Operation 17 The Damage Done
Syn
Four days was a long time to sit in another man’s house pretending the rest of the world wasn’t still moving.
Syn hadn’t left Ro and Johnson’s place once.
Not to work, the shop, the corner store for food, nowhere.
He’d sat in the same spot on Ro’s front porch, since eight this morning, the swing barely moving beneath him.
He wasn’t rocking to relax, or doing any of the things people did when they sat outside in a quiet suburban neighborhood at the end of the day.
He was just existing there, elbows on his knees, fingers clasped loosely, staring past the manicured lawns and clean sidewalks.
Syn had been hurt before. He’d been shot, stabbed, stitched up, dog-tired from long shifts. He knew physical pain and exhaustion. He knew rage, guilt, fear, and frustration.
But he didn’t know this.
Loss.
The loss of Furi’s long hair sliding between his fingers, of hearing his laugh at the end of the night, his taste. The loss of his warmth, the void in the empty space beside him when he slept.
He missed him so badly it hurt everywhere.
And that pissed him off, because missing Furi didn’t cancel out what had happened. Loving him didn’t make the lie okay. Wanting to go home didn’t negate the contract his partner signed without talking to him first.
But underneath all the anger, another voice started whispering.
You should’ve handled your responsibilities, and he wouldn’t’ve had to do it.
That damn voice didn’t care that he’d worked himself to the bone, or that he’d taken every shift, delivery order, and humiliation that came with it. He’d tried so hard, God, he’d tried—to keep a roof over their heads, the shop running, food in the house, the bills paid.
He’d failed.
Look how bad you let it get before Furi had to jump in and save you?
Syn pressed his palms against his closed lids.
His skin felt rough. He hadn’t shaved, slept or eaten much of anything Ro put in front of him, hadn’t said much either.
Ro stopped trying to fill the silence by the second day.
Johnson gave him space in the way quiet men did. He’d left plates wrapped in foil on the kitchen counter, bottles of water near the porch, a clean towel in the guest bathroom each night, and the TV remote on the couch just in case he got tired of the nothing.
He sat on the porch from sunup to sundown, watching the neighborhood.
He knew the woman across the street watered her porch plants at six-thirty every evening. The retired man two houses down walked his terrier at seven-fifteen in the morning, went to play golf for roughly three hours, then came home and walked his dog at five forty-five.
A teenage girl with purple braids got dropped off after cheer practice at four-twenty, always slamming the car door before her mother could finish yelling something after her.
The mailman came by at noonish and cursed each time someone blocked their driveway with their car and he had to get out to put the mail in the box.
The couple on the corner argued every afternoon in their garage, because the husband took too long to stop working on his seventy-six Chevy and come inside for dinner before it got cold.
Life revolved in neat little loops around him.
Lawns got cut. Dogs barked. Sprinklers clicked on. Neighbors waved to each other.
People came home from work, carried groceries, went for walks, grilled outside, kissed spouses in their doorways, before disappearing behind lit windows.
Syn watched it all like a half-dead zombie.
It was almost six when Ro came up the walkway from his truck with his gym bag slung over his shoulder, skin damp, T-shirt clinging to his chest, blue eyes narrowed against the low sun.
He paused at the bottom of the porch steps and looked at him.
Syn didn’t look back.
Ro climbed the five steps slowly, the boards creaking under his weight. He set the gym bag near the door and leaned one shoulder against the post with his arms folded.
“You want chicken or pasta for dinner?”
Syn shook his head.
“That wasn’t one of the options.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t been hungry in days.”
“A man can go three months without eating.”
Ro huffed. “Come on, Sarge.”
Syn clenched his jaw.
He loved Ro. He did. He was family. His brother, first officer, pain in his ass, and one of his emergency contacts. But he wasn’t in the mood to hear his voice of reason.
Ro sat in the porch chair beside him instead of standing over him.
“You can’t sit out here forever.”
Syn stared at the house across the street. “Sure I can.”
Ro sighed. “You haven’t checked on the shop, answered any calls or texts.”
“I’m on vacation.”
“That’s cute.”
Syn swallowed against the dry ache in his throat.
Ro leaned forward. “I’m not saying go home tonight. I’m not saying forgive him because— ”
“Enough,” he glared.
“Enough what?” Ro glared back.
“Enough defending him.”
“I’m not defending what he did.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not,” Ro said firmly. “I’m telling you he was just trying to help.”
Syn laughed, ugly and hollow. “Men who wanna help, talk to their partners. They don’t sign legally binding contracts and lie about it.”
