The words slip out before I can stop them.
Tony goes still.
It’s too late to take it back.
He sets his glass of tea down reading me like a book. “Holley.”
“It’s fine,” I reply quickly. “I’ve been fine. I can handle it.”
“Holley.”
His tone deepens. Serious. Grounded. Not a question, not a command—just a tether pulling me back to honesty.
I swallow hard. “I live in the car sometimes.”
His jaw flexes. “Sometimes?”
“It’s complicated. If the cabin is booked, I sleep in my car. It’s not permanent. Just until I dig myself out of the hole my divorce left me in.”
His eyes search mine, far too perceptive.
I let out a breath. “It’s not that bad.”
“And the heat?” he asks quietly.
I look away, throat tight. “I don’t use it unless I have to so I don’t inhale fumes from the car.”
Tony’s hand curls into a fist on the counter. “Jesus, Holley.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“The hell it isn’t,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re freezing at night, sleeping in a damn car, and you think that’s not my problem when I’m the reason you’re doin’ that because I’m stayin’ here?”
I brace myself for pity. But he offers none.
Just anger—not at me, but for me. Protective in a way no one has been in years.
I wrap my hands tighter around the mug. “I didn’t want anyone to feel obligated.”
His expression softens. “I don’t do obligated.”
I meet his gaze.
There’s something there—something fierce and warm and unfamiliar.
It scares me.
It comforts me.
Both at once.
By afternoon, the storm only worsens. The power flickers twice, then steadies. We camp out in the living room, fire crackling, blankets piled around us.
“Tell me about Salemburg,” I inquire, curled at the far end of the couch. “You mentioned it once.”
He stretches out, long legs brushing mine. “Small town. Not much to it besides good people and too many bars. Club handles shit though, it’s safe, and it’s home.”
“Club as in motorcycle club? Is that what your vest is about? The one that says Stud on it?”
