I nod and sit on the edge. He grabs the chair from the desk and sits facing me, maintaining that respectful distance.
"Bad thoughts?" he asks.
"The worst. Every time I close my eyes I see..." I trail off. "I just needed to not be alone for a while. But if you want me to go—"
"I don't want you to go." His voice is firm. "You can stay as long as you need."
"Thank you."
We sit in silence for a moment. It should be awkward, but somehow it's not. It's just... quiet. Peaceful, even.
"Can I ask you something?" I finally say.
"Yeah."
"Why are you being so nice to me? And I know you said it's because you can, but there has to be more to it than that. People don't just... do this. Not without wanting something. There must be a story."
He's quiet for a long moment, those blue eyes studying me. "You really want to know?"
"Yes."
"Because I see myself in you," he says finally. "The running. The fear. The not knowing where to go or who to trust. I've been there. And when I was there, someone helped me. Pope. The club president. Found me breaking up a fight, watched me handle three guys at once, and offered me a prospect patch that same night."
"How old were you?"
"Twenty. I'd been on the streets for two years before that. Foster kid who aged out with nothing. No family, no money, no plan. Just survival."
My heart clenches. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It made me who I am. And it taught me that sometimes people help you just because they can. Because they see someone who needs it and they have the power to make a difference." He leans forward slightly. "Pope did that for me. Now I'm doing it for you. That's how this works."
"Paying it forward."
"Something like that."
"What happened to your parents?" I ask, then immediately regret it. "Sorry. That's too personal. You don't have to—"
"Mom overdosed when I was four. Don't remember much about her except a smell I can't name. Hits me sometimes in random places and stops me cold." I can hear the old pain underneath. "Dad was never identified. Birth certificate has a blank where his name should be."
"You grew up in foster care."
"Until I aged out. Never got adopted. Never even got close. Some kids get chosen. I wasn't one of them." He shrugs like it doesn't matter, but I can tell it does. "Eventually you stop expecting it. Stop hoping for it. Just focus on surviving until you're old enough to leave."
"And then you ended up on the streets."
"For two years. Did things I'm not proud of. Things I've never told anyone. Things that live in the part of me I keep locked up tight." He meets my eyes. "So yeah, I know what running looks like. I know what it feels like to have nowhere to go and no one to turn to. And I know what it means when someone offers help without asking for anything in return."
I'm crying again. Silent tears running down my face because this man, this strong, scarred, man, just gave me a piece of himself he clearly doesn't share often.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For telling me. For trusting me with that."
"You trusted me with your shit. Figured I owed you mine."
"It's not a transaction."
"No. But it's fair." He stands and grabs a box of tissues from the dresser, hands it to me. "You need anything? Water? Food? I've got some snacks if you're hungry."
"I'm okay. I just..." I wipe my eyes. "Can I just sit here for a while? With you? I don't need to talk. I just need to not be alone."
