She frowns, looking around the small living room, old couch, battered coffee table, kitchen tucked into the corner.
“I remember this couch,” she shares softly.“I think I sat here once?And you were standing over there, near that counter.”
My chest tightens.“Yeah.You did.”
“What did we talk about?”
“You were upset,” I share carefully.“Work stuff.”
“And you comforted me?”
“Yeah,” I confirm.The Kings had recently purchased this place.Kelly was having a rough day at the shop.I felt like she needed a time out.I grabbed her and brought her here to hang out while I installed a new hot water heater.She actually saw the space before most of the brothers.
She swallows, throat tight.“You’ve done that a lot?Consoled me.”
I blink once, slow.“Yeah.”
Her eyes soften.“You never said anything.”
“I didn’t want to scare you off.”
Her breath catches.“Why would that scare me?”
“Because feelings have a way of doing that.”
Her cheeks go pink.
She steps further into the room, moving slowly, testing her balance.I follow her without thinking — the same way I breathe without thinking.
Her fingers graze the back of the couch.“How much time did we spend together?”
“Enough,” I answer.
She gives a weak laugh.“Ledger, I’m not exactly in a position to decode vague biker answers.”
I rub the back of my neck.“Enough that you mattered Enough that I took it all for granted.”
Her eyes flash up to mine, stunned, soft, hurting.“I mattered to you?”
I look away.The silence is thick, full of things I can’t say.She steps toward me, close, too close — until her chest is inches from mine.I stop breathing.
Her voice is barely a whisper.“Did you matter to me?”
I can’t lie.Not to her.Not now.
“Yeah,” I rasp.“I did.”
Her breath shudders.“I wish I remembered that.”
My jaw clenches.“So do I.”
She stares at me like she’s reading something written just under my skin.Something she used to know by heart.
“Ledger”
I shouldn’t.I really, really shouldn’t.
But when she looks up at me with those wide, searching eyes — eyes that don’t remember our history but still trust me completely — something inside me breaks.
