“Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes it just needs somebody stubborn enough to stay.”
The kitchen quieted for half a beat. Not much. Just enough for the words to land.
I drank my coffee to avoid answering.
Emily broke the silence because she had survival instincts after all. “If he gets a house, can I have his room?”
Edge said, “No.”
Regan said, “Maybe.”
I said, “Gut it.”
Tank walked in then, hair wet from a shower, wearing a clean shirt and the expression of a man who’d smelled bacon in his sleep and followed it blindly. “Why are we gutting Mason’s room?”
“Because he’s abandoning us,” Emily said.
“I’m moving thirty minutes away.”
“Emotionally abandoning us,” she corrected.
Tank grabbed coffee and slapped a hand on my shoulder hard enough to jolt the old ache in my ribs. “Good. About time you got your own place.”
I looked up at him. “You, too?”
“Hell yeah. Man your age living in the clubhouse starts getting sad.”
“You lived here until Regan threatened to rearrange your spine.”
“Exactly. Growth.”
The room laughed, and I let it roll over me without fighting it. Maybe they were right. Maybe this wasn’t just about wanting quiet. Maybe it was about admitting I wanted something with a door I could close and a future I could choose. Not Rylee’s dream. Not the club’s expectations. Not the old version of me that solved loneliness with skin and silence.
Mine.
I finished the eggs, stood, and rinsed my plate because Regan had trained us better than she knew.
She watched me from the stove. “What time are you seeing it?”
“Ten.”
“I can be ready in fifteen.”
“No.”
“Mason.”
“Regan.”
“You need someone with taste.”
“I have taste.”
“You own one towel.”
“It’s a good towel.”
Edge laughed. “It’s gray because it surrendered.”
