“You did it, you kept your wits about you.” I remind her. “You’re here because you played shit smart.”
A tear slips free, then another. She presses her forehead to my shoulder, and I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close, careful but firm.
She feels real.
Warm.
Alive.
Her body shakes once, twice, and then she exhales like something finally unclenches inside her. I hold her through it. Don’t rush. Don’t speak. Just stay in this moment with her.
When she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed, eyes tired but steady.
“Can we just be?” she asks. “For a little while?”
I nod. “That’s all I want.”
We undress without urgency. No hunger. No rush. Just the quiet intimacy of choosing closeness instead of distance.
I guide her down onto the bed and lie beside her, facing her, my hand resting at her waist like an anchor. She traces the scar on my chest with the lightest touch, like she’s memorizing proof that I’m here too.
Kissing slowly builds to more. When we come together, it’s slow, more about connection than need. Every movement feels like gratitude. Every breath feels earned.
I kiss her like I’m saying thank you. For surviving. For trusting me. For existing.
She presses her forehead to mine, our breaths mingling, and I feel it then—so clear it almost scares me.
Love.
Not the reckless kind I used to confuse with heat or escape. The steady kind. The kind that stays.
I pull back just enough to look at her.
“Danae,” I whisper quietly.
She hums, eyes half-lidded, peaceful for the first time since I found her.
“I love you.”
The words don’t feel heavy. They feel right.
Her eyes widen, then soften, like she’s been waiting for them even if she didn’t know it. “I love you too,” she says, voice trembling but sure. “I’ve never felt so much for someone before you and I don’t want this feeling to change ever.”
Emotion swells in my chest, thick and overwhelming.
She smiles faintly, then her brow creases. “I want this. Us. But,” She exhales. “How does this work, Miles? You live on the road. North Carolina. The club. Arkansas isn’t exactly on the way.”
I shift onto my side, propping my head on my hand, tracing her arm with my thumb.
“Being a nomad doesn’t mean being alone,” I try to explain. “It just means home isn’t a fixed place. It’s wherever your people are. I can do that. I don’t have to give up my cut. I can give up Salemburg and my officer position if it means I get you.”
She studies me, searching my face like she’s afraid this is a pretty lie.
“I’ve lived out of saddlebags and motel rooms for years,” I continue. “I know how to move. How to adapt. What I didn’t know, what I didn’t have, was a reason to stop until you.”
Her breath catches. “I’m stepping down,” I share. “I want this more than any title.”
Her eyes widen. “From what?”
