Chapter 1On the day of the SWAT Marksman Observer Team (MOT) Qualification, I missed all three shots—sabotaged.
My boyfriend—Captain Wyatt Mercer—ripped up my sniper certification in front of everyone.
"Can't even hold zero. Why don't you fuck off to logistics and make tea!"
His first love, Lydia Crane, covered her mouth with a delicate laugh.
"I mean, she's not exactly spring chicken anymore."
What they didn't know? At that exact moment, separatist militants had seized the chemical plant outside the city.
And the country's TOP 1 sniper had just been benched by her own team.
When the alarms started screaming through headquarters, I was in the break room, carefully brewing jasmine tea like I had all the damn time in the world.
The Director burst through the door, his face purple with rage.
"The Mayor's daughter is in that building! Who the hell can make a ventilation shaft shot from 800 meters out?!"
Wyatt's face went ghost-white as his eyes found mine.
I just smiled sweetly and slid a perfectly brewed cup of jasmine tea across the counter.
"Sorry, Captain."
"I'm just the Tea Girl now, remember?"
---
I stared at the bullseye through my scope, fingertip brushing lightly against the trigger guard.
That tiny dot three hundred meters out shimmered in the scorching sun.
Sweat trickled down my temple, seeping into the corner of my eye with a stinging salt.
But I didn't move.
My breathing was as steady as a calm lake.
Captain Wyatt Mercer stood half a step behind me, to my left.
I could feel his gaze on my profile, like it carried actual weight.
Scrutinizing. And a trace of barely concealed... impatience.
His first love, Lydia Crane, stood pressed against his side in her non-regulation tactical uniform.
That uniform of hers was custom-made—waist tailored impossibly tight, fabric crisp and new, making her look like porcelain ready to shatter.
"Wyatt," her voice dripped like warm honey, "Linny's been holding that position forever. Do you think she's choking?"
Wyatt didn't respond, but I heard the faintest scoff through his nose.
The other team members around us held their silence, only the wind sweeping across the range with its whisper of sand.
This year's annual sniper qualification determined eligibility for next spring's international joint exercises.
More importantly, the team's only "Distinguished Marksman" special pay grade and honorary designation would be decided after this assessment.
Everyone assumed that slot had my name on it.
From day one on this team, I'd been the sharpest tool in the shed.
Never missed.
For the past five years, Linny Hawk had been the gold standard for precision.
Until Lydia Crane dropped in from nowhere.
Until Wyatt's heart clearly tilted off-axis.
My fingertip shifted slightly.
My breath stretched out, slowed down in that crystalline moment.
In my field of vision, only that black bullseye remained.
Wind speed, humidity, bullet drop... all the variables cascaded through my mind, flowing into my trigger finger.
Now.
Squeezed.
Crack!
The familiar kick pushed back against my shoulder.
Gentle.
But the electronic target system didn't light up green like it always did.
Dead air.
Clean miss?
Impossible.
My brow twitched, then smoothed.
"Wow, shanked the first shot?" Lydia's voice rang with poorly concealed glee, though she immediately pressed her hand to her mouth in mock surprise.
Wyatt stepped forward, voice cold as January. "Hawk. Get your head in the game."
I didn't turn around.
Reset my breathing, chambered the second round.
Aimed.
Fired.
Crack!
The target system stayed dark.
That empty space—like a billboard advertising failure—hung in the air for everyone to see.
Murmurs rippled across the range.
"What's going on with Linny?"
"Is she sick or something?"
"Two misses in a row... Jesus..."
Wyatt's breathing grew rougher.
I could picture his expression right now—that tight jaw, those eyes that always looked like they were grading a test, now filled with disappointment.
No, not disappointment.
Something more like... vindication.
Lydia gently tugged on Wyatt's sleeve, her voice quiet but pitched perfectly for the audience:
"Wyatt, go easy on her. Linny's probably... probably psyching herself out because I'm here, you know? After all, you two used to..."
She let the sentence hang, dangling implications like bait.
Wyatt shook off her hand, his tone sharp with barely restrained anger. "This is a qualification. Mind the protocols!"
He was protecting her.
By reprimanding her.
I licked my dry lips, tongue catching the taste of copper.
Could've been the sand. Could've been something else.
The third round slid into the chamber.
Cold metal kissed my fingertip.
Through the scope, that black bullseye seemed to waver.
Or maybe what wavered was something inside me.
Wyatt.
I turned the name over in my mind.
Remembered three months back, when he'd cornered me in the equipment room, his breath scorching against my neck, voice gone rough:
"Linny, just give me some time. Once I've got my footing here, once Lydia adjusts to the team... you know how fragile she is, how delicate, she can't function without someone watching out for her..."
