Inside carried a faint trace of smoke and dust, yet the cabin felt recently tended.Someone -- likely Atilla or a Prospect -- had aired the rooms and stocked the tiny kitchen with basic supplies.I wandered toward the front window.Trees stretched in every direction, interrupted only by the narrow ribbon of road we had just traveled.No neighboring houses.No headlights.No vantage points for James.
Isolation usually translated to vulnerability.Two years of hypervigilance had carved that lesson into bone.Distance from help raised every risk.Yet Ace moved behind me, unpacking in quiet, steady motions, and a different sensation slowly edged in.
Safe.
By full dark we had a rhythm.Ace coaxed coffee from an ancient percolator while I built a fire in the pit outside, using the dry kindling stacked under the porch.Flames caught fast and hungry, and I fed them carefully until they settled into a steady burn.Night delivered a sharper chill, the kind that slipped in the moment the sun surrendered the last of its heat.
We carried our coffee to the porch steps and faced the fire.Chairs would have been nice, but we hadn’t spotted any.Still, even if I couldn’t feel much of the heat, it was pretty to watch.I wore one of Ace’s hoodies, fabric softened by age and carrying his scent, a mix of detergent and something darker I had begun to associate with safety.
Time stretched.Neither of us felt any urgency to fill the silence.We sipped coffee far too strong and far too hot, watching the fire throw shifting shadows across the clearing.Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle sounded -- long, lonely, making leaving and staying feel strangely identical.I pulled my knees up, wrapped both hands around the mug, and allowed myself to exist without planning the next escape route.
“I was twenty-three when I found the club.”Ace’s voice sounded rough from disuse.“Before then I drifted.No family.No plan.No clue what the hell I wanted from life.”
I glanced over.Firelight carved his features into harsher planes, shadows and angles hinting at a history I barely knew.His hands circled his mug, but his focus stayed fixed somewhere beyond the flames.
“Did construction for a while.Roofing, framing, whatever paid cash.Bounced from town to town, cheap motels, short temp jobs.Picked fights with people who probably deserved a drink instead.”He set his coffee beside him and rolled his sleeve to reveal a jagged pale scar running from wrist to nearly his elbow.Fingers traced the line in an absent pattern.
“Bar fight in Tulsa.Guy pulled a knife, and I cared more about landing punches than avoiding steel.”His mouth twisted, not quite a smile.“Came to in the ER, seventeen stitches running across my skin and a cop calling me lucky.The other guy chose not to press charges.That conversation made something click.The road I walked only led one place.”
My gaze followed his fingers along the scar, back and forth, like a private form of prayer.“What turned everything around?”
“Met Ravager at a truck stop.”Ace’s eyes softened, remembering.“He had a few brothers with him, passing through on a run.We talked.He said if I wanted purpose, the Savage Raptors stayed open to men who worked hard and watched each other’s backs.”His hand left the scar and closed around the mug again.“Two days later I showed up at the clubhouse.Started prospecting.Learned what belonging actually felt like.Learned I had a talent for the kind of work the club needed.”
Sparks leapt from the fire and died before reaching the tree line.I pictured a younger version of him -- angry, half-broken, bleeding in an ER and unsure he cared whether or not he survived.Hard to reconcile the image of that boy and the man beside me now, moving in measured control, teaching me how to breathe through panic, stepping between me and every threat without a second thought.
“The club gave me structure.”His voice sounded low and steady.“Brotherhood.A family who cared more about what I did next than where I came from.No doubt in my mind -- I’d be dead or locked up by now without the Raptors.”
Raw honesty in his voice squeezed something tight in my chest.He rarely showed this part, the lost and desperate kid who wanted a reason to keep going.I recognized him anyway.
“I used to dream about a garden.”The admission surprised me.“Nothing big.Just herbs and vegetables.Tomatoes.Basil.Maybe peppers.Something needing care every single day.Something you choose to commit to.”My eyes stayed on the dark surface of my coffee, watching steam rise.“I pictured a small house in a quiet town.Not fully isolated like this -- just peaceful.Neighbors I could greet without worrying they recognized my face from a flyer.A place where I stayed long enough to watch things grow.”
Ace went still, focus landing on me like a steady hand between my shoulder blades.
“I imagined stepping outside every morning holding a watering can, soil under my nails, coming back inside carrying fresh herbs for dinner.”
My voice dropped.“Felt like fantasy.People like me do not get lives like that.Still, I held onto the picture.Maybe because letting go would mean James truly managed to take everything.”
Ace’s response came quiet and firm.“You can have all of it.When this ends, when Mercer goes down, you get the house, the garden, every piece of the ordinary life you want.”
My breath caught.“You think I deserve something that soft?”
“No.”A brief shake of his head.“I know you deserve it.”
I lifted my gaze to his face, searching for any trace of empty promise.I found only steady conviction, worn like another patch on his cut.
A breeze slid across the porch steps and snuck under the sweatshirt, raising goose bumps along my arms.Ace noticed immediately -- of course he did -- and stood up.Before I could argue, he shrugged out of his jacket and set it around my shoulders, warm from his body.
“You’ll get cold,” I protested.
“I run hot.”He settled beside me again, closer this time.My hand wouldn’t need much effort to reach his.
The jacket wrapped me in leather and Ace, a mix of motor oil, road dust, and something purely him.I drew the material tighter and looked over at him -- really looked -- letting my gaze linger on the strong line of his jaw, the fall of dark hair across his forehead, the shadows lending him danger and gentleness in the same heartbeat.
His eyes met mine and held.Fire cracked and popped, and the world shrank to the space between our chairs.
I watched the decision move through him.A subtle shift of his shoulders, the way his gaze flicked to my mouth then back to my eyes.Silent question.Invitation to pull away or laugh or pretend nothing had changed.
Instead, I leaned in.
