The club noise swallows the space she leaves behind. The laughter, jukebox, Ruby shouting about someone cheating at darts. None of it lands right. The noise feels distant, as if it's coming from the far end of the room.
Malachi appears at the end of the hall. "She good?"
I force my hands open. "Went home."
His eyes flick past me to the bathroom door, then back. He knows better than to push, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to.
"Rider's got eyes out," he finally says. "On Donovan. On Chuck. We'll handle it."
I nod. "Yeah."
"Text me when you get home. Make sure she's actually there."
The thought that she might not come back, might go anywhere but our bed, hits harder than the Donovan shit.
"She'll be there," I say.
I don't know if I'm convincing him or myself. I pull my phone out, thumb hovering. Don't blow her up. Don't make it worse. I type anyway.
Me: You get home safe, wife. You text me or I'm tearing up every road between here and the house.
The typing dots never appear. I shove the phone in my pocket, grab my cut off the hook by the bar and my helmet from the shelf, then head for the door.
Ruby tries to snag me with a "Hey, Vice, you look like you swallowed glass," but I jerk my chin and keep walking.
I tear out of the lot faster than I should. I don't have a fix for this. For her. And that might be the first thing in my life I haven't been able to force into submission.
She is here. I only breathe easier when I see her car in the driveway. I cut the engine, and the rumble fades. The quiet that follows makes every thought louder.
Through the living room window, I see the faint outline of her curled on the couch, knees pulled up, one of my hoodies swallowing her. TV flickering. Head tipped back against the cushions.
Her eyes are dry, and she sits perfectly still. But her hands are pressed flat between her knees, holding themselves down. I get as far as the front steps before my feet almost turn me around, back to the bike, back to the club, back to anyplace where I know the rules.
Out there I know how to move. I know who to hit and what threats to track. In here it's just her and me. And all the shit we're both carrying. I open the door.
Her head jerks up. The TV flicker catches in her eyes, making them too shiny.
"Hey," I say, closing it behind me.
"Hey." Soft, thin in a way I hate.
I hang my cut on the hook by the door, toe off my boots. She watches all of it as if we haven't done this same ritual a hundred times. I cross the room, sink onto the couch beside her, and leave a little more space than usual.
"Sloane."
Her chin lifts. "Yeah?"
"You were off tonight before Rider even opened his mouth," I murmur. "You want to tell me what's going on?"
She wraps her arms around her knees, pulling tighter. "I'm just tired, Knox. It's been a week."
"With Candace. Chuck. With Donovan's name floating around like a fucking ghost. Yeah. It has."
Her eyes flicker at that last one. Small, but I see it. Push. Don't push. I pick the one that keeps her on this couch and not on a highway out of town.
"Okay," I say instead. "You're tired. I get it." She lets out a breath as if she was braced for something else. I hate that. "Do you want me to sleep on the couch?" I ask before I can stop myself.
Her head snaps toward me. "No." Too fast. Too urgent. "No," she repeats, softer. "I just… need space in my own head. Not distance from you."
