I miss him. Plain and simple. Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, slightly uncomfortable way that settles in your chest when something that belongs in your space isn’t there. I stare at the ceiling for a minute, listening to the house settle, the muffled sound of one of my sisters moving down the hall, the refrigerator kicking on in the kitchen.
And somewhere in the middle of that stillness, the thought shows up steady and clear.He’s it for me.I know it’s fast. I know if I said it out loud some people would probably give me a look. But I’ve known him long enough to know the important stuff. I’ve seen how he shows up for his mom and his sisters without needing credit for it. I’ve watched how loyal he is to his club, how seriously he takes that responsibility. I know the way he puts me first without making me feel small or crowded or like I have to fight for space in his life.
And I know how he takes control in the quiet ways that actually matter. How when he’s here, I don’t have to hold everything together by myself. I don’t have to stay braced for the next thing or keep all the plates spinning in my head. He sees what needs to be handled and handles it. Carries the weight so I can finally set mine down. I didn’t realize how badly I needed that kind of steadiness until I had it.
I roll onto my side and pull the blanket higher around my shoulders, letting my eyes finally close. I just want him home. Not because I can’t function without him. Because life feels lighter when I don’t have to carry everything alone.
TWENTY-ONE
REV
I’m halfwaythrough a cup of burnt coffee at Iron Reapers Customs. Blade’s leaned against the workbench when my phone buzzes, wiping his hands on a rag, grease streaked along his knuckles. Switch is a few feet away arguing with a parts invoice. The vibration of my phone pulls both of their eyes up at the same time.
I glance at the screen. “Mason. Clubhouse. Now.”
Blade’s gaze snaps to Switch then me.
“What the fuck is that about?” Switch mutters.
Blade doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens instead, eyes going hard in that way I’ve learned to read over the years. Locked in. Alert. The look he gets when something ugly is moving under the surface.
I feel it too, that same pressure tightening behind my ribs. “You getting that feeling?” I ask quietly.
Blade gives a short nod. “Yeah.”
Switch exhales slowly, already grabbing his cut. “Awesome. I love surprises.”
None of us laugh. We move for the door together, the weight following us out.
By the time we’re all at the clubhouse, the air already feels tight. The rest of the guys file in, the sound echoing off the walls before getting swallowed by the building. Mason steps in and the room subtly tightens around him, conversations tapering off without him needing to say a word. Dagger comes in right behind him, their shoulders brushing briefly before they split in opposite directions around the table. Tank drags a chair back with a low scrape and settles in, folding his arms across his chest.
Piston doesn’t sit down right away. He prowls a short line near the wall like he’s burning off leftover energy, jaw tight, hands flexing, until Tank cuts him a look.
“Sit the hell down,” Tank says.
Piston exhales through his nose but finally grabs a chair and drops into it, the legs screeching across the concrete.
Switch flips his tablet open as soon as he stops moving, thumb already scrolling. “If this is another late manifest problem, I swear—”
“It’s not,” Riot cuts in from near the big screen. His voice is clipped, tight. “This is bigger.”
Blade leans back against the edge of the table instead of taking a seat, toothpick rolling between his fingers, eyes already on Riot. “That’s encouraging.”
Ghost closes the bay door with more force than necessary, the metal rattling through the building before the latch catches. He stays near the door after that, arms crossing over his chest, eyes sweeping the room once before settling on Riot.
I take my spot and set my notebook down out of habit, pen tapping once against the paper before I still it. The energy in the room is already wound tight, every one of us looking around, reading faces, waiting for Riot to say the thing that dragged us all in here.
Mason finally breaks the silence. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”
Riot lifts his phone slightly, jaw tightening. “Grant Whittaker isn’t who we thought he was.” The words land heavy in the room.
Blade’s toothpick stills. Switch’s thumb pauses mid-scroll. Piston’s head tilts slightly, sharp interest cutting through his earlier restlessness.
Dagger’s voice stays calm, but there’s an edge under it. “Explain.”
Riot exhales through his nose and turns the screen toward us. A photo flashes up first. It’s a passport scan of Grant Whitaker. All neat edges and manufactured confidence. “That’s the identity we’ve been running,” Riot says. “Corporate records. Property holdings. Banking footprint. Everything checks on the surface.”
He swipes. The image fractures into overlapping data layers. Different names. Different photos. Different countries. Same facial markers. Same movement patterns. “Because it’s built,” Riot continues. “Not lived. Someone manufactured this man from the ground up. Backfilled records. Synthetic medical trails.Financial paths routed through shell corridors that don’t exist long enough to leave fingerprints.”
