Clean. Organized. Almost military in its neatness.
A simple couch and coffee table in the living room.
Small kitchen with everything in its place.
A bookshelf against one wall—actual books, not just motorcycle magazines.
On the kitchen counter, there's already a water bowl set out. For Charlie.
"You planned this," I say quietly.
"Hoped." Shadow sets my bag down. "Hoped you'd say yes."
I move through the space, taking in the details.
His cut hanging on a hook by the door.
A framed photograph on the shelf—him with other club members, everyone smiling.
A worn paperback on the side table, some thriller novel.
"It's nice," I tell him. "Your place. It's... you."
"Yeah?" He comes up behind me, hands settling on my hips. "What's me about it?"
"Controlled. Careful. But with things you care about." I turn in his arms. "The books. The photo. Charlie's bowl."
His smile is soft. "Observant."
"I'm learning you." I slide my arms around his neck. "Trying to, anyway."
"Take all the time you need, darlin'. I'm not going anywhere."
We stand there for a moment, just holding each other. Then my stomach growls, and Shadow laughs.
"Come on. Let's feed you."
Shadow cooks—actual cooking, not just heating something up.
He grills steaks on the small deck out back while I make a salad and set the table.
We move around each other easily, like we've done this a hundred times before.
We eat outside as the stars come out, Charlie settled at our feet.
The air is warm and still, crickets singing in the darkness.
"This is nice," I say softly. "Feels... normal."
"We can have normal." Shadow reaches across the table, takes my hand. "Between all the chaos, we can have this."
I want to believe him.
Want to believe we can build something real in the middle of all this danger and secrecy and threat.
But tomorrow he's telling my father.
Tomorrow everything changes.
