What the fuck just happened in there?
I came to check on Robin. That's all. Make sure he was safe, make sure this biker bar situation wasn't some kind of disaster waiting to happen. He'd been vague in his letters—"made some friends," "hanging out at this place," "don't worry about me"—which in Robin-speak usually means "I'm definitely doing something you'd worry about."
So I tracked his phone, found him at a bar, and rode over expecting the worst. Drugs, maybe. A bad relationship. Some asshole taking advantage of my little brother's desperate need to be liked.
Instead I found him thriving. Happy in a way I haven't seen since we were kids, before our parents' bullshit beat the joy out of him. I found Toby mated to an alpha lion—mated, actually mated, with claiming marks I could see from across the room—and looking content in a way I'd never thought possible for someone with his history.
And I found a golden-eyed shifter who looked at me like I was something he wanted to devour.
Jason.
I stop at my bike and grip the handlebars, not ready to leave yet. Need a minute to process. Need to get my head on straight before I ride, because riding distracted is how you end up as a smear on the pavement.
Jason. I turn his name over in my mind, testing the shape of it. He's pretty in that way that makes you want to wreck him—not mean-pretty, not calculated-pretty, but genuine. Bright eyes that show every emotion. Easy smile that falteredinto something nervous when I got close. Lean muscle from working on bikes, the kind of body that's functional rather than decorative.
Smells like motor oil and something sweet. Vanilla, maybe, or brown sugar. Young—early twenties probably, though shifters age weird so who knows. Could be forty for all I can tell. Could be older than me. Doesn't look it, though. Looks like someone who still believes in things.
And the way he offered to cook for me—not flirting, not trying to impress, just genuine instinct to provide. I knew guys overseas who were the same way. Shifters, mostly. Had to feed everyone, take care of the unit. Got twitchy and anxious when they couldn't provide, when supply lines were cut and we were eating MREs for weeks. It's a shifter thing, apparently. A caretaker thing.
Some shifters show love by protecting. Some show it by providing.
Jason's got the provider instinct bad. I could see it in the way he perked up at the challenge of making something spicy enough for me. The way his whole demeanor shifted when he had a task, a way to be useful.
I swing onto my bike and sit there for a minute, not starting the engine. Just breathing. Trying to get my head on straight.
Thirty-six hours without sleep. Five years of missions bleeding into each other until time stopped meaning anything. I should be focused on decompressing, on figuring out civilian life, on unpacking the single duffel bag that contains everything I own. On finding a therapist, like the Army's exit counselor suggested. On reconnecting with Robin. On learning how to be a person again instead of a weapon.
Not on pretty boys with nervous hands and racing pulses.
But I can still feel him. The rabbit-quick beat of his heart under my thumb when I grabbed his wrist. The way his scent spiked when I touched him—arousal and nerves tangled together so tight I could barely tell them apart, even without shifter senses. The way he said "maybe I don't like strangers grabbing me" while his whole body screamed the opposite. Pupils blown. Lips parted. Leaning in even as his words pushed back.
He wanted me to keep touching him. Wanted it so badly he probably scared himself.
My phone buzzes before I even get the engine started.
Robin:Jason wants to climb you like a tree
I snort, tension bleeding out of my shoulders. Same old Robin. No filter, no boundaries, no sense that some thoughts should stay inside your head.
Robin.
What? It's true! He's been pacing since you left. Literally pacing. Vaughn says he's never seen him this worked up
Leave it alone.
No way. You need to get laid and he's perfect for you
I don't need you matchmaking.
You absolutely do. When's the last time you got any?
I don't answer that. Six months, maybe. Some guy in a bar in Germany who spoke barely any English and didn't want to talk anyway. Quick and efficient and forgettable, which was the point. I didn't learn his name. He didn't learn mine. We fucked in a bathroom stall and I was on a transport out of the country four hours later.
Before that—honestly, I can't remember. Another anonymous hookup in another country. Maybe Poland. Maybe Spain. They blur together after a while, all those bodies I usedto feel something other than the constant low-level hum of hypervigilance.
Tuesday,Robin texts.Come for lunch. Jason's cooking.
Robin.
