He doesn't blink. "Try again."
I stare at him, caught between the truth and survival. My instincts are screaming at me to run, to get out of here, to findanother way. But my feet won't move. Something about the way he's looking at me, the intensity of those gray eyes, pins me in place.
"Does it matter?" I finally say. "I just need a phone."
He studies me for another long moment. Those eyes take in every bruise, every shadow, every flinch I'm trying to hide. I feel stripped bare under that gaze, like he can see straight through the smile I'm wearing to the terrified girl underneath.
"Gears," he says, without looking away from me. "Get her keys. Bring her car in."
"I just need—" I start.
"You need to eat," he cuts me off. His voice is flat, brooking no argument. "You need your car fixed. And you need to tell me who put those marks on you." He turns and walks toward a door at the back of the bar, clearly expecting me to follow. "Kitchen's through here. You're staying for dinner."
It's not a question. It's not even really an invitation. It's a command, issued by a man who's clearly used to having his commands obeyed without question.
I should argue. I should insist on the phone, call a tow truck, get the hell out of here before I get in any deeper than I already am.
Instead, I follow him.
The kitchen is surprisingly clean. Industrial appliances, a large prep table, and the smell of chili simmering on the stove. An older woman with gray-streaked hair and kind eyes presides over it all, stirring a pot with one hand while she sizes me up with a shrewd gaze.
The man deposits me at the table like I'm something fragile and precious, pulling out a chair and gesturing for me to sit. I drop into it, clutching my bag in my lap, and watch as he settles into the seat across from me.
He doesn't eat. He just watches me with those unreadable eyes while the woman loads a plate with chili and cornbread and sets it in front of me.
"Eat," she says, her voice warm but firm. "You look like you haven't had a decent meal in weeks."
She's not wrong. I pick up the spoon and take a bite, and the flavor explodes on my tongue. It's good. Really good. Homemade, the kind of food that takes hours to make and tastes like love and care and all the things I haven't had in longer than I can remember.
I have to blink back tears, which is ridiculous. It's just chili.
"I'm Sparrow," I offer, because the silence is unbearable and I've never been good at keeping my mouth shut when I'm nervous. It's a habit Garrett hated, which is exactly why I lean into it now. "Thanks for the food. And the help with my car. I really do just need a phone, though. I can call a tow truck and be out of your hair in?—"
"I know," the man interrupts, his voice cutting clean through my rambling.
I blink at him, confusion knotting my brow. "You know what?"
"Your name." He tilts his head slightly, studying me with that same unreadable intensity that makes my skin prickle. "Sparrow Delaney. Twenty-four. Ohio plates, expired by two months.No wants, no warrants." A pause, weighted and deliberate. "Running from something, not to something."
My spoon clatters against the bowl with a sharp crack that makes me flinch. "You ran my plates."
"I run everyone who comes through those doors," he says, matter-of-fact, like it's the most natural thing in the world to investigate every stranger who walks in looking for help.
Heat crawls up my neck. "And if I'd had warrants?"
The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It's gone so fast I'm not sure I didn't imagine it. "Then you'd still be eating dinner. We don't turn away hungry women."
I don't know what to do with that. I don't know what to do with any of this. The kindness, the food, the way he's looking at me like he can see everything I'm trying to hide.
The woman brings me tea without asking. I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my palms, and have to fight back another wave of tears. What is wrong with me? I don't cry. I haven't cried in months. I've been too busy surviving to waste energy on tears.
But something about this place, these people, the simple act of someone handing me a cup of tea like I matter, is cracking something open inside me that I've kept locked up tight for a very long time.
"The bruise is four days old," the man says quietly. His eyes are on my wrist. "The lip is fresher. You've got three more I can see. Your collarbone, under your jaw, left forearm." His gaze lifts to meet mine. "How many can't I see?"
My breath catches. No one has ever looked at me like that before. No one has ever catalogued my injuries with such clinical precision and such barely contained rage.
"You're running from whoever did that," he continues. "And you're scared enough that a bar full of bikers seemed safer than going back."
