"He seems like a hard worker."
"He is. Reminds me of myself when I was that age. He's eager to prove himself, willing to do whatever it takes."
I watch him cook, the way his hands move with confidence, the focused expression on his face. And I can't help but think about what he told me. About being Grant, about being undercover, about the life he's been living that isn't really his.
"Can I ask you something?" I say quietly.
"Anything."
"What happens when the undercover operation is over?"
His hands still for a moment, and I see his shoulders tense. Then he sets down the spatula and turns to face me.
"I don't know," he admits. "Honestly, Allison, I have no fucking idea what happens."
"But you've thought about it, right? You and Devil, you've had to think about what comes next."
"We have." He leans against the counter. "And the truth is, we're both struggling with it. With who we are versus who we've become."
I turn down the burner under the pasta and move closer to him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that when I first went undercover, I knew exactly who I was. Grant Swain, police officer, here to do a job and get out. But four years is a long time to pretend to be someone else. And somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending."
"You've become Dime."
"Yeah. I've become Dime. And now I don't know how to go back to being Grant." He runs a hand through his hair. "The club, the garage, this life—it feels more real than anything I had before. And that scares the shit out of me because it means I might have to choose. The badge or the cut. The cop or the outlaw."
My heart is pounding. "And if you had to choose right now? What would you pick?"
He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. "I'd choose the cut. I'd choose the club and the life and everything that comes with it. But I'd also choose you."
Tears prick at my eyes. "Grant…"
"Dime," he corrects gently. "I know my name is Grant, but when you say it, I don't feel like myself. When you call me Dime, that's who I am. That's who I want to be."
"Okay. Dime." I step closer, putting my hands on his chest. "What happens to us when all of this is over? When you have to make that choice?"
"That's the one thing I'm sure about." He cups my face in his hands. "No matter what happens, no matter what I choose, I want to be with you. If I stay a cop, I want you with me. If I leave the force and fully commit to the club, I want you with me. You're the constant in all of this, Allison. You're the one thing I'm not confused about."
A tear slips down my cheek, and he wipes it away with his thumb. "I want to be with you too. Both versions of you. All versions of you."
"Even if it gets messy? Even if choosing the club means complications and danger and uncertainty?"
"Even then." I lean into his touch. "My ex-husband made me feel like I needed to be someone I wasn't. Like I had to fit into this perfect box to be worthy of love. But you? You make me feel like I can be exactly who I am. Messy and scared and sometimes too independent for my own good. And you love me anyway."
"I do love you. So fucking much."
"I love you too."
He pulls me into his arms, and we stand there in the middle of the kitchen, holding each other. The pasta is probably overcooked by now, and the vegetables need to be stirred, but neither of us moves. We just hold each other, finding comfort in the certainty of this moment even when everything else feels uncertain.
That's when I hear it. A song on the radio that's been playing in the background this whole time. A slow and sweet jam, the kind of song that makes you want to sway.
"Dance with me," Dime says, like he's reading my mind.
"Here? In the kitchen?"
"Why not? We've got music, we've got each other. That's all we need."
