Page 122 of Mercy

This calm wasn’t temporary.

It had been normal.

Titus sat where he’d stayed, folded into the sprawl of the room, unremarkable in the best possible way. Not isolated. Not protected. Just present. Viper didn’t need to look to know where he was. The awareness lived somewhere deeper now, steady and unquestioning.

Without thinking, Viper reached out and rested his hand against Titus’s shoulder. Familiar pressure. Brief. Accepted. No claim in it. No announcement. It passed without comment, seen and ignored because it belonged there.

Someone near the door pushed it open to step out, and evening air slipped inside—cool, clean, carrying the faint scentof growth from land that had never been gentle about it. Spring pressed in at the edges, whether anyone acknowledged it or not.

Texas came to mind the same way.

His family hadn’t met Titus yet—not properly. Not in a space where there weren’t weapons within reach or comms buzzing in someone’s ear. His parents had already asked. His sisters had pushed harder. When. How soon. Was he serious?

Yes, he was.

Viper glanced sideways and caught Titus’s eye. Nothing spoken. Just a look held long enough to carry intent. Later, he’d say it plainly. We’ll go. I want them to meet you. Not a test. Not a reckoning. An opening.

The idea didn’t tighten his chest. It settled easily, like it belonged in the future they were already standing in.

Viper didn’t say anything. He just tilted his head toward the door and hooked two fingers lightly at Titus’s wrist—a silent question, already knowing the answer.

Titus followed without comment.

They slipped out of the mess hall together, the noise closing behind them in a familiar rush of laughter, clatter, and life. Outside, the morning stretched wide and quiet, pale sunlight spilling across the ranch, the sky a washed blue still shaking off night. The air was cool, carrying dust and grass and the faint promise of spring.

Viper stopped once they were clear, turning just enough to block the light spilling from the windows. Titus looked up at him, expression soft in a way that still caught him off guard.

“Hey,” Titus said, low.

Viper brought his hand up, thumb brushing along Titus’s jaw, grounding himself in the simple reality of him. Here. Alive. Chosen.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Titus said. A beat, then the truth, steady and unflinching. “I love you. And that’s not ever going to change.”

Viper didn’t answer right away.

He leaned in instead, resting his forehead against Titus’s, breath warm between them. The world narrowed to this man so quietly he hadn’t felt it happen.

“Titus,” he said—not a warning, not a command. Just his name, spoken like it belonged to him now.

Titus waited. No pressure. No doubt.

“I love you too,” Viper said.

The words settled between them—not loud, not dramatic. Certain.

They stood there a moment longer, the ranch quiet around them, the simple mercy of still being here pressing close. Mercy—not begged for, not earned through blood, but given freely. The kind that let you stay.

Somewhere along the way, he’d found his whole world right here.

And he didn’t mind one damned bit.

THE END