Secrets and Unexpected Timing
In the quiet hum of the night, Dar and Callum grapple with the emotional aftermath of a successful mission
and navigate the blurred lines between professional duty and personal connection.
Hereford Safehouse – Late Night Tea and Biscuits
With the mission a complete success, Kozlov and his lieutenants were no more. The team would fly back tomorrow. Silence enveloped the house, a stark and unsettling quiet given its recent role coordinating an international killing.
His body exhausted, but his mind on overdrive, Callum lay in the dark of his room, staring at the ceiling. Despite tonight’s flawless execution, he couldn’t stop himself from running through the operation frame by frame, analyzing angles and verifying outcomes. He’d been here many times before: Kandahar, 2009, an intel call that went sideways. He’d lain awake for thirty-six hours, replaying the moment, the decision, the consequence. His chest had felt tight then, too.
He rolled onto his side, jaw clenched. The rain pattered against the window. He thought of Dar downstairs this morning, the weight in her voice when she’d said I knew. She understood the loop. She was probably lying awake too, her analytical mind doing the same relentless work his was.
He got up. Down the hallway, a thin line of light showed beneath her door.
Dar was drained but couldn’t sleep, her mind doing exactly what she and Callum had talked about that morning. The choice to take a life. She lay on the bed, still dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, when there was a soft knock on her bedroom door.
He waited, his weight shifting slightly. Given the late hour and her right to sleep, he questioned whether she would answer and was about to return to his room when he heard movement inside.
When the door finally cracked open, the hallway light fell across her face. She looked exhausted.
“Hey,” he whispered, keeping his voice low for the quiet house. “Just wanted to check in. Saw the light under the door.”
Dar blinked against the hallway light, pulling the door open a little wider but leaning her shoulder against the frame, a barrier between them. Weariness showed on him, that same guarded look he wore after debriefs, though he had shown up here.
“Hey,” her voice was raspy and tired. “I… yeah. Can’t turn the brain off.” She offered a weak shrug. “Mission went well. Everyone’s in one piece?”
He nodded, taking a step back to lean against the wall opposite her. He kept his hands in his pockets, relaxed but present.
“Clean sweep. Kozlov and his lieutenants are down. Zero friendly casualties.”
He paused, letting the relief of that sink in—it was the rare mission where the plan actually survived contact with the enemy.
“They’re staying put for the night, debrief with Veyr’s crew, then wheels up tomorrow morning. No drama.”
He studied her face in the dim light. “Sounds like you already knew that part.”
“Intel streams. I was following the comms traffic. Just to be sure.”
She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, trying to scrub away the grittiness. “It was efficient. Too efficient.” She dropped her hand, looking up at him. “Does that ever bother you? When it goes exactly according to plan? It feels like… we forgot to account for something. Like the universe is setting us up.”
He huffed a quiet, dry laugh, shaking his head slightly. He understood that unease—the feeling that a mission that smooth usually meant a storm brewing behind the scenes.
“Chaos is always there,” he said, his tone low and thoughtful. “Just depends on if you spot it or not. Sometimes we just get lucky with the variables, or…” He trailed off, thinking back to the data, the intelligence they’d acted on. “Or the enemy hands you the win because they’re distracted by something bigger.”
He looked towards the stairs; it was dark, no light bleeding in from downstairs, then back to her.
“Does it bother me? No. I’d take smooth over a FUBAR extraction any day. But I get the paranoia. It’s the analyst’s burden—looking for the gap in the data when there’s nothing to find.”
“Maybe.” She exhaled, her shoulder slumping slightly against the wood. “Or maybe it’s just that I know exactly what ‘efficiency’ looks like on paper. But knowing it happened… knowing Kozlov is dead because we said so… it’s different than moving chess pieces on a board.”
She heaved a sigh. “It’s quiet now. That’s usually when it gets loud for me.” She offered a small, self-deprecating smile. “Twigs is asleep. Nothing bothers the cat.” She looked down at her bare toes on the carpet as though studying something.
“Cats have the right idea.” He watched her when she didn’t look up, then shifted his weight; the floorboard creaked softly under his foot. That expression in her gaze—faded adrenaline and dawning reality—was familiar to him. He’d been there more times than he could count, staring at a ceiling fan or a fire, wondering why he was the one still breathing.
“The quiet amplifies everything,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “But you didn’t move pieces on a board. You found a pattern in the chaos. You made sure the right people went home, Dar. That’s not nothing.”