What had I said?
I'd looked into those eyes, close enough to count his lashes, eyes that used to make my pulse skip, and given him one word:
"Okay."
I thought that was a promise between us.
Turned out, it was just my own private hell.
Now? Game over.
My finger curled gently.
Crack!
The third shot rang out across the empty range.
Still, the target system stayed silent.
Three rounds.
Three clean misses.
Chapter 2
Silence dropped like a curtain.
Even the wind died.
Lydia reacted first, letting out a sharp little gasp before clamping both hands over her mouth. Only her eyes showed—crinkled with barely suppressed triumph, practically glowing.
Wyatt moved.
He strode up to me, his frame blocking out the sun, casting me in shadow.
He looked down from his full height, the last flicker of warmth draining from his expression, leaving only cold contempt and... was that relief?
He held out his hand, voice low but sharp as a blade of ice driving straight into my ear:
"Your certification."
I lifted my eyes to meet his.
His irises were deep brown—I used to think they held entire universes, but now they only reflected my face, calm to the point of emptiness.
"Hand it over." He repeated, tone brooking no argument.
I didn't move.
Every team member watched us.
Their stares were complicated—shock, confusion, pity, and... some definitely enjoying the show.
Lydia spoke up right on cue, her voice soft and trembling but sharp as a needle:
"Wyatt, go easy on her. Linny's not exactly spring chicken anymore. Performance decline happens to everyone... I'm sure she's trying her best..."
Not exactly a spring chicken?
I was twenty-eight. She was twenty-six.
Wyatt seemed to snap. He lunged forward and yanked the my Advanced Sniper Certification lanyard from around my neck.
The metal was still warm from my skin.
In the photo, younger me stared out with razor focus and bulletproof confidence.
He gripped that laminated card until his knuckles went white.
Then, right in front of me, in front of God and everybody,
Riiip—
The sound of tearing plastic and paper.
He ripped my credentials straight down the middle.
Like tearing up a losing lottery ticket.
He threw both halves into the dirt at my feet.
"Can't even hold zero," his voice was acid, each word a slap.
"Why don't you fuck off to logistics and make tea!"
Without another glance, he turned and draped his arm around Lydia's shoulders, his tone shifting to something warm and protective:
"Come on, Lydia. Let's go. Next qual cycle, you're up."
Lydia melted into his side and shot me a look over her shoulder.
Pure winner-takes-all.
They walked away together, crossing the range toward the brick headquarters building.
Afternoon sun stretched their coupled shadows long behind them.
Team members exchanged glances, then dispersed like smoke.
No one said a word to me.
I stood alone, staring down at my torn certification in the dust.
The photo split down the middle—my face divided, my eyes still sharp but now looking almost comedic.
Wind kicked up, scattering grit across the pieces.
I crouched slowly, reached down with my gloved hand, and brushed away the dirt.
Then I picked up both halves, pressed them together, and held them in my palm.
The torn edges bit into my hand.
I straightened, tilted my head back, looked at the sky.
Cloudless blue. Blinding sun. Perfect day.
In the distance, Wyatt and Lydia had shrunk to dots on the horizon.
I turned and walked in the opposite direction—toward the squat cinder-block building that housed logistics, where washouts and burnouts went to fade away.
My steps were measured. Unhurried.
Behind me, the empty sniper range stretched out like a judgment.
The air still tasted like cordite and... betrayal.
My fingertip, inside my pocket, brushed against three unfired brass casings.
Cold. Hard. Real.
The corner of my mouth lifted a fraction of an inch.
Make tea?
Sure.
Why not.
---
Logistics occupied the corner of the first floor.
I pushed open the door to a musty wave of stale air mixed with cheap tea.
Old Harris was slumped over his desk, half-asleep. The sound stirred him, and he lifted his head groggily.
When he saw it was me, he blinked, then gave a knowing smile touched with sympathy.
"So you're here."
He didn't ask questions. Just jerked his chin toward a dust-filmed desk in the corner.
"That one's yours now."
I nodded and walked over.
The desk was ancient—paint peeling, one leg wobbly.
Through the window, I could see a slice of the training range, blurred figures moving around.
Probably Wyatt running Lydia through adaptive drills.
I pulled out the chair. It shrieked across the floor.
Old Harris shuffled over with a half-decent tea set, white ceramic with a small chip on one of the cup rims.
"We don't get fancy down here," he said, rubbing his palms together.
"Just big-leaf basics, keep those kids out there from dying of thirst."
I laid out the tea set piece by piece.
Pot, cups, tray.
Slow, deliberate movements, almost ritualistic.
Old Harris watched for a moment, shook his head, then slumped back to his nap.
