“That ain’t how they see it,” he replies.
I can feel my face getting hot. I can feel eyes on me. I can feel the whole diner listening even when they’re pretending not to.
“I’m not property,” I hiss.
Elijah’s gaze holds mine steady. “Then don’t act like you are.”
I freeze.
Because I don’t know if he means the club.
Or if he means the way my whole body still remembers a man’s presence that never even touched me.
I sit back, throat tight. Elijah softens like he realizes he pushed too hard.
“I’m sorry,” he says quiet. “That came out wrong.”
I stare at him a second, then exhale. “It’s fine.”
“It ain’t,” he says. “But I’m trying.”
His hand shifts on the table closer to mine. Not touching. Just close.
It’s the kind of move that would make sense. The kind of move a good man makes when he wants you to feel safe.
For a second I let myself imagine it.
Me and him. Normal. Easy. No whispers. No biker wives. No gloves on my car. No fear.
Then the front door opens.
The bell jingles.
The atmosphere shifts.
I don’t even have to look to know. My body knows before my eyes do.
Oaks strolls in like he's the boss.
Jeans and boots, dark shirt hugging his shoulders. Cut announcing his authority. It shows in the way the man behind the counter straightens. It’s in the way two bikers at the far table shut their mouths mid-sentence. It’s in the way the whole diner goes quieter without meaning to.
He scans the room once, slow.
His eyes land on me.
My heart does something humiliating.
He holds my gaze for half a second.
Then he looks away.
Like I’m nothing.
Like I’m a stranger.
Like I didn’t wake up in his bed smelling like his soap with his note under my hands.
He moves past my booth without stopping. Doesn’t flick his gaze toward Elijah. Doesn’t posture. Doesn’t mark territory.
