"Feel what?" Miguel interrupts. "Special? Desired? Like you matter? That's what they do, hermana. That's how they operate."
"No," I say quietly. "He makes me feel like my disasters are features, not bugs. Like being broken isn't something that needs fixing. Like my chaos has a complementary chaos that makes sense of the universe."
Miguel sits down across from me, and suddenly he's not the lethal MC enforcer. He's just my brother, the one who raised me after our parents died, who taught me to be strong, who's trying so hard to protect me from something I'm running toward with the enthusiasm of someone who's never met a bad decision they didn't want to fuck.
"He'll destroy you," he says softly.
"Probably," I agree. "But maybe I want to be destroyed. Maybe I'm tired of holding all my pieces together with medical tape and denial. Maybe—"
"Maybe you're in love with him."
The words hang between us like a diagnosis nobody wants to hear. Terminal. Incurable. Probably requiring experimental treatment.
"It's been weeks, Miguel. I can't be—"
"Can't you?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Look at yourself, Lena. You're wearing his shirt. You smell like him—and before you ask, yes, it's obvious. Like sex and leather and terrible decisions. You lied to your family for him. You're risking everything for him."
My phone buzzes.
Zane:You okay?
I don't answer, but Miguel sees my face when I read it.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "You're really doing this."
"I don't know what I'm doing," I admit. "I just know that when I'm with him, everything makes sense in a way it never has before. Even when it's chaos. Especially when it's chaos. It's like finding someone whose disaster frequency matches mine."
Miguel stands, paces, his hands clenching and unclenching like he's fighting the urge to punch something. Or someone. Probably Zane. Possibly me.
"If you continue this," he says finally, "there will be consequences. The club won't tolerate it. I can't protect you from everyone."
"I'm not asking you to."
"You're my sister!"
"And I'm also a grown woman making terrible choices with full awareness and extensive medical knowledge of exactly how terrible they are!" I stand too, facing him. "I'm not some innocent he corrupted. I texted him first. I pursued this. I'm the one who keeps saying yes with the enthusiasm of someone who's never met a poor decision they didn't want to marry."
"Why?" The question cracks out of him, genuinely bewildered. "Why him? Why someone who could cost you everything?"
"Because he already has," I tell him. "And somehow, that makes him worth it."
Miguel stares at me for a long moment, then heads for the door. He pauses, hand on the knob.
"This doesn't end well," he says without looking back. "For any of us."
"I know. I can calculate the exact statistical probability of disaster. It's 100%, plus or minus nothing."
"But you're going to do it anyway."
"Yes. With enthusiasm and probably without protection if today's evidence suggests anything."
"Then you're on your own, hermana. I can't watch you burn."
The door closes with a finality that feels like losing family. Like an amputation without anesthesia. I sit on my couch, in another man's shirt, with another man's cum still inside me, and text the disaster who's worth the destruction.
He's gone. We're not okay. But I'm okay. Medically speaking, emotionally I'm having multiple system failures
Zane:I'm sorry
