The knowledge settles over me slowly, and I realize with a jolt that I believe it this time.
Not because the danger is gone, I'm not naive enough to think that, but because I'm not alone anymore.
When those engines roared up to the cabin last night and everything went to hell, Morgan didn't hesitate. He moved like violence was a language he spoke fluently, and he used it to keep me safe without asking for anything in return.
I replay the scene in my head: the crack of the door splintering, the sharp report of gunfire, Morgan's body between me and the threat without hesitation. The way he crouched beside me afterward, checking for injuries with hands that were steadyeven though I could see the fear flickering in his eyes. The way he held me when the adrenaline finally crashed and I couldn't stop shaking.
I don't feel small when I think about it. I feel protected, seen, like my fear mattered, like my survival was worth fighting for.
Downstairs, I hear the low rumble of voices and the faint hiss of coffee brewing, and the rich smell drifts up through the floorboards. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since yesterday, and I carefully extract myself from the bed without disturbing Bullet, who stretches and yawns before curling back into the warm spot I left behind.
I pull on the flannel shirt Morgan gave me yesterday and head downstairs, my bare feet silent on the worn wooden steps.
The clubhouse is alive with movement, but it's not chaotic. Men move with purpose, voices low and controlled, and there's an efficiency to the way they navigate the space that speaks to years of working together.
Grave is near the coffee pot, pouring two mugs with one hand while he talks quietly to Miller, who's bent over a map spread across the bar. Price is hauling in firewood, stacking it neatly by the stone hearth, and Hansen stands near the window with his phone pressed to his ear, his expression focused.
No one stares when I appear. A few heads turn, nods of acknowledgment, but then they go back to what they were doing, and I understand that I'm not an intruder here.
I'm just part of the landscape now, absorbed into the rhythm of the club without fanfare.
Morgan is near the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand, and when his eyes find mine across the roomsomething in his expression softens. He doesn't move toward me immediately, just watches, and I cross the space to him slowly, aware of how natural it feels to gravitate toward him like he's magnetic north.
"Morning," he says quietly, and his free hand comes up to rest at the small of my back, warm and grounding.
"Morning," I echo, and I lean into his touch without thinking.
He hands me his mug without asking if I want it, and I take a sip, letting the warmth spread through me.
The coffee is strong, slightly bitter, exactly what I need.
"How'd you sleep?" he asks, his thumb tracing slow circles against my back.
"Better than I expected," I admit. "You?"
"Enough." His gaze searches my face, and I know he's checking for signs of fear or regret. "You doing okay?"
I nod slowly, considering the question honestly. "Yeah. I think I am."
He doesn't look entirely convinced, but he doesn't push, and I appreciate that more than I can say.
Behind us, Bullet appears from nowhere, a tiny scrap of ginger fur weaving between Morgan’s boots, meowing weakly until Morgan crouches and scratches behind ears small enough to fit between two fingers.
"Someone's hungry," I observe, smiling despite myself.
"He's not the only one." Morgan straightens and gestures toward the kitchen. "Hansen made eggs. There's enough for everyone."
We move into the kitchen together, and I'm struck again by how domestic this feels, despite the weapons visible on nearly every surface and the tension humming just beneath the calm.
I fill a plate with scrambled eggs and toast, and Morgan does the same, and we settle at the table near the window where sunlight streams in and makes everything feel warmer than it is.
Grave ambles over after a moment, coffee in hand, and drops into the chair across from us. He doesn't say anything at first, just looks at me with that assessing gaze I'm getting used to.
"You good?" he asks finally, his voice gruff but not unkind.
"Yeah," I say, and I mean it. "Thank you. For last night."
He shrugs like it's nothing, like riding into danger to back up his brother is just what you do. "That's what family's for."
