"You're going to start something before 8 a.m."
"Already started. I'm just trying to be polite about it."
I snort, but there's no bite in it. "You have never been polite."
His mouth curves at my neck. "Liar."
He lets me go and walks out. I can see the effort in his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides before he rounds the corner.
Yesterday mattered. It shows.
When I follow him out fully dressed, he looks up from the kitchen, and his whole expression settles, the day locking into place. His fingers catch mine, a single squeeze.
Ready to step back into the noise with me.
The ride is the same as always: his hand warm on my thigh, my arms locked around his waist, cheek between his shoulders. I keep my grip high, above the gauze on his left side, and he doesn't comment on the adjustment. His grip tightens on my leg when he leans into turns, and I squeeze around him to match.
When we roll into the lot and he kills the engine, he shifts once before letting out a low breath. "You do that on purpose," he mutters, adjusting himself as though this isn't a recurring occupational hazard.
I slide off, innocent as sin. "I'm literally just holding on."
Knox swings off, pulls my helmet free, and catches my wrist to tug me back for a quick, possessive kiss that says he knows better.
The clubhouse is awake. Voices overlap, footsteps on concrete, mugs clink, coffee maker works overtime. It smells of oil, caffeine, old wood, and whatever got fried too early. Crooked and loud and ours.
Knox's hand is on my lower back. I lean into it, letting my body answer with the kind of trust that still feels a risk.
Malachi and Candace at the table, heads bent together, quiet in a way that means serious but not sharp, as though they've learned the difference between urgency and panic. Darla is perched beside East, who has his arm hooked loosely around the back of her chair as though he's daring someone to comment. Frankie sits a little apart, pen tapping her notebook, eyes cataloguing everything and nothing. Maggie and James argue softly about whether it's too early for chili. Kyle stands near the door on instinctual guard duty. Rider's by the wall, still and watchful, fitting in without trying. New patch, old calm.
Nash looks as though he's already lost a fight and hasn't figured out how.
Knox takes the seat beside Malachi without being asked. I sit where his knee can press into mine.
Ruby's voice carries in from outside, bright and pleased and weaponized in that way only Ruby can manage. "Oh, don't look so tense. You'll pull something."
Every muscle in Nash locks. The door swings open.
Ruby walks in owning the room, which honestly she kind of does, and there's a rope in her hand. She's been sending goat photos to the group chat for a week, Googling fencing options for three days, and I still didn't think she'd actually do it.
But she did it. Because she's Ruby.
At the other end of the rope is a goat.
For a heartbeat, no one speaks. Even the coffee maker seems to hesitate. The goat blinks once, unimpressed, surveying theclubhouse with the energy of a creature that has already decided everyone here is beneath it.
Ruby beams. "I'd like you all to meet Nasty Nash Jr."
The silence is thick enough to choke on.
Malachi exhales through his nose, eyes narrowing the way they do when he's deciding whether a problem is worth shooting or just banning from the premises. "I'm not cleaning up after that thing."
Nash turns, as though the movement might hurt him. "You named it what?"
The goat trots forward and headbutts Nash directly in the knee. Hard. The sound is dull and personal; his whole leg jerks as though the impact traveled through bone into pride.
I clamp a hand over my mouth. Knox doesn't bother. His shoulder shakes as he huffs a laugh into my temple, amusement vibrating through him.
Ruby is radiant. She looks the way Christmas morning would if Christmas was petty and feral. "He likes you. Bonding moment."
