"Okay." A ghost of a smile crossed his face—the first real smile I'd seen from him in days. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know what I'm doing or where this is going or what it means. But—" He stepped closer, his other hand coming up to frame my face, holding me like I was something precious. "I'm done running. I'm done pretending. Whatever this is, I want to figure it out. With you."
The relief that washed through me was staggering. I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been wound, how much I'd braced for rejection, until the tension released and left me almost dizzy.
"Yeah?" I managed.
"Yeah." The smile widened slightly. "I'm terrified, for the record. Absolutely fucking terrified."
"That makes two of us."
"Good. At least we're terrified together."
I laughed—a real laugh, surprising us both. "That's not exactly comforting."
"Best I can do right now." His thumbs traced gentle lines along my cheekbones. "I meant what I said, Tyler. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm going to screw up. I'm going to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, probably run at least once more before I get this figured out."
"I can work with that."
"Yeah?"
"I've survived worse than you figuring yourself out." I let my hands settle on his waist, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. "Just—don't shut me out. Whatever you're feeling, whatever you're thinking, just tell me. I can handle confusion. I can handle fear. I can't handle being left in the dark."
He nodded slowly, like he was committing the words to memory. "Okay. I can do that."
We stood there for a moment, holding each other in the gray morning light, the smell of oil and coffee surrounding us. It wasn't a kiss—neither of us moved to close that distance. But it was something. An agreement. A beginning.
A crack in the wall wide enough to let light through.
"I should tell you something."
His hands stilled on my face. "What?"
"Cross's deadline is tomorrow. The date on the envelope—it's tomorrow."
His grip tightened. "What envelope?"
The words hit me like cold water. Of course. He didn't know. I'd hidden it, kept it secret, almost told him a dozen times but never found the courage. He had no idea what I'd been carrying for the past six days.
"Tyler." His voice had gone sharp, edged with something between concern and anger. "What envelope?"
I took a breath. This was the moment—the choice between the old patterns and something new. Cross had trained me to keep secrets, to handle things alone, to never let anyone close enough to help. And I'd almost done it again. Almost let the silence stretch until it was too late.
"The day after you took me on my first real ride. When we got back to the clubhouse, there was an envelope on my bed. Someone had been in my room—past the security, past the prospects, right into my private space."
His expression darkened, jaw going tight. "What was in it?"
"A photograph. Me and Cross, from three years ago, when we were still—" I couldn't finish the sentence. "There was a date written on the back. One week from delivery. And a note that said 'I see you.'"
"That was six days ago." His voice went flat. Controlled. But I could see the hurt flickering behind his eyes, the realization settling in. "You've been carrying this for six days. You didn't tell me."
"I didn't tell anyone."
"You almost did." His hands dropped from my face, and the loss of contact felt like punishment. "That night in your room, after Cross came to the garage. You started to say something, then stopped. This is what you were hiding."
"Yes."
"Why?" The word came out rough, almost raw. "Why didn't you trust me?"
"It wasn't about trust. It was—" I struggled to find the words. "Cross spent three years conditioning me to handle everything alone. To believe that involving anyone else would only make things worse. Every time I tried to reach out, he found a way to use it against me. He made me think that keeping secrets was the same as keeping people safe."