He hesitated before continuing, standing upright and facing her. “I told you we would face this together. I meant it, Dar.”
He gave a slight jerk of his head toward the hallway behind him. “I was just going to put the kettle on. You want to come sit? No noise. Just… tea.”
When she finally looked up again, a tear fell down her cheek. Without hesitating, he reached up and wiped it away.
Her breath caught at the touch of his thumb against her cheek; the warmth of it anchoring her.
“Yeah,” she whispered, her voice rough but steady. “Tea sounds good.”
She pushed off the doorframe, grabbing the cardigan draped over the chair nearby and slipping it on as she stepped into the hall. Twigs stirred briefly at the end of the bed, gave a disgruntled chirp at the movement, and curled back into a tight ball.
“I think we offended her with all the emotional depth,” she attempted a lighter tone as she fell into step beside Callum. “She prefers her existential crises served with tuna.”
A faint smirk touched his lips at the image of the cat’s priorities. Focusing on Twigs proved simpler than dwelling upon the mission.
“Can’t blame her. Tuna doesn’t ask questions about the morality of targeted strikes. She’s a smart strategist.”
He proceeded down the stairs first. Darkness filled the kitchen. He moved instinctively, turning on the light above the cooker and flipping the switch on the kettle, before leaning back against the worktop, watching her navigate the space.
“I think we even have some of those biscuits Pam hid in the back of the pantry,” he offered, nodding toward the cupboard. “Though if we eat another emergency stash, we might actually have to go into witness protection.”
“Worth it,” Dar moved towards the pantry with a small smile playing on her lips. “Witness protection has its perks. I could change my name to something exotic like… Tiffany. And move to a beach somewhere.”
She pulled the door open, scanning the shelves before spotting the hidden tin. “Found them. Pam’s ’emergency’ supply usually involves high-quality chocolate, so she’ll definitely kill us.”
She turned back to him, leaning against the kitchen island opposite him as the kettle hummed. “But seriously… thanks. For the company. And the tea. I think the noise is finally dialling down a notch.”
The kettle clicked off, the sudden silence in the kitchen feeling heavier than the hum had. He turned to pour the water into two mugs he’d set out, then held out a mug towards her, the steam curling up between them, taking the biscuits from her hand and opening the container with practised ease.
“And you’re welcome. The noise… it doesn’t really go away; you just get better at turning the volume down. Or finding something louder to drown it out.”
He stood braced against the counter, taking a sip of the hot drink, his blue eyes holding hers over the top of the mug. “Usually I run. But tonight… this works.”
She wrapped her hands around the warm mug. “I don’t think running is in the cards for me tonight. That rainstorm this morning was enough for one day.”
She took a sip; the warmth spreading through her chest, loosening the tension that had been sitting there all evening. She looked at him, her expression softening. “This works too. Better, actually. This is nice.”
“I’ll take ‘nice’ over ‘efficient’ tonight,” Callum said, turning to catch the relentless downpour through the kitchen window. He imagined the feel of sun-baked sand beneath his feet on a faraway beach. “Tiffany,” he tested the name with dry scepticism. “Doesn’t suit you. Too much… sparkle. I’d peg you more for a ruthless accountant in a beach town, laundering money for the cartel.”
“Ruthless cartel accountant? Wow. I’ll take that as a compliment, I think. It implies I’m good with numbers and vaguely terrifying.”
He took a biscuit from the tin, snapping it in half with a sharp crack that echoed in the quiet kitchen. He offered her a piece; his fingers brushing hers briefly.
“And you are terrifying when you want to be. I’ve heard… things. Don’t sell yourself short, Dar.”
He popped the piece of chocolate-coated wafer into his mouth, watching the way the kitchen light caught the highlights in her hair.
The brush of his fingers had sent a small jolt up her arm. Dar took a bite, the rich chocolate contrasting with the bitterness of the tea. She swallowed, leaning her hip against the counter. The rain raged outside now, making the kitchen a haven.
“Heard things? From who? Logan? Because they never should have given me that cheap golf club.” With a subtle smile, she continued. “But okay. I’ll own it. Although a week of being Tiffany on a tropical beach sounds like heaven right now, Major.”
He snorted, a short, genuine sound closer to a laugh than his usual dry chuckle. He shook his head, taking another sip of tea before answering.
