“Little rum?” I ask. Neutral. Not pushing. Offering.
Her eyes widen a fraction. Then she shakes her head. “No. If I drink right now, I’ll cry or flirt, and I don’t want to do either.”
A short laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
“Fair enough,” I say, and nudge the tea closer. “Drink your tea. You’re in shock.”
“I’m not,” she starts.
I lift a brow.
She stops, then wraps her hands around the mug. Her fingers tremble, but she doesn’t hide it. That’s not weakness. That’s honesty.
She looks up at me over the rim.
“You’re not what I expected,” she says.
“Likewise.”
Her mouth twitches again, like she’s fighting a smile and losing.
“Ava always said the Damned Saints were rough but trustworthy,” she says after a beat. “I believed her. I just…” She exhales. “I’m not used to men showing up when I’m in trouble.”
That’s all she gives me. No confessional. No overshare. Just a clean truth.
It’s enough.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “We look after our people.”
Her brows lift.
“Am I your people?”
The question should be nothing. A nervous poke at a tense situation.
It hits anyway.
I step closer before I can stop myself, planting my palms on the counter on either side of her mug.
Not touching her. Not trapping her.
Close enough that her breath catches.
Freckles dust her nose. Her lashes are too long. Her eyes stay steady even as her pulse jumps in her throat.
She’s young. Innocent in the way that matters. Not naive. Not untouched by darkness, just unwilling to let it steal her whole personality.
I hate that I notice.
I hate how much I want to protect that part of her.
I make my voice stay level, even as everything in me strains toward her.
“Right now,” I say, low, “you’re under my protection.”
Her lips part, and I look away from them like they’re a threat.
“That means no one touches you,” I continue. “No one scares you. No one takes you anywhere.”
