Jay's POV
A month of Angelo's relentless dawn training had reshaped us in ways I hadn't expected. Every single morning at 5 a.m., we'd drag ourselves out to the frostbitten field behind his house, the world still cloaked in pre-dawn grey, breath clouding the air like ghosts. Angelo didn't mess around—his voice cut through the cold like a blade: "Again." We'd repeat the safety checks until they were etched into our bones: clear the chamber, flick the safety on, point the barrel downrange, feet planted wide, knees soft, shoulders relaxed but ready. Load empty magazines until our fingers blistered, dry-fire at those battered cans until the rhythm felt like an extension of ourselves—lift, check, breathe, squeeze, lower. Drake groaned about his "destroyed shoulders," Mia named every target ("Farewell, Sir Can-a-lot"), Andrew tried action-hero poses until Angelo's glare reduced him to silence. But beneath the banter ran a current none of us could ignore: this was responsibility, not a game. Angelo hammered that home from day one, and by the end, we carried it like a second skin—fear still there, but honed into something steady, useful.
That last session, sunlight finally breaking over the horizon to gild the dew-kissed grass, Angelo ejected the final empty magazine with a sharp snap and eyed us all, his gaze lingering longest on me. "You've earned this," he said, voice low but carrying that rare edge of pride. "You respect it now. No shortcuts, no carelessness. Jay—" He stepped closer, eyes piercing. "It's not for revenge. It's for protection. The second those lines blur, you walk away. Understand?"
"Crystal," I replied, hands rock-steady as I racked the slide one last time and safed the unloaded piece before sliding it into the case. No tremor. No hesitation. Just control.
Aries bumped my shoulder, eyes soft. "Couldn't have done it without you pushing us." Mia crushed me in a quick, fierce hug. Drake offered a fist-bump and a grin: "Sharpest shot in the squad." Even Andrew nodded solemnly. Angelo just watched, arms crossed, until we'd double-checked everything—barrels down, safeties on, cases locked. Then he nodded once, sharp. "Go live. You've got the tools. Don't waste them."
His words stuck with me through the drive, echoing as I pulled up outside Keifer's house two months after he'd finally shaken off the hospital shadows—two months of him rebuilding, of us reclaiming every stolen moment. The red door with its chipped paint welcomed me like an old friend, trainers tumbled by the step, skateboard leaning crookedly against the brick. Inside smelled of coffee, burnt toast, and the chaotic warmth of brothers pretending not to hover.
The living room was a cocoon of dim light, TV flickering soft blue credits over the sofa where Keifer lounged like he owned the world—which, in that moment, he kind of did. One leg stretched across cushions, the other foot tapping idly, faint scar peeking from under his faded tee. Keiren and Keigan had vanished to the kitchen an hour ago, their smirks broadcasting exactly how little privacy they planned to give. I had freshen up and borrowed keifer's hoodie and shorts.i came downstairs
"You're staring," he murmured, eyes still closed, head heavy in my lap, dark hair spilling across my thighs.
"Movie credits are riveting," I lied, fingers weaving through his strands, tracing the thin white line of his scar—the echo of that night we'd buried under laughter and touches and nights where we'd mapped each other completely.
"Liar." His lips found my wrist in a slow, warm kiss, sparking heat straight up my arm. He cracked an eye, gold flecks glinting. "Angelo's final sermon got you overthinking again?"
I paused, thumb brushing his scar's edge. Two months whole: him hauling himself up without wincing, pulling me into doorways for kisses that turned hungry, nights tangled skin-to-skin—clumsy at first, then deep and knowing, gasps and "I love yous" pressed into collarbones, thighs, the curve of my hips.
"Pretty much," I admitted softly. "Told me not to waste it. Said it's protection, not revenge. Because of you—wanting to keep this." My hand rested over his heart.
His gaze warmed, hand gliding up my side to splay over my ribs, thumb circling bare skin under my hem. "You've got more control than half the idiots I know. Angelo's right—you earned it." He shifted up, leaning over me, faces close enough to share breath. The air hummed, familiar electricity.
"Come here," he whispered, voice gravel-rough.
"Right—" The word vanished as I met him halfway.
The kiss unfolded slow, deliberate—a soft brush deepening into certainty. His fingers cradled my neck, tangling just so, while I gripped his shirt, tugging him nearer. Mint and him and us, his hand slipping higher under my hem, tracing paths we'd worn smooth in the dark. A hundred times now—urgent, lazy, laughing through it—but each one reset me, his mouth claiming like I was the only choice that mattered.
We parted, foreheads touching, breaths syncing. "Love this us," he murmured. "Love you."
"Love you," I echoed, easy as heartbeat.
He eased me down, spooning close—arm locked around my waist, legs entwined, chest flush to my back. His breath fanned my neck, pulse steady against my spine. "Not leaving," he mumbled, drowsy.
"Never," I murmured, threading our fingers.
The house murmured—Keigan's cupboard bang, Keiren's hushed laugh. TV looped faintly.
Sleep claimed us sofa-bound, wrapped tight—scarred lovers, stubborn through chaos. : lessons held. Keifer's quiet snores rumbled home.
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