I swallow hard. “You kept it.” He doesn’t answer. His jaw flexes once, twice. “Steel…”
“Don’t,” he says quietly. “Not about him.”
That’s all it takes to light the fuse. “Why not? You talk about him like he’s still in the room.”
“Because he might as well be.” His voice sharpens. “You think taking his chair means the ghosts leave? You think it’s that easy?”
“I think you’re using him as a shield.”
His head snaps up, eyes dark. “And I think you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
I toss the bloody rag into the trash. “No? Because I was there, remember? I watched that man turn you into a weapon and call it leadership.”
He stands, taller, angrier. “He built this club. Built me.”
“Then maybe he should’ve built you a way out!” The words crack louder than the wind. “You’re turning into him, Steel.”
His stare cuts clean through me. “I don’t get to mourn like normal men, Aria.” He steps closer, voice low, dangerous. “I bury my grief under engines and blood because that’s what keeps my brothers alive. Do you think I wanted this crown? You think I wanted to lose him, lose you, on the same goddamn day?”
My breath catches. The heat in his voice burns hotter than the lamp between us. “I didn’t leave because I stopped caring,” I whisper. “I left because I couldn’t watch you drown.”
“You ran before I even fell.” His words are soft but lethal.
We stand there, the distance between us a single breath wide. The lamp crackles, the wind screams, and I don’t know if I want to fight him or fall apart.
Steel’s phone buzzes sharp and loud on the bench, slicing through the tension. He grabs it, glances at the screen, and answers.
“Crusher,” he says, voice suddenly flat. The sound of his brother’s voice is faint but familiar, distorted by static.
“Yeah,” Steel says. “I’m fine. Power’s out, but the generator’s toast. You?” He pauses, nodding. “Keep the prospects close. Roads are shut.”
There’s a muffled question on the other end. His gaze flips to me, then away.
“No,” he lies smoothly. “I’m alone.” Something in my chest twists. I shouldn’t care, but I do. “Yeah. See you when it clears,” he finishes, hanging up and setting the phone facedown like it burned him. The lie hangs in the air between us, thicker than the smoke. I don’t ask why he said it. I already know.
The argument burns out the same way the fire does, slow, exhausted. I turn away first. “You make it impossible to stay angry.”
“Not trying to make it easy,” he says, voice calmer now.
The space between us hums again, different this time. Less fire, more gravity. His shirt’s gone, tossed aside somewhere near the lift. The lamplight dances over the ridges of his dark chest, sweat beading at his collarbone, and for one reckless heartbeat, I wonder what would happen if I stepped closer. The thought hits like whiskey. Hot, stupid, and impossible to swallow.
I sit near the heater, hugging my knees, eyes fixed on the weak flame inside the barrel. The light flickers over the walls, tracing the scars in the wood, the dust on his tools, the lines on his face when he finally sits across from me.
The wind outside howls like it’s trying to warn us, but I can’t look away from him. Every inch of this place smells like him, oil, smoke, and something raw underneath it. Something that’s been haunting me since the day I left.
Silence stretches, soft now. The storm’s still howling outside, but it sounds far away.
I stare into the fire and say it before I lose the nerve. “I missed you.”
Steel doesn’t answer. He just looks at me like he’s trying to remember how to breathe.
The flame flickers between us, gold and alive. I realize too late that the only thing more dangerous than the storm outside… is what’s still burning in here. And in that moment, I almost forgive us both.
