It was Saturday.

Wedding-reception day.

The boys’ favourite day.

They fucking loved it. All three were already glued to the reception feeds, assigning roles to the guests and speculating about who would be sleeping with whom by the end of the evening.

Hart judged the flower arrangements, remarking that his mother would have called the colour palette tacky. Kyle critiqued everyone’s dance choreography with the sharp eye of someone who had clearly been trained in it, while Ben ogled literally every tight dress and exposed thigh that crossed the screens.

The four of them watched with the religious fervour of routine, laughing at drunken uncles hitting on bridesmaids and hunting for scandals, a groomsman sleeping with the bride’s mother, a maid of honour disappearing into a bathroom with the best man.

Summers hated to admit that he listened to every comment the boys made while pretending to brood over the other surveillance feeds.

Mostly, he was waiting for their frustration to spill over so he could rein them the fuck in.

It finally happened when Ben loudly disparaged the choice of oyster canapés.

Kyle took personal offence.

He declared that Ben had no sense of taste, which somehow escalated into an insult about Ben’s upbringing.

Summers intervened immediately, booting Kyle out of his chair and taking his place beside Ben.

“I fucking hate oysters too.”

Kyle began pacing behind them, still muttering beneath his breath as he tried to cool down.

Then the band played that fucking song.

Hart did not mute the feed quickly enough.

By the time the music cut out, it was already too late.

Kyle’s pacing accelerated, each turn falling into an unseen rhythm.

“Five, six, seven. Five, six, seven.”

Again and again.

The movements repeated in a rigid loop as one of his knives appeared in his hand.

Summers rose and placed himself between Kyle and the others.

The knife spun faster and faster, striking Kyle’s fingers hard enough to split the skin, but he did not seem to notice.

“Kyle,” Summers said firmly. “Give me the knife.”

Kyle only became more agitated.

“No. No, no, no.” He paced faster. “He hurt her. I didn’t know. He hurt her, and I couldn’t stop it.”

He was no longer in the room.

He was trapped inside a memory.

On Kyle’s next turn, Summers moved.

He knocked the knife from Kyle’s hand, nicking his own fingers in the process. Kyle immediately reached for another.

“I’m going to kill him!” he screamed. “Kill him, I killed him, fuck him!”

Summers drove him to the floor.

He pressed his full weight over Kyle’s body and dragged both arms behind his back until the pressure had to be close to unbearable.

Kyle continued thrashing beneath his bulk.

So Summers bent and bit down on his shoulder.

Hard enough to bruise.

Hard enough to ground him.

Kyle’s struggles gradually weakened. A broken whimper escaped him as he gasped against the carpet.

Finally, he stopped moving.

Summers released his arms but remained over him, rubbing his palm slowly over the bite mark.

“He’s dead,” Summers murmured. “He can’t hurt her again.”

Kyle nodded against the carpet.

Slowly, his body began to loosen.

Summers waited until his breathing had steadied before climbing off him.

And fuck.

He was so fucking hard.

He ignored it.

He returned to his usual seat, taking every one of Kyle’s knives with him.

A few minutes later, Kyle pushed himself upright and rejoined them. He sniffed, straightened his clothes and gathered what remained of his composure.

Then he glanced at Ben.

“Sorry.”

Ben stole one of Hart’s peanuts.

“All good.”

Hart tilted his head towards Ben.

“I still can’t believe you, of all people, don’t like oysters.”

Ben frowned. “Why?”

Hart smirked.

“Because they look like tiny vaginas.”

Ben paused.

“Really?”

Hart’s smirk widened.

“You’re fucking joking.”

Within seconds, all three disasters were searching for close-up pictures of oyster anatomy like the horny fucking idiots they were.

Summers settled back into his chair and tried to ignore the persistent tightness in his pants.

He already could not wait for his next gym session.

Fuck.

This job was going to be the death of him.

🥜🥜🥜

“So, Summers, when are you going to tell us your first name?” Ben asked, eager as always.

Summers ignored him.

Ben continued regardless. “I know your shit cycles, but I still don’t know your name. So fucking unfair.”

Hart glanced over from the surveillance feeds.

“It’s probably something embarrassing. Like Pubert.”

Ben and Kyle erupted into laughter.

“Who names their kid Pubert?” Ben demanded.

Hart crunched a peanut.

“There was one at the military boarding school I attended.”

They laughed even harder.

“Really?” Kyle asked.

Hart nodded. “Yep. Real dick-weasel too. Used to suck up to a guy who punched one of the canteen staff over cold pancakes.”

Ben made a disgusted noise. “What a fucking baby. Did he get expelled?”

Hart crunched another peanut.

“Nope. His senator daddy made a donation, and the canteen worker was dismissed.”

“Ah,” Kyle said. “So that’s where the entitlement came from.”

“Unfortunately.”

Ben circled back.

“So, Mister Brooding Summers, what’s your first name? No one knows, and trust me, I looked. You were practically a legend in the field.” He leaned forward eagerly. “Is it true the Trei government tried to assassinate you?”

Summers sighed.

“Only because they failed to offer as much as the other side.”

Ben laughed. “Damn. Really? So whose side did you fight on during the Dogwood Bridge conflict?”

“Neither. I was dismantling both their militaries for a third party.”

Ben’s eyes lit up.

“Fuck, really? How much were they paying?”

Summers shrugged. “Not as much as the other two.”

Ben frowned. “Then why take the job?”

Summers sighed inwardly.

“Because it was the more challenging contract.”

Ben looked impressed.

“Ha! Of course.” He settled back in his chair. “Fuck, I wish I could’ve chosen my assignments. But no. They always stuck me on teams where no one knew fucking anything about maintenance.”

Summers listened despite himself.

“You should’ve seen this one guy when we were pinned down inside a building by some fuckwit laying down suppressive fire,” Ben continued. “He had no idea what to do. Had an entire bag of explosives and didn’t know how to use any of them. Seriously.”

Ben gestured expansively.

“So I made an IED and hit the fucker dead-on. Swear to the gods, his remains were painted across buildings twelve metres away.” He shook his head. “My team was absolutely useless on that mission. You’d think they would’ve put me on better assignments after that, but no. Apparently, I was too young for the elite teams.”

His expression soured.

“Assholes.”

Summers could not argue with that. Bias was a significant part of the job. Talent mattered, but so did age, reputation, connections and the willingness of those above you to recognise competence when it appeared in an inconvenient package.

And Ben looked like he should still be at school, running a frat house, not doing mercenary work.

Ben turned back to him.

“So, Pubert, what’s your name?”

Summers ignored him.

He was not fucking telling any of them.

That would make things too real.

He still needed that final shred of distance.