"You're not alone anymore," she says finally. "Neither am I."
I look up at her. This woman who walked into my bar with nothing but a broken car and a broken heart. Who stayed when she should have run. Who sees me, all of me, the violence and the darkness and the desperate need to protect, and doesn't flinch.
"I love you." The words come out rough, scraped raw. "I love you so much it scares me."
She smiles through her tears. "I know."
"I love you," I say again, because now that I've started, I can't stop. "I love you. I love you."
She sinks down to meet me, kneeling on the wet tile, and kisses me. It's tender and desperate and tastes like salvation. "Show me," she whispers against my mouth.
Iturn off the water and carry her to the bed, both of us dripping wet, neither of us caring.
This time is different from all the others. It's not about passion or possession or proving anything. It's about connection. It's about two broken people finding something whole in each other.
I lay her down on the sheets and take my time. Learn her body all over again, not because I've forgotten but because she deserves to be worshipped. Every kiss is an apology for what I am. Every touch is a promise of what I'll be for her.
She arches into me when I settle between her thighs, her fingers tangled in my hair. I taste her slow and thorough, drawing out every moan, every gasp, every trembling cry. She comes on my tongue with a sound that's half my name and half a prayer, and I stay there until she's shaking, oversensitive, begging me for more.
Only then do I rise over her.
"I love you," I say as I slide inside her. "Every part of you."
"I love you too." Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper. "Every part of you. Even the scary parts."
I move, and she meets me thrust for thrust. There's no rush, no desperation, just the slow build of something inevitable. We're climbing together, holding on to each other, making vows with our bodies that words can't capture.
When she comes, I'm right there with her. The pleasure crashes through us both, binding us together in a way that feels permanent, unbreakable.
After, lying tangled in the damp sheets, I press my lips to her forehead.
"Marry me."
She goes still. "What?"
"Marry me." I prop myself up on one elbow, looking down at her. "I know it's fast. I don't care. I want you to be mine in every way that matters. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to fall asleep holding you every night. I want the whole world to know that you're mine and I'm yours."
"Jett—"
"I've never wanted anything for myself. Not since Marcus died. The club was enough. The job was enough. But then you walked through my door, and suddenly nothing was enough without you in it." I cup her face in my hand. "Marry me, Sparrow."
Her eyes are bright with tears. "I'm already yours."
"Then this is just paperwork." I kiss her, soft and sweet. "Say yes."
She laughs, a sound of pure joy. "Yes. Yes, of course yes."
I kiss her again, deeper this time. The world outside can wait. The club can wait. Everything can wait. Right now, all that matters is her.
The next morning, the news hits.
Senator Ashworth's son found dead in apparent drug overdose. Authorities suspect no foul play. The family is requesting privacy during this difficult time.
The TV plays the story on repeat in the bar, but Sparrow isn't watching. She's too busy being kissed by the man who set her free.
Gears catches my eye across the room, raises his coffee cup in a silent toast. Preacher nods his approval. Even Whiskey manages to look serious for half a second before cracking a joke that makes Mama Rosa swat him with a towel.
This is my family, bound by choice rather than blood. These are my people, the ones who've stood beside me through every storm. And now Sparrow is woven into that tapestry, one of us in every way that counts.
