Chapter Eight
The morning fog rolled in low over the Santa Barbara coastline, softening the sharp lines of the cliffs and blurring the horizon where sea met sky.
Dave walked alone, boots crunching over damp sand, the Pacific wind tugging at his coat.
Clinton had rattled off his schedule before breakfast, two phones buzzing with updates, but Dave had waived him off.
Not today. At least, not right now.
Secret Service lingered somewhere behind, careful shadows on the bluffs, but Dave ignored them, too.
He needed air. He needed space.
But mostly, he needed to think.
Every path in his mind circled back to the same point—Stone.
The distance between them was more than miles now. No calls made, none received—only silences filled by Clinton.
The walls he kept up—distance, silence, restraint—he told himself they were for protection, for both of them. But the truth scraped at him like sandpaper.
The surf thundered against the shore, pulling his thoughts outward.
That was when he saw him.
Far down the stretch of beach, moving with that same unhurried, predatory grace.
Broad-shouldered, dark hair swept back, stride loose but lethal. Dave would know that walk anywhere.
Stone.
Even at a distance, the sight caught him in the chest, the air tightening in his lungs.
For a moment, Dave considered turning back, armor snapping into place. Pretend he hadn’t seen, hadn’t felt. But he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. He kept walking, closing the distance.
Stone’s gaze was locked on him from halfway down the beach. His pace didn’t change, it was purposeful, like a predator.
By the time they stopped a few feet apart, the ocean filled the silence between them, steady and relentless.
“You ditch your babysitters?” Stone asked first, voice low, roughened by the surf.
Dave’s mouth twitched. “They’re around. They’re always around.”
Stone studied him—storm-colored eyes cutting deeper than Dave wanted to allow.
“Looks like you wanted to be alone.”
His gaze lingered on Stone, tracing the threads of gray in his hair, the lines cut deeper at the corners of his eyes. “Looks like you found me anyway.”
That earned him the faintest tilt of Stone’s mouth. Not a smile, not really. But close.
For a moment, they just walked. Close together, the water lapping over their boots, the morning air sharp with salt. The rhythm of the ocean filled their silence.
Finally, Stone broke it. “You’ve been quiet. Too quiet.”
Dave exhaled, the sound lost to the waves. “Noise doesn’t fix much.”
Stone angled his head, studying him. “Sometimes silence makes things worse.”
Dave didn’t answer. He kept his eyes forward, but Stone’s presence pulled at him—steady, grounding, impossible to ignore.
After a long moment, Stone said, almost like a challenge, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”
Dave’s jaw worked. He glanced at him, squinted, then back to the horizon. “Maybe I am.”
Stone stopped walking. Dave took two more steps before turning, the distance between them suddenly more than sand.
“Why?” Stone’s voice carried over the surf, steady but weighted.
Dave’s throat tightened. He wanted to say because of Clinton’s poison, because of Law, because he didn’t know how to let him all the way in without tearing down the control that held him together.
What came out was quieter. “Because I don’t know if I can be what you need me to be.”
Stone’s expression flickered—hurt first, then something harder underneath. He stepped closer, the tide swirling around his boots. “What I need is you, Dave. That’s it. The rest of the world, the missions, the threats—none of it means shit if I don’t have you.”
Dave swallowed, the words hitting deeper than he wanted to admit. He could feel the heat of Stone this close, the raw certainty in his voice, the steadiness he craved and feared in equal measure.
Hell, he’d commanded armies, but the feelings this man conjured up terrified him.
Then Stone’s voice dropped, growl-edged. “And for the record—I don’t answer to asshats. I’ve been texting, calling, and every damn time, Clinton picks up your private line. You even know that?”
Dave froze.
The realization hit like a blade. “He’s been what…?”
“Yeah,” Stone bit out. “Screening. Blocking. Acting like he gets to decide if I reach you.”
Stunned anger shot through Dave’s chest, sharp and simmering.
Normally, he wanted Clinton to filter, to run interference, to keep the noise out.
But not Stone.
Never Stone.
Dave’s hand fisted at his side, rage tamped down only by the sight of Stone standing there, close enough to touch.
Stone exhaled through his nose, some of the heat bleeding out of him. Then, without warning, he stepped in and hauled Dave against him in a tight bear hug.
Dave’s chest hit solid muscle, the embrace rough and unyielding, but grounding in a way he hadn’t let himself feel in years.
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, against every instinct to keep the walls up, he sank into it.
Stone’s arms closed around him, iron-strong, steady, safe.
And before Dave could think, Stone leaned in—his mouth brushing his temple, then finding his lips. The kiss was brief, tender, but enough to steal the air from his lungs.
It wasn’t open, wasn’t hungry. Just a quiet press of certainty. I’m here. I’m not letting go.
Dave swallowed hard, heart hammering, then let himself lean closer—embracing it, returning the kiss with a brush of his mouth.
When they finally pulled apart, neither spoke. They didn’t need to. He searched Stone’s face, those gray eyes, and found that soft light that was always there.
For him.
Dave glanced around. The bluff above was empty; the beach and kiss stayed theirs alone.
Stone turned him toward home and they walked back together, neither pushing for more, but something between them had shifted.
The breeze was cool. The surf thundered steadily behind them, the tide chasing their footprints before the next wave carried them away.
Clinton waited on the edge of the sand. Crisp suit, hands folded neatly in front of him, posture perfect as ever. A silhouette that never strayed far.
“I’ll give you and your shadow some privacy,” Stone muttered, throwing a look toward Clinton before disappearing up the steps toward the estate.
Dave didn’t slow. He closed the last few feet between him and Clinton.
“You ever screen his calls again,” Dave said, voice flat, edged in steel, “and you’re done.”
Clinton’s brow arched, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through the mask. “Sir, my job is to—”
“Your job,” Dave cut in, stepping close enough that his words landed hard, “is to keep the noise out. Not him. Stone does not go through you. Ever. Am I clear?”
The mask slipped back into place, but Dave caught the flicker in Clinton’s eyes. Reassessing. Adjusting.
“Crystal,” Clinton said smoothly.
Dave let the silence hang one beat longer, then brushed past him, heading back toward the estate.
The weight of Stone’s bear hug—and the brush of lips—still burned in his chest.
He told himself the walls were still there—the distance, the threats, the endless weight of the mission.
They might always be.
But in Stone’s arms, for that brief moment, none of it pressed quite as heavily.
Stone had held him like he was the only thing that mattered, and kissed him like a promise.
And against all his better instincts, Dave finally let himself believe.