Then his mouth does the thing. The almost-smile.
But this time it goes further, not a full smile, not even close, but more than I've ever seen from him.
The corners of his eyes soften. Something behind the wall shifts, just enough for me to see light through the cracks.
"Guess we do," he says.
Three words. Low, quiet, with a warmth underneath them that has no business making my chest feel like this.
Wrenleigh appears in the exam room doorway.
Her eyes narrow.
She's sixteen, she's sharp, and she's her father's daughter, which means she misses nothing.
"Cool," she says, in a tone that suggests she has filed this interaction away for future interrogation of her father. "Can we go in now?Please?"
The moment breaks.
Coin straightens up, the wall rebuilds itself. "I'll be right there."
Wrenleigh disappears back into the exam room.
Coin looks at me one more time. "Thank you, Leah."
Notthanksorappreciate it.
My name. He's said it before — in passing, at the clubhouse, the way you say anyone's name. This doesn't sound like that.
It makes me forget for a second that I'm standing in a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fluorescent lighting.
"You're welcome," I say, and somehow manage not to sound like a woman whose entire circulatory system just rerouted itself.
He nods, turns and walks into the exam room with his daughter.
I stand there for a good ten seconds after he's gone, holding a cold coffee and staring at a closed door like it's going to explain to me what just happened.
I go to the clubhouse after my shift because apparently that's just what I do now.
That's my thing.
Twelve-hour shift, near-death teenager, confusing moment with a man I have no business having confusing moments with, and then straight to my brother's biker compound for dinner.
Totally normal. Very well-adjusted.
Vanna's in the main room with Waylon asleep in the car seat next to her.
She's folding tiny onesies and watching something on her phone with the volume low.
The picture of domesticity, wrapped in a flannel and sitting in a motorcycle club.
"How's your day?" she asks, like we're coworkers at a normal office.
"A seventeen-year-old almost died on my table and I told Coin we have matching scars. So. You know. Average."
She puts down the onesie. "I'm sorry, you did what?"
"I said 'we match.' Out loud. To his face. In front of his daughter."
