to someone on the other line.

I kept the towel aside and climbed into bed, simply sitting next to him. Though he was occupied, Fadel slung an arm around me and pulled me even closer to him. I looked up, and he turned his gaze toward me, his eyes softening just a little. It was rare to see this side of him, a glimpse of vulnerability beneath all his steel.

I looked away immediately, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. Once he was done with his call, he turned to look at me fully.

"Kant..."

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry if I hurt you previously."

I stared at him, stunned into silence. Fadel was never one to apologize easily, but here he was, acknowledging the rollercoaster of emotions he had put me through. His expression was serious, but there was something raw beneath it—regret, maybe even guilt.

I didn't know what to say at first. Instead, I burrowed myself into his hold, finding comfort in his warmth. "It's not just you, Fadel. I don't think I was any better. I... I'm sorry too."

Fadel tightened his hold around me and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead. I tilted my head up, ready to return the affection, when sudden noises from outside made us both freeze.

A crash, followed by a grunt of pain. Then, a low curse.

Fadel immediately tensed, his instincts kicking in. He let go of me and stood, his body coiled and ready for action. I followed suit, heart hammering in my chest as we carefully made our way toward the sounds coming from the living room.

Bison and Style were engaged in a fierce fight with the remnants of the hitmen who had attacked earlier. These weren't the same ones we had dealt with before; no, these men were different—more tactical, more ruthless. They had likely been sent to finish what the previous group had failed to do.

Bison was a force of nature, his tiny frame moving with surprising speed as he blocked and countered blows with brutal efficiency. One attacker tried to stab him, but Bison caught the man's wrist and twisted it until the knife clattered to the floor, then slammed his elbow into the man's face, sending him sprawling.

Style, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of clunsy chaos but still somehow knocking out his target. The man staggered, and in a blur of motion, Style grabbed his arm and flipped him onto his back, knocking him out cold.

Fadel didn't hesitate. He brandished a gun and fired a warning shot into the ceiling. The sudden explosion of sound stopped everyone in their tracks.

"Enough," Fadel commanded, his voice dangerously low.

One of the remaining attackers hesitated, clearly weighing his chances of survival. But before he could make a move, Bison stepped forward, cracking his knuckles with a menacing grin. "You wanna keep going? Be my guest."

The hitman made the right choice. He dropped his weapon and raised his hands in surrender. The others followed suit, those still conscious, anyway.

Fadel exhaled sharply, lowering his gun. "Tie them up. We need to figure out who sent them."

As Bison and Style got to work, I looked at Fadel. His jaw was tight, his eyes stormy with thought. I reached for his hand and squeezed it lightly. He looked at me, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

"Are you okay?" I asked softly.

He nodded. "Yeah. But this isn't over. Whoever sent them will try again."

I swallowed hard, knowing he was right. This fight was far from finished.

Fadel's POV

I tightened the knots on the last hitman's wrists, making sure they wouldn't be able to free themselves when they woke up. Bison had already secured the others to the chairs in the center of the living room, their heads slumped forward, groaning softly in unconsciousness.

"Messy work," Bison muttered, wiping his hands on his pants.

Style scoffed, leaning against the back of one of the chairs. "They should've known better than to come back for round two."

I rolled my shoulders, glancing at the weapons rack in the other room. "I'll grab my gear," I said, turning to leave. "Make sure they don't wake up before I get back."

Neither of them responded, but I knew they had it covered.

I walked down the hall, the adrenaline from the fight still buzzing under my skin. I wasn't worried about the hitmen—we'd deal with them soon enough. What lingered in my mind was Kant. The way he had burrowed into me earlier, the quiet way he accepted my apology. I knew I had put him through hell, and I hated that. He deserved better.

I pushed the thought aside as I reached my weapons stash, quickly checking my knives and loading up extra magazines. My fingers worked on autopilot, muscle memory taking over. But just as I was about to head back, something in the living room caught my attention.

Bison was crouched in front of Style, his normally gruff expression softened slightly. I stopped just before stepping into view, watching as he inspected a wound on Style's arm.

"Hold still," Bison muttered, pressing a cloth against the cut.

Style winced but didn't pull away. "Tch. You're acting like I'm dying."

Bison arched a brow. "If I let this get infected, you'll wish you were."

Style huffed, but he didn't protest further. He was still sitting against the table, his legs spread out in front of him, while Bison knelt between them, focused entirely on cleaning the wound. There was something oddly intimate about the scene—the way Bison worked carefully, the way Style's usual sharp tongue was subdued in his presence.

I found myself lingering, confused by the sudden closeness between them. Bison had always been protective of Style in his own way, but this felt different. More deliberate. More... careful.

And the strangest part? Style let him.

I exhaled slowly, stepping out from my spot. "You good?"

They both turned their heads sharply, caught in the moment. Style blinked, his face unreadable for a second before he scoffed and leaned back on his elbows. "Yeah, just got scratched up. Nothing major."

Bison, to his credit, didn't react much. He just went back to wrapping the bandage around Style's arm. "Nothing major, my ass."

I watched them for a beat longer before nodding. "Good. Let's get this done before these bastards wake up."

As I moved past them, I didn't miss the brief glance they shared—small, barely noticeable, but there.

I wasn't the only one in this house caught up in something complicated. But then I looked at Kant who was just watching them softly. Wait, why did Kant not look surprised though? I kept the information away in my head, deciding to ask Kant later.