“None that matters,” I said. My hand found my mug, which was cold and empty. “My mom ran off when I was sixteen. Dad drank himself to death in a rented trailer south of Belen. By then, I’d already moved out.”
He seemed to weigh this, maybe checking it against whatever story he’d invented for me. “You did all this on your own?” he asked, gesturing at the apartment, the books, the life.
“I had a few stops along the way. Mostly, I just kept moving until things got quiet.”
He looked around again. “Why animals?”
The real answer caught in my throat. “They’re honest. They don’t fake love.”
Dean’s mouth twitched. “My father said the same thing about soldiers.”
That made me laugh, more bitterly than I meant. “You think maybe that’s all we are? Animals with more ways to break each other?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He reached up and thumbed the dog tags, the metal clicking softly.
I set my mug down, my palms sweaty. “When I was a kid, our house was a drop zone for bikers passing through. Mom liked men with tattoos and loud engines. Dad liked the company, as long as the beers kept coming. Sometimes they’d party for days. I learned how to roll cigarettes byseven, how to mix a drink by nine.” I realized I was talking too fast, but I couldn’t slow down. “Nights got ugly, sometimes. Fights, stuff breaking. I spent a lot of time in the closet with a blanket over my head, listening to men in leather cuts argue about who owed what. Once, when I was twelve, one of them found me. He didn’t do anything. Just sat outside the door and told me about his daughter, said he was sorry. That was the first time I ever thought maybe not all bikers were monsters.”
Dean’s jaw worked, the muscle jumping. His knuckles went white on the mug handle.
“I left at eighteen,” I said, “with forty dollars and a piece of shit Honda. I promised myself I’d never go back. So, I started working at shelters. First for the paycheck, then because it was the only place that didn’t scare me.”
He watched me, no pity, just the cold arithmetic of someone who’d done their own time in dark rooms. I met his gaze, wondering if I should apologize for dumping all this at his feet. But he didn’t look away.
“I guess that’s why I didn’t trust you at first,” I said. “You reminded me of everything I ran from.”
He exhaled, almost a sigh, then set the mug on the floor. “I get it. Most people see the cut and decide I’m a threat. You did the right thing.”
I wanted to reach out to touch his hand or his shoulder, but I didn’t move. “You never scared me,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not really. Just made me think too much about the past.”
He nodded. “You’re better than you think.”
It sounded like a compliment, but it landed like a challenge.
I shrugged. “You’re not so bad, yourself. I think if the world had more people like you, fewer mothers would die alone.”
That stung him, I could tell. He rubbed at his chest, the dog tags leaving a faint red impression on his collarbone.
“You got plans tonight?” he said.
I blinked. “Other than hiding from the world? No.”
He looked at his phone, thumb flicking the screen. “Damron wants me at the club. Sultans are making a move. I’ll go if you need me to.”
The way he said it—like my need came before the club’s—caught me off guard. I realized then how far we’d both come from the people we’d been this morning.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said, meaning it but not wanting it.
He started to get up, then paused. “You want to come? Get out of the house, see what it’s like to be the only sober one in a room full of bikers?”
It was a terrible idea. I wanted to say yes anyway.
Instead, I shook my head. “I’ll be here. Keeping the lights on for when you get back.”
He nodded, slow and serious.
“Thanks for telling me,” he said, voice raw. “About your family.”
“Thanks for listening,” I replied. I went to the desk, pulled out the blue folder I’d been working on for days. I hadn’t meant to show him, not yet, but the moment felt like a fault line of say it now or never.
