“Imagine it,” I chuckle, “Last night, I dreamt those robbers kidnapped me, and he turned up on this flashy motorcycle,Sons of Anarchystyle, to rescue me.”
Jenna laughs, the sound infectious. “You and that show! Always knew Jax Teller would rub off on you.”
The laughter fades, replaced by a contemplative hum. “But seriously, it’s normal to feel stuff after something traumatic. Especially when some handsome guy swoops in. Doesn’t mean you’re in love or something.”
A sigh escapes me. “I know. It’s just...Daniel. He went a little nuts last night. Worried about the cards, the phone, everything.” I try to convey how tightly he holds onto everything, how everything has to be perfect.
Jenna's eyes soften. “It’s his way of coping, I guess. Some folks gotta control things to stay sane.”
I exhale. "He went completely crazy. You know how he gets—high strung doesn't even cover it. He wanted to call the bankimmediately, cancel everything. Kept asking if I was hurt, if they'd threatened me."
"Sounds about right."
"But honestly?" I set the glass down. "I'm grateful. He's handling all the bank stuff, helping me replace my cards and ID. I don't have to deal with any of it."
Jenna studies me, her expression thoughtful. "That's good."
"Yeah." I nod, trying to convince myself. "It is."
The pool balls crack again. I watch the guys play, my mind drifting back to Julian's hand wrapped around mine, his steady presence beside me on that floor.
“Well, look at you. Two knights in shining armor,” she says, her smile teasing.
I laugh, though inside, my heart remains conflicted—trapped somewhere between safety and the thrill of the unknown.
Daniel and I sit opposite each other in a small, dimly lit Thai restaurant. It’s painted in deep reds and golds, the smell of ginger and lemongrass hanging in the air. Daniel enjoys the quiet—claims it helps him think. Me, I'm craving the zing of the cashew orange chicken as it zips across my tongue, a fiery contrast to my more composed company.
“I called the bank,” Daniel’s voice cuts through the din as he pokes at his ginger chicken. His eyes bore into mine, intense and expectant. “Your appointment is tomorrow.”
I nod. “Thank you. I appreciate all your help.”
His fork meets his plate with a clatter. “We’ll sort through the rest of your stuff tonight. Cancel anything else necessary.”
The restaurant is Daniel's kind of place—dim lighting, bamboo partitions, the hush of people who know how to eatquietly. He cuts into his ginger chicken with precision, each movement deliberate.
"I transferred money into your account this morning," he says between bites. "Should cover everything until your new cards arrive."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to." His blue eyes fix on mine, serious as always. "You've been through enough."
I twirl noodles around my fork, the cashew orange chicken hitting that perfect sweet-spicy note. "I appreciate it. Really."
The rhythm of our conversation is predictably methodical, but out of the corner of my eye, something shatters the quiet.
A man two tables down babbles loudly on his phone, his animated features telling half the story. His empty plate sits abandoned, a relic of an overstayed welcome. I notice Daniel’s shoulders stiffen as the voice continues to rise.
"Yeah, no, I told them the deal was off the table. They're idiots if they think—" the man is saying a little loudly.
Daniel's jaw tightens. I watch the muscle jump beneath his beard.
The guy's at a corner table, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing wildly at nothing. His empty plate sits pushed aside, but he shows no signs of leaving. "Exactly! So I said, listen buddy, you want my business or not?"
Daniel sets down his fork. The careful, silent press against cloth seems like a warning.
"Maybe he'll finish soon," I offer quietly.
"Right?” the man goes on. “That's what I'm saying! These people don't get it—"
