She called me when she was scared. Asked me to take her home. Asked me to stay. Now she’s sleeping in my arms like this iswhere she’s supposed to be, like this is the safest place she could think of when her world cracked open.
And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
My hand rests on her back, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing, while I stare at the wall, replaying tonight on a loop. Her voice on the phone, shaking and small. The way she clung to my jacket in the woods. The look in her eyes when she said, take me home, Rev, like it was the only thing she could reach for in the dark.
My chest tightens at the memory. What does this mean? Does it mean anything?
I’ve wanted this woman longer than I care to admit. Wanted her in that quiet, patient way you carry when you tell yourself it’s never going to happen, so you learn how to live with the ache and keep your mouth shut.
She’s beautiful. Classy. Runs her own business. Wears heels like she was born in them and drives a car that costs more than my first house.
And I’m… me.
A biker with too much blood on his hands and a past that doesn’t play nice with white picket fence dreams. Not exactly the guy you picture growing old with someone.
I’ve always told myself she deserves better than me.
Tonight, some suit with money and polished manners proved that being the “right kind of man” doesn’t mean a damn thing if your soul is rotten.
That thought twists in my chest, sharp and ugly. Because if that’s true… then what excuse do I have left for staying away from her?
Brooke shifts in her sleep, her face pressing into my chest, and my arm tightens around her automatically, like my body’s already decided she’s mine to protect, rules and logic be damned.
I rest my cheek against the top of her head and close my eyes for a second.
She didn’t come to me because she wanted romance. She came because she needed safety. And I’ll never take advantage of that. Not for one second. Not ever. Maybe this doesn’t have to mean anything. Maybe it just means she trusted me when she was breaking, and I was there. Maybe that’s enough.
But damn if the part of me that’s been quietly in love with her for two years isn’t wide awake right now, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is the start of something I’ve been too afraid to hope for.
I breathe slow and steady, forcing myself not to turn this into pressure she doesn’t need. Tonight isn’t about what comes next. Tonight is about keeping her safe. About being the man she needed when everything went sideways. About staying right here, holding her together until she’s strong enough to do it herself again.
My hand moves gently through her hair, slow and careful, and I whisper so quietly I’m not even sure I make a sound.
“I got you, Princess. Whatever this is… I got you.”
She doesn’t wake up. She just sighs and settles closer, like she heard me anyway.
Sleep still doesn’t come.
But I don’t move.
Not for anything.
Eventually, I do fall asleep. I don’t even remember when it happens. One second I’m listening to her breathing, feeling the warmth of her tucked into my chest, and the next I’m blinking awake to pale morning light and an empty bed.
Empty.
My body is moving before my brain catches up. I’m on my feet in a second, heart slamming into my ribs, scanning the room like something went wrong while I slept, like I failed at the one damn thing I promised myself I wouldn’t.
“Brooke?” I call out, low but sharp.
No answer.
My pulse spikes, and I’m halfway down the hall before I even realize I’m not wearing anything but boxer briefs. I don’t give a damn. I need to see her. I need to know she’s okay.
I round the corner into the living room and stop so hard I almost trip over my own feet.
Because what I find there doesn’t look like panic or fear or the aftermath of a nightmare.
