“It’s safe.” He clears his throat, the sound rough. “You don’t need to make up your mind right now. At least take a look around. It’s better than the clubhouse.”
I believe him. I do. But staying here means more than just a safe address. It means waiting for the rumble of his bike in the parking lot. It means treating this fragile, terrifying thing between us as something real. Tangible.
And while I’m willing to bet my soul that Hammer wouldn’t touch me again without me breathing the demand, I know myself. I couldn’t treat this as some casual roommate situation. My heart, once given, doesn’t know how to ask for scraps. It would want to put down roots. It would want something permanent. Something final.
The question lodges in my throat, a silent, desperate plea as I stare at the man offering something so grand.
Is that something a man in his boots could ever want, too?
Swallowing thickly, I nod and follow him toward the entrance. Trying to steady the mess happening in my chest, he soon lets us in.
Nudging off my shoes, I step further in while he’s unlacing his boots.
Getting an eyeful of my surroundings, the air leaves my lungs in a soft, surprised rush. It’s so… basic.
Beige walls, a functional couch with three cushions, and a television hanging like an afterthought. A gaming console sits beneath it, and I try, and fail, to picture his large, calloused hands maneuvering a controller. A motorcycle magazine on the end table is the only thing that feels authentically him.
I feel the weight of his gaze from the doorway, a physical pressure as I drift through his space. He’s letting me see him, truly see him, and the vulnerability in that act makes my chest ache.
The walls are so bare. He needs paintings, something with color to make this place pop. The thought arrives, unbidden. Would he let me make a few changes?
My steps falter when I see it. On a high shelf, an elegant urn stands sentinel beside a framed photograph of a young woman with a bright, laughing smile. Someone important. A sacred relic.
“My sister,” he says, the words quiet but clear, preempting my unspoken question. “Juliet.”
The air thickens. He knows about the hollowed-out wreckage of my own family. Can I ask? Do I have the right?
“Can I ask how?” My voice is meek, a thread of sound.
He grunts, a rough, pained sound, and rubs the back of his neck. “She met a man who had bad intentions.”
The words are simple, stark. Chills cascade up my spine, cold and sharp. “Did… he get caught?”
His upper lip curls, just slightly, and for a second, I see the untamed violence simmering behind his eyes. Instead of shutting me out, he lets out a long, weary sigh. The anger doesn’t vanish, but it’s joined by a profound, gut-wrenching grief. “I took care of him. He got what he deserved.”
He doesn’t give me the fine details, but he doesn’t need to. The finality in his tone is a door slamming shut in a soundproof room. He killed him. The truth hangs between us, dark and absolute.
I don’t want to know how, and the bleak shadow in his gaze tells me he doesn’t want to tell me, either.
I turn back to the photograph, to the girl frozen in a state of happiness. “She’s beautiful,” I murmur, the words heartfelt. “Must’ve taken all the good genes.”
He scoffs, but the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction. My weak tease lands, a small light in the heavy dark. He guides me from one room to the next, a silent tour.
It’s a nice apartment. Cozy. The beige walls feel peaceful now, the carpet soft beneath my feet. From how quickly we got here, it’s near the town square. I could walk there. I could breathe fresh air that doesn’t taste of exhaust and neglect. A luxury I never had in Meadow Falls.
The truth settles in my stomach, warm and solid. Now that my parents are gone, I have no desire to ever return to that hellish town. Even if someone could squash the cockroach that runs that town, they could never fix the bad memories festering in its soil.
He stops at the last door. Pushing it open, he reveals his bedroom, and a flush creeps up my neck. It’s dominated by a large, simple bed, the linens dark and neat. The space is immense, airy.
Far more than the cramped room we’ve been sharing at the clubhouse.
Stepping inside his bedroom feels like crossing a threshold into a more intimate world. The air is different here, carrying the faint, clean scent of his soap and leather. I hear his soft scoff as I drift straight for his closet, pulled by curiosity.
Sliding the door open, I’m met with simplicity. A few plain T-shirts, neatly hung. A handful of jeans, some so worn they’re soft as cloth. It’s the wardrobe of a man with no pretense. Real.
“Hoping to find something inside?” His voice is closer now, a low rumble just behind me. The tease in it is laced with something warmer.
I don’t turn, my fingers brushing against a cotton sleeve. “Just wanted to see if there’d be enough room for all those clothes you bought me.” The truth slips out, unguarded, and hangs in the quiet space between us.
