“You?”
He shrugs once. “Enough.”
It’s a lie. It sits there anyway. I don’t push. Not yet.
He reaches behind him and grabs a small container I hadn’t noticed last night.
“Eat,” he says, setting it in front of me.
I lift the lid.
Muffins. Blueberry.
I glance up at him. “You bake?”
A faint smirk touches his mouth. “Our prez, Havoc does. Him and his old lady.”
“Oh.”
“They bake together. She showed him how.”
That surprises me more than it should.
He says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s just another fact.
But it isn’t.
It’s a man who leads a club full of hardened ex-military bikers, standing in a kitchen measuring flour with his woman.
Something settles low in my chest at that. Not softness.
Stability.
I pick one up, brushing crumbs from the top.
He watches until I take a bite.
“Good?” he asks.
I nod, chewing. “Very.”
“Eat the whole thing,” he says. Not bossy. Just steady.
I do.
For a few minutes, it’s quiet. Coffee. Muffins. Morning light through the window.
Almost peaceful.
Then the guilt hits.
My phone.
It’s still in the pocket of my dress, the one I folded on the bathroom counter. I turned it off when I got here. I never turned it back on.
Lyla.
My stomach tightens.