Afternoon light slanted through the high window, throwing patchy shadows across my desk.
It was quiet here.
Nothing like the range—no crack of gunfire, no barked commands, no razor-edge tension.
A stillness so thick it almost stopped time.
I picked up the chipped cup and held it up to the light.
Rough ceramic, nothing like the precision gear I used to work with.
My fingertip traced the damaged rim. Coarse. Uneven.
Perfect.
Chapter 3
Wyatt pushed through the door while I was rinsing the leaves for the second steep.
Water temperature had to be just right.
Too hot and you'd scorch the leaves. Too cold and the flavor wouldn't bloom.
He stood in the doorway, backlit, his frame casting a long shadow. He carried that training ground smell—sweat and dust and cordite.
Completely at odds with this room steeped in tea stains and stale air.
He wrinkled his nose, clearly bothered by the mustiness.
"Hawk."
My name came out flat. All business.
I didn't look up, just watched the water swirl into the pot, sending bright green leaves tumbling.
"The Director just lost his shit."
He stepped forward. His boots echoed on the worn terrazzo floor.
"Next spring's international exercises. Lydia got the slot."
The water kept pouring.
The leaves slowly unfurled, releasing their delicate fragrance.
"She still needs work, but it's a good opportunity for her."
He added that last part like he was explaining something. Or maybe convincing himself.
I sealed the lid. Let it steep.
Timing was everything.
"You..." He hesitated, irritation creeping into his voice. "You got nothing to say?"
I finally looked up at him.
He wore his tactical uniform like armor—shoulders squared, collar buttoned to the throat.
Still that same rigid, uncompromising bearing.
Except something new flickered in his eyes.
Guilt?
No. More like... a faint unease beneath all that relief.
"Say what?" My voice came out rough—probably from not using it much. "Congratulations?"
Wyatt's frown deepened.
"Hawk, I know you're pissed." He moved closer to my desk, fingers drumming absently on the surface.
"But you blew that qual on your own. SWAT doesn't have room for unreliable elements."
His gaze dropped to the corner of my desk, landing on my certification—torn in half, carefully taped back together with clear packing tape.
The crack through the photo looked like an ugly scar.
Something flickered across his face. He looked away quickly.
"Why keep that thing?" His tone carried contempt. "Torn's torn."
I said nothing. Just lifted the pot and poured the steeped tea into the fairness pitcher.
The liquid glowed amber-clear, fragrance rising in waves.
Cameron Highlands First Flush Tea from this year. Harris's private stash that I'd dug out.
"Logistics is good," Wyatt said, scanning the shabby office. His voice softened into something resembling charity. "Easy. Low pressure. Suits your... current state."
He looked at me, something distant swimming in his eyes.
"I remember you used to love the tea I made."
That was back when he was chasing me.
Back when he was a freshly promoted deputy captain with time on his hands. He'd hunt down specialty leaves, use that precious pot of his, and fumble his way through brewing tea for me.
Water always too hot or too cold.
Leaves too much or too little.
But I always drank it.
He thought that was love.
Maybe it was once.
But now...
I lifted the fairness pitcher and poured into two tasting cups.
The movement was fluid. Practiced.
One cup I placed in front of him.
One I kept for myself.
"Try it?" I said.
Wyatt stared at the cup. Didn't touch it.
His gaze fixed on my hands.
These hands had once held a rifle steady enough to set records no one on the team had broken.
Now they were playing with teapots and cups.
Whatever emotion had been swimming in his eyes finally stilled.
What replaced it was complete indifference. Distance.
"I'll pass." He stepped back, putting space between us. "Got work."
He turned toward the door, footsteps decisive.
His hand touched the knob, and he paused. Didn't turn around.
"Hawk. Stay out of trouble."
"Don't make things... don't make things difficult for me."
The door opened, then closed.
Cutting off the faint cadence of drills drifting from the range outside.
Cutting him off too.
The office settled back into silence.
Only the tea's fragrance remained, curling through the air.
I picked up my cup and brought it close, breathing in gently.
The scent was clean and subtle—
Good tea.
I lowered my head, blew aside the floating leaves, and took a small sip.
Then I set down the cup and picked up the taped-together certification from my desk.
My fingertip traced the clear line running through the photo.
The tape was applied neatly, but damage was damage.
Like some things—once broken, they can never be whole again.
Outside, twilight was falling.
The headquarters building in the distance began to glow with scattered lights.
One of them belonged to the captain's office.
Once upon a time, I'd had a light there too.
Not anymore.
But that was fine.
I picked up the thermos and poured fresh water into the pot.
Steam rose in lazy spirals, blurring the view outside and softening that glaring crack in the photograph.
