“No, you’re right. We’re… whatever we are.”
The words sting more than I expect.
She falls quiet after that.
The slow burn in the room cools to embers.
And the whole time she sits there, swinging her legs, pretending to look at parts, she keeps glancing over her shoulder.
The watching feeling hasn’t left her.
Which means it hasn’t left me either.
Night settles over the compound which is across the street from my shop. Members come and go. Music shifts from loud country to low rock to silence as the clubhouse thins out.
Holley lingers close to me, careful not to intrude but drawn to my side like gravity has its own rules around us.
When we step outside for air, she hugs her arms around herself.
“Feels different here at night,” she says.
“In a good way?
“In a quiet way.”
We walk the perimeter of the compound—lights casting long shadows, bikes parked in neat rows, the fence line secure. Nothing out of place.
But still… she shivers.
“Someone’s watching,” she whispers.
Cold shoots through my veins.
I pull her closer without thinking. “No one here is a threat.”
“I know,” she says. “This feels… old. Like it followed me.”
Those words punch the air out of me.
Old.
Followed.
I look around again—slower this time, more deliberate. Shadows, light poles, the line of the forest behind the fence.
Nothing stands out.
But my gut doesn’t settle.
“Let’s get inside,” I say quietly.
She nods.
My room is dim and warm, light from the hallway slipping under the door. She stands by the dresser, fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on her sleeve.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “It’s like… I’m safe here, but not safe. And that doesn’t make sense.”