Ro took that hit without flinching. “You’re right.”
Syn looked at him then.
Ro held his gaze. “He should’ve told you. He should’ve given you the chance to be mad before he did it, not after. I’m not taking that from you.”
Syn turned his attention back to the neighborhood. “Then why does everybody talk like I’m supposed to just understand? Let it go.”
Ro’s expression softened. “Because understanding isn’t the same as condoning. And because we all know Furi.”
“I know he wanted to help. I know he loves me. I know all of that,” he said, the words muffled against his palms. “But I’m the one who had to see him on that screen.
I’m the one who had to read strangers talking about me and him like we’re done.
Do you know how embarrassing it was to find out from Mason? ”
Ro was quiet.
Syn dropped his hands. “Y’all keep telling me why he did it, but nobody wants to talk about what it did to me.”
The street began to blur at the edges.
He wasn’t going to bleed out on Ro’s porch like some wounded animal. But the truth was pressing hard now.
He wanted Furi. He wanted to go home and yell at him, to touch him, shove him away then drag him close again.
A loud motorcycle roared in the distance and Syn’s entire body reacted.
That custom engine was impossible to mistake.
Syn stood fast.
Ro stood slow. “Syn.”
It was too late, he was already moving.
“You gotta stop running, brother.”
“I’m not doing this right now.”
“Syn.”
He didn’t stop, his pulse beating hard.
He went inside, through the front hall, past the living room where Johnson’s laptop and work files sat on the coffee table, around the kitchen, until he was at the back door.
A few moments later the motorcycle cut off outside.
Syn braced both hands on the patio railing and stared out over Ro’s quiet backyard.
He didn’t want to talk to or even look at Furi.
His heart ached too much to face the man who’d broken it into pieces.
Furi
Furi couldn’t hold out another day.
Four days of walking through their house, of sleeping in an empty bed. Four days of checking his phone so often the battery gave up before noon, waiting for a message or call that never came.
By the fourth evening, Furi was done pretending he wasn’t dying minute by minute.
He was so scared he’d lost the love of his life that the panic had become physical. The constant pressure behind his ribs radiated through his chest.
Syn wasn’t just his partner. He wasn’t just the man he loved. Syn was the center of his world, his home.
He no longer knew how to survive now that he was homeless.
He cut the Harley’s engine at the curb and sat for a moment with his hands resting on the grips.
What if he went in and his love looked at him with that empty hurt again? The same way he had before he’d walked out with a suitcase.
What if he didn’t look at him at all?
Furi got off the bike before fear could talk him into turning around. He took the small canvas tote from the saddlebag, locked the helmet to the side, and walked up the path to Ro’s front door.
He lifted his hand to knock but the door was opened before his knuckles touched the wood.
Ro stood there in a black tank and gym shorts, with damp hair and the smell of soap rolling off him. His blue eyes scanned him up and down, and whatever he saw made his expression change.
“Hey,” Ro said.
Furi opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Ro stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. “How you been?”
Furi shook his head, his throat too choked with emotion to speak.
Ro’s hand moved over his back. “Yeah. I know.”
He pulled back before his trembling gave him away. He glanced over Ro’s shoulder, unable to stop himself.
Ro nodded. “He’s here. Come on in.”
Furi stepped inside.
Ro’s house wasn’t flashy. It had an open floor plan, warm wood floors, a big leather sectional facing a stone fireplace with framed photos and books neatly placed on the built-in shelves.
The kitchen flowed off to the left with a large island, stools tucked beneath the counter, copper pans hanging above the range, and a sliding glass door beyond it standing open to the back patio.
That was where he found his love, standing with his back to the house.
Syn had both hands braced on the patio railing, shoulders drawn tight beneath a wrinkled black shirt. His hair was wild, his beard fuller than usual and untrimmed.
Even from behind, Furi could see what the last four days had done to him.
“How has he been?” he asked Ro.
Ro glanced towards Syn, then back at him. “Same as you. Miserable.”
Furi worked to push down the lump in his throat.
Ro moved closer. “Go talk to him.”
Furi shook his head. “He left when he heard me.”
“He went outside. He didn’t leave.”
“He hates me.”
“Never.” Ro held his gaze. “He’s hurt, Furious.”
Furi rubbed his hand over his own scruff that’d been neglected.
“And believe me…he needs you,” Ro urged. “He just needs to know he can still trust you.”
Furi stared at Syn’s back.
The open door felt like a boundary he shouldn’t cross unless he was invited.