“No, not Logan. He knows better than to share intel on family. Although now I want to hear about the cheap golf club. Let’s just say I pay attention, and you have a way of dismantling an argument that leaves people bleeding out before they realise they’ve been cut. That’s terrifying.”
He shifted his weight, the counter pressing into his lower back.
Dar’s face turned thoughtful. “Terrifying. Wow. No wonder I’m single. Care to throw in some RBF for the win?” She chuckled and sipped her tea.
He grinned, the expression boyish and unguarded for a moment, softening the sharp lines of his face.
“I think ‘Resting Bitch Face’ is a prerequisite for the job description in this unit. Look at Calder. Even Pam when she catches us stealing her emergency rations.”
He took another sip of tea without taking his eyes off her. The air between them felt easy, despite the heavy subjects that usually weighed on them.
“And I don’t think it’s the terrifying part that keeps people away, Dar. Most people can’t handle competence. It scares them.”
He shrugged, his tone casual, but his eyes steady on hers.
“Personally, I prefer it. Beats the alternative.”
“The alternative being what? ‘Ew. People?'” She was laughing now.
He watched her laugh, the sound cutting through the patter of rain against the glass, and felt a rare, easy relaxation settle in his chest. He shook his head, setting his mug down on the counter.
“Something like that. Incompetence. Needy people who need constant reassurance just to function.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“In the Regiment, we called it ‘passenger syndrome.’ I don’t have the patience for it, and I doubt you do either. Give me someone who knows what they’re doing, even if they’re terrifying while they do it.”
Dar grinned, setting her mug down next to his, leaning in slightly.
“I spent too many years carrying the emotional baggage for a grown man. I’m done with passengers.”
She glanced down at the biscuit she had retrieved from the tin before offering it to him.
“I think ‘competent’ might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Major. I’m almost flattered. Almost.”
He accepted the biscuit, his fingers lingering against hers for a beat longer than necessary before they broke it in half and he pulled away. He let the chocolate melt in his mouth, then chewed slowly as he studied her face.
“It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Carrying the weight for others.”
His voice dropped a fraction, the humour fading into something more grounded. He knew enough about her history to read between the lines of that comment—Barry, the abusive ex-husband who hadn’t known what he had. The thought of it tightened his jaw, but he kept his tone light.
“And I meant it. Competence is rare. In my line of work, it’s the difference between coming home and not.”
He looked down at the floor, then back up at her, a faint, crooked smile touching his mouth.
“So, you’re welcome. Don’t get used to the compliments, though. I have a reputation to maintain.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head.
“Your secret is safe with me, Callum. I won’t tell a soul that the big, bad SAS Major has a soft spot for the competent civilian analyst.”
She met his look, sincerity peeking through fading mirth. “But seriously… I appreciate it. More than I can say. It’s… nice. Being seen. Not just as ‘the civilian’ or ‘Logan’s stepsister,’ but as someone who can actually pull her weight. Even if I do have a terrible resting face.”
He looked at her, the kitchen light casting shadows that emphasised the scar on his cheek, but his expression was open. He embraced the sentiment, not deflecting with humour regarding the mission or the weather.
“You’re not ‘the civilian,’ Dar. You haven’t been since the moment you started pulling threads no one else could see. And you’re certainly not just Logan’s stepsister.”
His movement was slow and deliberate, closing the gap between them. The rain outside faded into the background.
“As for the face… I think it’s perfect. Keeps the idiots at bay.”
He paused, his gaze dipping to her lips briefly before locking back onto her eyes.
“And you don’t have to thank me for seeing what’s right in front of me. It’s my job to observe, isn’t it?”
Her breath paused slightly at his proximity; the intensity in his eyes made her stomach flip. She didn’t step back; if anything, she leaned in just a fraction, drawn to the steady warmth of him.
“Is that part of the SAS training, then? Tactical observation of… terrible faces?” She attempted a playful deflection, averting her eyes, but her voice emerged softer than expected, a mere whisper. “You’re playing dirty, Callum.”
She looked up at him, her pulse racing. She felt the urge to reach out, to bridge that last gap, but she kept her hands curled around the edge of the counter, her knuckles white.
“But I suppose I’ll let you have this one. Since you’re so good at your job.”
A low chuckle vibrated in his chest, the sound deep and rough in the quiet room. He didn’t retreat, holding his ground right in her personal space, close enough that he could smell the faint scent of her shampoo.
