Vanna
The first week back at the clubhouse is surreal.
I keep waiting to wake up.
Keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to tell me this was all a dream and I'm really back in some trap house with a needle in my arm.
But every morning, I open my eyes to the same thing: Garrett's arm around my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck, the pale winter light filtering through Tildie's blue curtains.
It's real.
All of it.
And I still don't quite know how to believe it.
The clubhouse has a rhythm I'd forgotten.
Mornings are quiet—most of the brothers sleep late after long nights of drinking or working in the garage.
The compound feels almost peaceful in those early hours, just the creak of old pipes and the distant hum of the highway.
By noon, the place starts to come alive.
Engines rumble in the parking lot.
Music drifts from the common room.
The smell of coffee and bacon fills the hallways as whoever's on kitchen duty starts cooking.
I try to make myself useful.
Help with breakfast. Wipe down the bar. Fold laundry.
Anything to feel like I belong here, like I'm earning my place instead of just taking up space.
The brothers are kind enough—they nod at me in the hallways, include me in conversations, treat me like I've always been here.
But I catch the sideways glances sometimes.
The whispers that stop when I enter a room.
They remember who I was.
What I did.
And they're waiting to see if I've really changed.
Tildie finds me on day three, elbow-deep in a sink full of dishes.
"What are you doing?" She sounds almost offended.
"Dishes?"
"You're pregnant. You're supposed to be resting."
"I'm thirteen weeks along, not dying." I scrub at a stubborn patch of grease. "Besides, I need to do something. I can't just sit around."
Tildie studies me for a moment, then grabs a towel and starts drying. "Fine. But we're doing this together. And you're sitting down for the next task, whatever it is."
