Not with the memory of his almost-kiss in the safe room playing on repeat in my head.
When this is over, we're going to finish this conversation.
We haven't finished anything.
He's barely touched me since Dublin.
Barely spoken to me beyond the essentials.
It's driving me insane.
And I'm not the only one suffering.
I've watched him these past three days.
Watched him move stiffly in the mornings, rolling his shoulders like he's trying to work out knots that won't release.
Watched him wince when he thinks I'm not looking.
Watched him get up in the middle of the night—every night—because he can't sleep on that god awful mattress.
The walls down here are thin.
I hear everything.
I hear him shifting on those broken springs, trying to find a position that doesn't hurt.
I hear him finally give up around 3am and start doing push-ups on the concrete floor.
I hear the low grunt of pain he doesn't quite manage to suppress.
It's killing him, and he won't say a word about it.
Stubborn, infuriating, impossible man.
And tonight, I'm going to do something about it.
The clubhouse kitchen is my sanctuary.
Growing up, this was where I learned to cook—standing on a step stool beside my mother, stirring pots and mixing batter while the chaos of MC life swirled around us.
The kitchen was always calm, always safe.
A pocket of domesticity in a world built on blood and loyalty.
It’s a little late for cooking, so I have the space to myself.
I pull out ingredients, set up my station, and let myself fall into the rhythm of creation.
Cooking is like design.
You start with raw materials.
You combine them in ways that shouldn't work but do.
You make something beautiful out of chaos.
I'm making shepherd's pie—comfort food, hearty and warm.
