Spade’s gaze landed on the architectural plans spread across the makeshift table.One brow rose a fraction -- the closest he ever came to surprise.
“Those for here?”
“Marci drew them.”Pride thickened my voice.“Garden expansion.Roses, vegetables, the works.”
“About damn time this place had some life growing in it.”He nodded once, approval given.“I’ll talk to the insurance adjuster.Maybe I can light a fire under them and get the check sooner rather than later.”
He turned and headed back toward his bike, conversation finished, point delivered.Spade in a nutshell -- efficient in words and movement, always making sure his people had whatever they needed.
I looked down at Marci, at her tear-streaked face and bright eyes, then back at the plans showing her vision for the future.Behind us, brothers returned to work, the sounds of construction resuming -- hammers and saws and the steady progress of rebuilding.Overhead, new pale joists crossed against the October sky.And tucked in the corner, barely visible, a single charred plank had been reframed and mounted like art.A reminder of what we’d survived.A memorial to what had almost been lost.
I found Marci’s hand, our fingers lacing together over her garden plans.Around us, family built something new from ashes and determination.
* * *
Golden light slanted through the windows, painting everything in shades of amber and rose.I stood at the sink, running water over hands that refused to stop shaking after a full day of labor, watching Marci move through the space we shared.Her space.My space.Our space -- lines blurred somewhere between her first night here and this moment, gardening tools folded neatly on a shelf beside my small stack of books, paint cans in the corner waiting for the weekend project she planned.
She set takeout containers on the small kitchen table -- Thai from the place on Main Street, the smell of pad thai and curry mixing in the air.Her movements looked careful, deliberate, the kind that showed exhaustion had sunk in far enough to make simple tasks demand focus.I dried my hands and joined her, pulling out chairs that scraped across linoleum worn smooth by years of use.
We ate in a silence that felt earned.Days spent rebuilding side by side had carved out a level of comfort where words no longer mattered.My body ached in a way only overwork created -- shoulders burning, back tight, fingers cramping around chopsticks.Across from me, Marci showed the same strain, a faint tremor in her fork hand as she lifted noodles to her mouth.
“You worked too hard today.”
She shook her head.“Felt good.Being useful.Contributing to something instead of just taking.”
“You’ve never been just taking.”
“Haven’t I?”She set down her fork, her blue eyes finding mine across the scarred table.“You gave me a job, a place to stay, protection.Put yourself and your club in danger.Let your bar get burned down because you wouldn’t let me go.That’s a lot of taking, Ace.”
I wanted to argue, to tell her she had it backward.But the look on her face stopped me -- vulnerable and honest in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.So instead, I reached across the table and took her hand, my calloused palm rough against her softer skin.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.Really thinking.”
She was quiet for a long moment, her thumb tracing patterns against my knuckles.When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.“I still flinch.When doors slam or engines backfire or someone moves too fast in my peripheral vision.My body expects violence even though my brain knows Mercer’s locked up.Even though I’m safe here.”
“That’s normal.After what you went through, what he put you through for all those years --”
“But I want it to stop.”Her grip on my hand tightened.“I want to not be broken anymore.Want to be able to exist without constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“You’re not broken.”The words came out fierce, certain.“You survived.That’s not the same thing as broken.”
“Then why do I still wake up reaching for a bag no longer here?Why do I have to remind myself every morning I’m allowed to stay?Why can’t I accept I’m safe?”Her eyes shone, tears threatening but not falling.
I pushed back my chair and moved around the table.Lifted her from her seat and pulled her against my chest, her body going rigid for a heartbeat before softening into me.My hand slid through her hair, strands carrying the combined scent of smoke and shampoo.
“You will,” I said against the top of her head.“Give yourself time.Give us time.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at me, her hands framing my face.“I was so scared when I left.When I climbed into Mercer’s car thinking the choice would save you.Fear slammed into me -- not fear of dying, but fear of never getting to tell you --” A pause, a swallow.“Never getting to tell you that somewhere between you giving me a job and your brothers placing this jacket on my shoulders, I fell in love with you.”
The confession struck like a punch to the chest, breath gone in an instant.I tried to speak, but she kept going, words spilling fast, unstoppable once released.
“And when you walked into the warehouse, when you came for me even though every sign pointed to a trap, I realized I’d been running the wrong way.I should have been running toward you instead of away from every good thing that scared me.”
“Marci --”
“I love you.”No break in her voice this time, no hesitation.“I love you, and I’m done being afraid.Done letting what he did dictate how I live.”
I kissed her then -- no choice left in me, no room for restraint.My hands tangled in her hair as I hauled her closer.A small sound escaped against my mouth, surprise shifting into need, her fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.The kiss turned reckless, fueled by months of fear, tension, wanting, and every word we’d never spoken.
