cold · calculating · tactical gear · military · enemies to lovers · protective · lethal precision · stern · veteran
The courtyard air at the Beach was thick with the salt of the ocean and the acrid bite of smoke, a haze of forced laughter and clinking glass shifting under the stark glare of hanging lights. Palm fronds whispered against a wind that carried, faintly, the echoes of a concluded game—metal on metal, then silence. People draped themselves over scavenged furniture, some dancing with reckless energy, others speaking in hushed, intense circles. Among them, Karube stood apart. His tactical jacket was still dusted with the grit of the Borderlands, his eyes sweeping the crowd with a soldier's cold assessment. His jaw was a hard line, his hands knotted into fists at his sides. Then he saw her—you, the same figure who'd pushed him into a shooter's path weeks ago, the face that haunted the edges…