My gaze locked on her.“She fits.”
Words failed to measure her place in my world.She had become essential.Watching her laugh among the same men who once terrified her felt like witnessing healing in real time.
The crowd surged again.Orders stacked.Bills dropped onto the wood.Ice rattled.Bottles hissed.
Three brothers showed a college kid how to line up a pool shot.Someone arm-wrestled near the stage.An old man nursed a whiskey like this wasn’t the biggest nightThe Broken Spokehad ever seen.Normal.Beautifully, perfectly normal.The kind of normal Mercer tried to take.
A flash of that bastard’s face crossed my mind, followed by the satisfaction of knowing he’d never walk free again.Trial coming.Maximum sentence likely.Justice, for once, doing what justice was supposed to do.
I shook loose the thought and grabbed three shot glasses.Salt.Lime.Tequila.A celebration for something -- a birthday, an anniversary, a Tuesday -- didn’t matter.The room shifted when I straightened, clearing just enough I could see her across the crowd.Empty tray under her arm.Soft smile already aimed at me.
The hit landed straight to the chest.
Three months.Three months of watching her learn she didn’t have to survive everything alone.Three months of watching her grow roots instead of fear.Three months of falling harder than I meant to.
I tilted my head toward the back, silent question.Her answering nod came without hesitation.She started moving, weaving through bodies, hair swinging against the collar of her jacket.My voice told General I needed five.My feet had already stepped away from the bar.
She met me near the server’s station, tray down, blue eyes searching mine.“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”My palm found the small of her back, heat through leather.“Need to show you something.”
“Now?”Her eyebrow lifted, playful curiosity hiding something softer.
“Now.”
The room parted enough for us to pass.Brothers noticed, but nobody interfered.We reached the new office, and when the door closed, the noise fell away, leaving quiet pulsing between us.
I didn’t drum my fingers.Didn’t shift my stance.Didn’t show nerves.But she read them under the surface anyway.
“Ace.”She stepped closer, voice soft but sure.“What’s going on?”
I opened my mouth to answer.
And stopped there.
The office smelled new.Timber, varnish, fresh start.Bigger than the cramped space we’d used before, built to last instead of barely holding together through stubborn will.A nicer desk and cabinets.A window opening to the back lot.Soft light from a single lamp warmed the wood grain while I stared, as if answers waited in those lines.
Marci ran a fingertip across the desk.“Turned out nice.Better than before.”
“Yeah.”My voice sounded rougher than I meant.I cleared my throat.
She turned.Curiosity shifted into worry fast.“Ace… what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”My fingers started tapping against my thigh anyway, traitorous nervous energy I couldn’t hide.I forced the movement to stop.Forced myself to breathe steadily.“Just need to show you something.”
Her head tilted.Months of sharing space had taught her the shape of every feeling I didn’t speak.“You’re nervous.”
“No.”
“You drum your fingers when your brain spins too fast.”She stepped close, palm settling over my chest.“Talk to me.”
That hand burned through my shirt.My heartbeat hammered under her touch.We hadn’t been together long, but she could read me better than brothers I’d known for years.
“Give me a second.”I crossed to the desk, pulled open the drawer.Smooth hardware.No squeak.No hesitation.The velvet box waited under pens and notepads, edges worn from the number of times I’d carried it, considered moments, backed out.
Her breath caught behind me.She recognized the shape in my hands.
“Not what you’re thinking.”I spoke fast.“Or maybe kinda what you’re thinking.I don’t know.”
