Her shoulders started to shake, not with crying, but with the force of holding everything in. “I want to believe you,” she said. “But the only thing I know how to do is run. Or fight. Or…” Her voice broke, and she didn’t finish.
I put my forehead to hers, felt the fever-hot skin, and whispered, “You don’t have to do it alone.”
She pulled me into a hug so fierce it hurt. I held her, feeling the bones under her skin, the way her whole body trembled like a live wire. After a while, the trembling stopped, and she just clung to me, quiet.
When she finally pulled away, her face was red and streaked, but calm.
“It’s ours,” she said. “Something good in all this shit.”
I wanted to say a million things, but my voice felt gone, so I just nodded, jaw locked so tight it ached. I kissed her,soft, on the corner of her mouth, tasting salt and regret and something like hope.
“I’ll keep you both safe,” I said. It was a lie, maybe, but I needed to say it.
She nodded. “I know you’ll try.”
***
The club went on high alert after dark. Bikes lined up nose-to-tail in the alley, lookouts at every window, the whole compound so tight I doubted a housefly could sneak in without somebody calling it out on the radio. Inside, the mood was worse—like everyone was waiting for a funeral to start but hadn’t picked which one of us was going in the box.
Melissa retreated to my room early. Said she was tired, but I’d seen the way her hands shook when she poured herself a glass of water, how she jumped every time a door slammed. I stayed out, doing rounds with Seneca and the prospects, running drills, checking the perimeters, and the gun lockers. My body was electric with the need to move, to do something, because sitting still felt like an invitation for the world to finally come collect.
When I finally came up the stairs, it was close to midnight. I opened the door slow, careful, andfound the room empty. For a second, my stomach dropped—fight-or-flight, a lifetime of knowing that empty rooms never meant anything good. Then I heard her, quiet and muffled, from the bathroom.
She was on the floor, back to the wall, legs drawn up and arms wrapped around her knees. The light was brutal—industrial white, throwing shadows so sharp they looked like knife wounds on the tiles. Her hair was stuck to her face, and her eyes were swollen, raw from crying.
I didn’t say anything. Just knelt next to her, careful not to crowd her, and waited.
She kept her head down. “Sorry,” she whispered. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”
I reached for her hand. She let me take it, but her grip was slack, no fight left. “You think I give a shit about that?” I said, trying to make my voice gentle.
She shook her head, more tears leaking out. “I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up and it’ll all be gone. You, this place, the stupid hope I keep getting. I’m not made for happy endings, Augie.”
I squeezed her hand. “Nobody is.”
She barked a laugh, but it turned into a sob, and she clapped her other hand over her mouth like she could stop the sound from escaping. “What if you die?” she said, the words splitting her open. “What if you get yourself killedand I’m stuck here with this—” She yanked her hand away, pressed it to her stomach. “—this little piece of you? I can’t do it, Augie. I can’t.”
I wanted to tell her I’d be fine, that nothing could touch me, that I was made of steel and scars and pure, fucking stubbornness. But that would be a lie, and she’d know it.
So I did the only thing I could. I pulled her into my lap, wrapped my arms around her, and held on tight. She fit against my chest like she’d been made for it, her cheek pressed into my shirt, her breath hitching against my skin.
She said it again, so quiet I almost didn’t hear it. “I can’t.”
“Yes you can,” I said, even though I didn’t believe it myself. “We’re going to get through this. You and me. That’s the deal.”
She clung to me, hands fisting in my shirt, the fabric bunching up under her fingers. I ran my palm up and down her back, slow and steady, like maybe I could transfer some of my heat into her bones.
“Don’t leave me,” she said.
“Never,” I promised.
We stayed there, on the cold tile, until the tears stopped. After a while, she leaned back, eyes rimmed in red but clearer. “Sorry,” she said again.
I shook my head. “Don’t be.”
I stood, scooped her up in both arms, and carried her back to the bed. She didn’t protest, just tucked her face into the crook of my neck, breathing in the smell of my sweat and leather and blood. I set her down, then crawled in next to her, not caring about the dirt or the mess or the way the springs groaned under our combined weight.
She curled into my side, one hand on my chest, the other still pressed to her stomach. I put my hand over hers, felt the flutter of her pulse, and let my own fear settle, cold and heavy, at the base of my spine.
