He settles in front of me, and I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek to his back.
His body is warm through the leather.
Solid.
Real.
When the bike starts, the vibration travels straight through me, grounding me in something familiar and physical. Smoke mounts his bike next to us.
Wrath barks orders to his men, voices cutting through the air—cleanup, sweep, restraints, evidence. Someone mentions cops. Someone mentions a second location.
Miles doesn’t care.
Not right now. He rides.
And the moment the trees start to blur and the house disappears behind us, I finally breathe like I’m allowed. I cling to him and let the wind steal the tears off my face.
Getting home, the house looks the same on the outside. That’s what breaks me. Because the world can turn into a nightmare in a single day and still the porch steps will creak the same way they always do.
Josie is on the porch when we pull up, arms crossed tight over her chest, eyes red. The moment she sees me, she runs. She wraps me in a hug so fierce it knocks the air out of me.
“Oh my God,” she sobs. “Oh my God, Danae?—”
“I’m okay,” I whisper, my own tears spilling. “I’m okay.”
Raff is behind her, face grim and relieved, one hand on her shoulder. Country Boy pulls in behind us. More bikes roll up and stop at the curb, engines cutting off one by one until the street is quiet except for my breathing.
We make our way inside.
A neighbor stands beside Papa’s bed, one hand hovering near his elbow. Grandpa looks smaller than he did yesterday.
His eyes are wide, watery, fixed on me like he’s afraid I’m a ghost.
“Danae?” he croaks.
My knees go weak. I rush up to the bed and drop over the railing, grabbing his hands, pressing my face into them like I can absorb the fact he’s real and warm and alive.
“I’m here,” I choke out. “I’m here.”
He cups my cheek with trembling fingers.
“I thought,” His voice breaks. “I thought the Lord took you.”
“I’m here,” I repeat, over and over, because it’s the only thing that matters.
He pulls me into a hug that smells like his aftershave and old blankets and home. For a long moment, the whole world narrows to his arms around me.
Then I feel Miles behind me—close, quiet, steady. Grandpa pulls back and looks up at him.
“Miles,” he says, like he already knows the name belongs there.
Miles steps forward slowly, respectful. “Yes, sir.”
Grandpa’s gaze travels over him—cuts, scars, tattoos, road-worn edges—and something like understanding settles in his expression.
“You brought my girl home,” Grandpa says.
Miles nods once, jaw tight. “Yes, sir.”
