Callie
The first hint of dawn crept through the cabin windows, painting the wooden floor in pale stripes of gold.I’d been awake for hours, sleep abandoning me as my mind circled around what I needed to do.The embers in the hearth glowed softly, pulsing like a heartbeat in the dim light as I sat at the kitchen table, turning the worn photograph over in my hands.The last piece of my old life, creased and faded from being hidden in my shoe during my escape.The only thing I’d kept.
While there was a chance my things still might be at my old apartment, I doubted it.At least, they wouldn’t have left anything I’d actually want.All my favorite things were likely long gone.Davis wouldn’t have left them.
I smoothed my finger over the bent corner, studying the faces frozen in the image.My parents on either side of me at my high school graduation, their smiles wide and genuine.Before the accident.Before Davis.Before everything changed.My own face looked back at me from the glossy paper -- younger, untroubled, eyes bright with possibilities I couldn’t have imagined before Samson found me.A ghost of someone I’d never really had the chance to become.
The metal trash can sat by my feet, pulled from beneath the sink where Samson kept it.Small, utilitarian, perfect for my purpose.My throat tightened as I held the photograph one last time, memorizing details I’d carry inside me instead of in my pocket -- my mother’s pearl earrings, my father’s proud stance, the tassel on my cap caught mid-swing by the camera.
“Time to let go,” I whispered to the empty kitchen.
The matchbox rasped as I slid it open, the wooden matches lined up like soldiers waiting for orders.I struck one against the side, the sudden flare of light and sulfur scent sharp in the quiet morning.The flame danced between my fingers, hypnotic and final.Decision time.
I held the photo by one corner and touched the match to the opposite edge.The paper resisted for a heartbeat before catching, a small orange glow that spread with hungry determination.I dropped it into the trash can as the fire consumed the image, curling the edges inward, blackening my graduation gown first, then my father’s suit, my mother’s smile.I leaned forward, watching my past transform to ash, feeling something release in my chest with each blackened inch.
The sound of boots on the porch steps pulled my attention from the dying flames.The cabin door opened with a familiar creak, and Samson’s large frame filled the doorway, silhouetted against the brightening sky outside.He paused there, taking in the scene -- me at the table, the smoldering remains in the trash can, the matchbox still open beside my hand.Understanding crossed his features immediately.He’d always seen me more clearly than anyone.
“Morning,” he said simply, closing the door behind him without commenting on what I’d done.His quiet acceptance felt like permission to feel whatever I needed to feel.
“Morning,” I replied, nudging the trash can with my toe, making sure the fire was completely out.“Just doing a little cleaning.”
Samson moved to the kitchen counter with the fluid grace that still surprised me in such a large man.He reached for the coffee canister, his movements familiar and comforting in their routine.“Sleep okay?”he asked, measuring grounds into the filter.
“Well enough,” I lied, not wanting to admit I’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, gathering courage for this moment.
The coffee maker gurgled to life, filling the cabin with the rich scent that had become part of home to me.I rose from the table, moving to the refrigerator for eggs and bacon.Our morning dance had developed naturally over our days together -- me cooking while he tended the fire and made coffee, the simple domesticity of it still new enough to feel like a gift.
Samson crossed to the hearth, adding kindling and logs to the dying embers with practiced hands.The muscles in his back shifted beneath his T-shirt as he worked, and I found myself pausing, frying pan in hand, just to watch him.When he turned and caught me staring, his slow smile warmed me more than the growing flames ever could.
“Hungry?”I asked, turning back to the stove to hide the heat rising in my cheeks.
“Starving,” he replied, moving behind me to reach for plates in the cabinet.His chest brushed my back, a brief contact that sent awareness dancing along my skin.These casual touches still surprised me -- how easily they came now, how natural it felt to be in his space, to have him in mine.
I cracked eggs into the pan, their whites spreading and sizzling as Samson returned to the fire.The bacon followed, filling the cabin with its savory scent.By the time I slid everything onto plates, the coffee was ready, and morning light streamed fully through the windows, warming the wooden floors beneath my bare feet.
We ate at the table, the empty trash can now pushed aside, its purpose served.Samson’s knee occasionally touched mine beneath the small table, each contact a subtle reminder of our shared space, our chosen connection.His gaze drifted to the can once, then back to me.
“Do you regret it?”he asked finally, his voice low and without judgment.“Burning the photo.”
I set my fork down, considering the question seriously rather than giving the easy answer.“I’m mourning what could have been, not what was,” I said finally, the truth of it settling into my bones as I spoke.“That life was never really mine.It was a possibility that disappeared the night my parents died.”I looked up, meeting his steady gaze.“I don’t need the picture anymore.The memories that matter are still here.”I tapped my temple lightly.“The rest I’m ready to leave behind.”
Samson reached across the table, his large hand covering mine, calloused fingers gentle against my skin.“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
I turned my hand over, palm to palm with his, our fingers interlacing with practiced ease.“I had good reasons to be,” I replied, squeezing his hand lightly.
Outside, the compound was coming to life -- distant sounds of motorcycles starting, men calling to each other, the day beginning for the Kings.Inside our cabin, the fire crackled with renewed strength, eggs cooled on half-empty plates, and the ashes of my past sat forgotten in a metal can, no longer needed, no longer binding.
I’d chosen this.Chosen him.Chosen us.Every day forward would be built on that choice, not on what I was running from.
* * *
The wooden porch steps creaked beneath my weight as I followed Samson outside, both of us clutching steaming coffee mugs against the cool morning air.Dawn had fully broken now, painting the compound in gold light that caught on chrome and leather.We settled into the mismatched chairs he’d placed at the porch’s edge, close enough that our elbows brushed when we moved.The touch was casual, comfortable -- one of a hundred small intimacies that had grown between us since the courthouse, since I’d committed to staying, to building something here.
Beyond the cabin’s small yard, the compound stretched in organized chaos -- motorcycles lined up outside the clubhouse, Prospects already at work washing bikes and sweeping walkways.Two senior members whose names I was still learning emerged from their cabins, leather cuts gleaming with patches in the morning sun as they nodded in our direction.Not just acknowledging Samson now, but me too.The woman claimed by one of their brothers.The woman they’d stood for against Davis.
I sipped my coffee, letting its warmth spread through my chest as my gaze followed the movements of the Kings beginning their day.It hadn’t been that long since I’d seen only danger in men like these.Now I recognized the protection, the belonging, the fierce loyalty that bound them together -- and had somehow expanded to include me.
My free hand drifted to my wrist, fingers tracing the fading marks where zip ties had once cut into my skin.The scars were barely visible now, pink lines fading to white with each passing day.Physical reminders of what I’d escaped, what I’d survived.What had led me to this porch, this man, this unexpected life.
