She looks back at me.
“We got today,” I remind her. “Let’s use it.”
Her lips quirk, not quite a smile yet. “Bossy.”
“You like me bossy.”
Color blooms in her cheeks, but the tension in her shoulders eases a fraction. “Unfortunately,” she mutters.
I chuckle and pull her back into my chest, pressing my chin to the top of her head. We lie there like that for a while. No talking. Just breathing, feeling all the unsaid things moving between us.
The drip outside keeps going, steady as a clock.
Time running out.
By late morning, the sky is a pale blue and the snow has started collapsing in on itself. The world looks softer, rounded at the edges. The plow passes at some point, rumbling down the road, tossing a dirty wall of snow to the side. I watch it from the front window, Holley standing beside me, arms crossed over her chest.
“There it is,” I tell her quietly. “Your ticket out of here.”
She huffs a little. “Yours too.”
“Yeah.”
We brew another pot of coffee and eat simple—eggs, toast, leftover chili warmed up because I made enough for an army and somehow the two of us almost finished it. She steals one of my hoodies and rolls the sleeves up three times to get them to pretend to fit.
By afternoon, we’re back in the living room, spread out on the floor in front of the fire. She’s sitting cross-legged under a blanket, hair falling over her face as she quietly reads a book. I’m leaning back against the couch, legs stretched out, and we’re in this comfortable silence between us.
We’ve been talking on and off all day. Little things. Stories from Salemburg—her face when I told her about riding cross-country with the club, sleeping in cheap motels or under the stars, about bar fights that turned into lifelong friendships. Stories from her life before the divorce—how she used to plan vacations she never took, how she always meant to learn how to hike but got too busy being what someone else needed.
We haven’t touched the heavy stuff again. Not directly. But it’s there, under every look, every brush of her hand over my forearm when she passes me something.
Now, she closes the book gently and looks over at me.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
“You.” No point lying.
She laughs softly. “That’s a dangerous habit.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to notice that.”
Her gaze lingers on my face like she’s memorizing it. It makes me feel raw. Exposed. Like she’s getting a version of me most people never see.
“You’re quieter today,” she says.
I shrug one shoulder. “Got things on my mind.”
“Like leaving?”
“Like making sure you’re okay when I do.”
Her eyes soften. “Tony, you’re awesome, but my life is fine. It was before you rode into it and it will be when you ride back out.”
The name hits me in the chest. I’m used to being Stud. Road name. Handle. The version of me that belongs to the club, to the world out there where men don’t usually sit on floors in front of fireplaces thinking about women who sleep in their t-shirts.
But from her mouth, “Tony” feels right. Like she’s talking to the man, not the myth. Sure, she’s said it plenty but today it hits different.
“I’ll be okay,” she states softly. “I was okay before you got here.”
