“Don’t die,” she said, words feather-soft against my skin.
I shook my head, voice failing me. “Not planning on it.”
She guided me to the couch, the blanket still warm from before. We sat, not touching but not apart, the space between us a shared secret. Sergeant circled once, then thumped down by our feet.
For a while, we just sat, listening to the radiator knock and the neighbors argue two floors down. The food settled in my gut, heavy but not unpleasant. I let myself relax, just a little.
Emily turned on the TV, muted, the flickering blue light making her look unreal. She leaned her head on my shoulder, the necklace’s charm cold against my bicep.
“Tell me something good,” she said.
I thought about it. “I like this,” I said, voice barely above the hum of the radiator. “Being here.”
She snorted, then softened. “I do, too.”
We watched the silent TV, some old sitcom rerun. I listened to her breathing, to the way her hair tickled my arm every time she shifted. I wanted to ask her what would happen if it all went sideways, if the club life ever crashedinto the rest of my world and took me out for good. But I didn’t. I just let her lean, and let myself lean back.
It was late by the time we moved. She yawned, a wide, lioness thing, then stood and stretched. “You staying over?” she asked.
I nodded, not trusting myself to say no.
She smiled, then padded to the bedroom, pausing in the doorway to look back. “Leave the dog tags on,” she said. “I like them.”
I followed, the weight of the tags and the necklace twin anchors at my throat.
In her room, she peeled off her shirt, then her jeans, folding them with the same care she gave to rescue paperwork. I stripped, leaving my cut and the dog tags on the dresser. She crawled into bed, sheets cool and soft, then held out a hand.
We fit together easy this time. No rush, no show of strength. Just skin on skin, her breath warm in my ear, her hands mapping every old wound and new scar. When we finally let go, we stayed tangled, the blankets a knot around our legs.
She fell asleep first, her head on my chest, one hand splayed over my heart.
I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. I tried not to think about the war waiting on the other sideof dawn, or the way Damron’s words kept unspooling in my head, tight as a noose.
Instead, I thought about the necklace. About Ma, and the life she wanted for me. About the dog tags, and the promise I never made but always kept.
About the woman sleeping beside me, and the dog on the floor, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, I could have this one good thing without losing everything else.
I closed my eyes, and for the first time in years, I slept easy, not knowing the following night she’d take care of me once again.
13
Emily
The call came in at 2:53 AM, not a ring but a blunt, angry rattle of the buzzer at my building’s front door. I was awake anyway—insomnia old and familiar as the cat curled at my feet, one eye cracked for ghosts. I swung out of bed and padded to the peephole, already knowing it was him.
Dean’s silhouette sagged in the pool of sodium light, leather cut hanging askew, head ducked like a boxer taking his first eight-count. His hand pressed the buzzer again, harder. The sound vibrated the inside of my skull.
I buzzed him up without a word, then clicked on the bathroom light and started the tap running hot. I found the old blue towel with bleach stains—one Ireserved for sick dogs or drunken roommates—and laid it across the edge of the tub. I put peroxide and a roll of gauze on the toilet lid. My hands moved through the checklist, efficient, not trembling. The same hands that, as a girl, had reset a spaniel’s snapped paw with popsicle sticks and vet wrap.
Dean shouldered through my door without knocking. His face looked worse than the cut—one side already swelling, eye darkening by the minute. The leather vest was torn under the arm, threads frayed and curling. His knuckles were meat and gravel. There was blood on his shirt, dark and sticky at the collar.
He didn’t speak. Just let the door shut, then leaned against the wall and stared at the floor. The overhead light sliced a hard shadow across the bridge of his nose, and for a second, I thought he was about to collapse.
I didn’t ask if he was okay. Instead, I nodded toward the bathroom and waited until he shuffled in, boots leaving grit on the tile.
“Sit,” I said, softer than I meant to.
He did, slumping to the edge of the tub, hands loose in his lap. I knelt in front of him and started cutting away the shreds of his t-shirt, wincing every time he flinched at the pull of fabric. There was a slice on his left bicep, deep enough that it might scar, but not so deep that I’d need to call in a favor from the clinic vet.
