My hands hover awkwardly in the air for a beat before settling on her back, careful at first, then a little firmer when I realize she’s not letting go anytime soon. Her breath pushes warm through my shirt, slow and steady, and something tightens low in my chest that I don’t have a name for.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice muffled against me.
“Always,” I answer without thinking.
We stay like that for a few seconds too long for it to be casual and not long enough for either of us to get brave about it, until Bella clears her throat behind us like she’s calling bullshit on the whole moment. Brooke lets out a quiet laugh and eases back, her hands lingering on my sides for half a heartbeat before she drops them.
“Get home safe,” she says.
I start backing toward the door. “You too.”
She shakes her head at me, smiling, and I turn before I say something else stupid.
I step out into the afternoon sun and let the door swing shut behind me, the muted thump of it closing sounding heavier than it should. The air’s warm, carrying the faint smell of cut grass and hot pavement, kids’ voices drifting from somewhere down the block, a lawn mower humming in the distance. Normal life keeps rolling like nothing bad ever happens here.
Her arms are still on me. Not physically, but the memory of the way she wrapped herself around me like it was the most natural thing in the world, like she didn’t hesitate for even half a second before trusting me with that much space. My hands flex at mysides like they’re still deciding what to do with the leftover heat of her.
I shake it off and head for my bike.
The sun glints off the chrome as I swing a leg over and settle into the seat, the leather warm from sitting in the light, the familiar weight and balance grounding me back into my body. I thumb the ignition and the engine kicks over with a low rumble that vibrates up through my arms and into my chest.
Good. Noise. Motion. Things that make sense.
I ease out of the driveway and onto the road, the breeze cutting across my face as I pick up speed, the neighborhood sliding past in neat houses, parked cars, and people going about their day. A woman pushes a stroller on the corner. A dog barks from behind a fence. Somewhere a screen door slams shut.
And all I can think about is the way Brooke leaned into me like I wasn’t just the guy who shows up when things go sideways.
I don’t do comfort.
I don’t do close.
At least, I didn’t think I did.
The steady hum of the engine settles some of the restless energy still buzzing under my skin, but it doesn’t quiet the weight sitting in my chest, the part of me that keeps replaying the feel of her arms around me, the way her voice dropped when she said thank you like it meant something deeper than gratitude.
I take the long way home without meaning to, letting the ride burn off some of the tension that wants somewhere to go. My eyes stay sharp out of habit, checking mirrors, scanningintersections, tracking movement, even in broad daylight when everything looks harmless and ordinary.
She’s safe. The doors are locked. Her sisters are there, hell my brothers are there.
I run through the checklist automatically, like saying it enough times might convince the part of me that still wants to turn around and go back.
The road opens up as the houses thin out, trees lining the edges, sunlight flashing through the leaves in broken patterns across the pavement. The warmth of the day presses in around me, the engine steady beneath me, but my head keeps circling the same damn truth.
I don’t just want her safe, I want to be the one who keeps her safe, always. The realization settles heavy and unwelcome, sitting in my chest like a weight I don’t know how to set down yet. Wanting someone like that means lines blur. Means there’s something real on the line. Means there’s something to lose. And I’ve never been real good at that part.
By the time I pull into my driveway, I kill the engine and sit there for a second longer than necessary, helmet resting against the tank, letting the afternoon noise fade into the background.
I’m still sitting there letting the heat of the day soak into my shoulders, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I frown and fish it out, expecting one of the guys.
Mom. The name on the screen pulls something loose in my chest I didn’t realize was tight.
I swipe to answer. “Ma.”
“Hey, mijo,” she says, warm and familiar, like she’s smiling on the other end. I can hear dishes clinking in the background, the low murmur of the TV, the normal soundtrack of her house. “You still coming for dinner tonight or did the boys rope you into something?”
“Yeah,” I answer without hesitation, swinging my leg off the bike. “I’ll be there.”
Sunday dinners are non-negotiable whenever I can make them. My mom. My sisters. Hell, even my stepdad. They’re my anchor, the people who kept me upright when everything else in my life tilted sideways. No matter how busy things get at the club, I don’t miss that table unless there’s blood on the line.