“Tactical observation is a core skill, yea. But I’m afraid the assessment of faces is more of a… personal hobby. A specialised field.”
With a slow, intentional gesture, he lifted his hand, giving her ample time to pull away. He brushed a stray lock of hair off her face, his fingertips grazing the soft skin of her temple. The touch was light, fleeting, but it left heat in its wake.
“And I never play dirty, Dar. I just play to win.”
His eyes met hers, and he could see the rapid pulse in her throat. As her fingers tightened on the counter, he studied the sheer control she held, a palpable, silent energy humming between them. His hand fell to his side, his voice becoming a whisper as he took one step back.
“But I think we both know who’s really in control here. I’m just following your lead.”
Her eyes shut for a second at the brush of his fingers, and when she opened them again, they fixed on his with a mixture of defiance and desire.
“Following my lead? That’s a dangerous precedent, Major.”
She let go of the counter, her fingers sliding over the quartz until she found the hem of his t-shirt. With a soft tug, she drew him closer, her eyes locked on his.
“If I’m leading… then I’m saying you’re overthinking the tactical advantage of the situation.”
Her voice was barely a whisper, her breath mingling with his in the small space between them.
The basement stairs creaked.
Same Kitchen – Sudden Distance
The sound shattered the moment. Callum’s body reacted before his mind did—muscles locking, hand shifting from the comfortable ease of civilian proximity back to the guarded readiness of a soldier. He didn’t jump, but a sudden, almost tangible silence fell over him. He stepped back, putting a respectable distance between them; the movement efficient and practised.
Dar’s hand dropped from his shirt as if burned. With a swift, purposeful gesture, she smoothed the fabric, her breath catching in her throat as she spun away from him toward the sink. Her eyes met his for a fraction of a second—a flash of frustration and something rawer beneath it—before she schooled her expression into professional neutrality, the analyst reasserting control over the woman who’d nearly kissed him.
Sean showed himself in the doorway. For an instant, his gaze darted between them. He registered the extra space separating them, Dar’s sudden intense focus on the sink, Callum’s clenched jaw. He’d seen this before. Same kitchen. Different people. Charged air. Sudden distance. Nothing said.
Sean averted his gaze intentionally, granting them breathing room, and forced an overly cheerful tone.
Kennedy—your timing sucks.
“Thought I heard voices. We having tea? And those Pam’s emergency biscuits?”
Callum turned towards the doorway, his expression morphing into something neutral, though his jaw remained tight. He exhaled a controlled breath, forcing the adrenaline spike down.
“Hey, Sean.”
He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms, trying to look casual despite the way his heart was hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with the interruption. “We are. And the biscuits are Pam’s, so I’d suggest you grab one quick and forget you were ever here.”
Callum glanced at Dar, his eyes conveying a fleeting apology for the sudden retreat, then returned his gaze to Sean and gestured vaguely at the kettle. “Kettle’s still hot if you want a cup, Kennedy.”
“It’s that aerodynamic haircut,” Dar quipped, then crossed to the sink, rinsing her mug and setting it on the drain rack. Shut. It. Down.
“Night,” she said, and she was gone.
Callum watched Dar retreat, her departure swift and efficient—too efficient, severing what had been building between them. He stared at the empty doorway. One second later, and that would’ve been a different ending.
He forced his attention back to Sean; the rookie currently standing between him and the memory of that almost-kiss. He moved to the cupboard, pulling down another mug. He poured the tea, sliding it across the counter towards Sean, followed by the tin of biscuits.
“Help yourself. But if Pam asks, I’m taking the fall for the mission, not the theft.”
“She’s got a point about the hair,” Sean muttered, a dry, unpretentious edge to his tone as he reached for a cookie. “Less drag.”
Callum relaxed his hip against the counter again, blowing on his own tea, though he had no intention of drinking it. His mind was replaying the way Dar had looked at him, the way she’d pulled him closer. He exhaled slowly.
“You did well on the comms tonight, Kennedy.”
Once safely inside her room, Dar sat on the edge of the bed, Twigs immediately rubbing against her back. With a groan, she flopped onto the mattress, having scratched the cat’s head. What is wrong with me?
She stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily in the low light, then closed her eyes tightly. Muted male voices drifted up from downstairs, punctuated occasionally by Sean’s raucous laughter and the steady drumming of rain on the glass, keeping her company until she grabbed a pillow, turned, and surrendered to sleep.