His space. Not the infirmary. Not a guest room. Not somewhere temporary.
His.
There’s something about that that hits differently now. The dresser stands against the far wall, neat in a way that surprises me considering everything I know about him. No clutter. No scattered items. Everything in its place. I push myself up carefully, testing my balance before I take a step.
The room tilts slightly.
I stop. Wait. Let it settle. Then move again. Slow. Measured. I walk over, more aware of the way my body responds to movement. I rest my hand against the wood for balance and take in the room the way I haven’t let myself before.
Everything is simple.
Dark clothes folded with almost harsh precision. Boots lined near the wall. A knife set within reach, not displayed, not hidden, just placed where his hand would know to find it. No clutter. No decoration for the sake of it. Nothing soft except the bed I woke up in. Nothing unnecessary. It shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because it fits him. Everything about this room fits him. Even the quiet.
And still, the thing that represents him most isn’t in here. It’s on him. Always. That leather vest with the Deathstalkers patch, worn like skin, like armor, like something stitched directly into who he is. I’ve seen the way men look at it, the way they understand what it means before he ever opens his mouth.
Brotherhood. Violence. Loyalty.
A life with rules I’m only beginning to understand.
Cobra doesn’t set that part of himself down. Maybe he can’t. Maybe men like him don’t get to.
I turn toward the door. It stands there. Solid. Closed. The lock on the inside catches my attention. I step closer, stopping just short of touching it.
I could walk out.
The thought comes easily.Not forced. Not dramatic. Just there. I could open the door. Walk down the hall. Walk past the common room. Out the front. Find my car. Go home. Call my mom. Tell her I’m okay. Tell her I had a weird night, that I’m tired, that I’ll come by tomorrow for dinner like I said I would. I could go back to the salon. Back to normal. Back to the life that made sense before all of this.
My fingers hover near the handle. I don’t touch it. I don’t open it. I don’t move. Because the truth follows the thought before it can settle. Home. My apartment. The door that locks but doesn’t keep anyone out if they know how to get in. The windows. The walk from my car to the building. The routine I followed without thinking because it was safe. Because it had always been safe. The salon. The same schedule every week. The same clients. The same closing time. The same walk to my car in the dark.
The alley flashes in my mind. The hand.The knife. The voice.
I bet you thought that dumbass biker could keep you safe.
My stomach tightens. I step back from the door. Slowly. Like it might bite if I move too fast. I turn away from it completely. Because leaving isn’t what it used to be. Leaving isn’t freedom. Not right now. It’s exposure. It’s walking back into a life someone already studied, already mapped, already decided was worth taking. I move back toward the bed and sit again, more carefully this time, letting the mattress dip beneath my weight.
My hands rest in my lap. Still. Quiet. I think about my apartment. The couch I bought because it was on sale and just big enough for me to stretch out on. The kitchen that’s always a little too clean because I don’t cook as much as I should. The framed photos of my family sitting on the small shelf near the TV. My mom’s smile. My sister’s laugh. The way everything there feels normal.
Safe.
Or it did.
Now it feels… thin.
Like a version of safety that only existed because I didn’t know any better.
I think about the salon. The routine. The conversations. The easy rhythm of my days.And then I think about the van. The folder. My name printed out for someone else to read. My life reduced to information someone else used to decide when and how to take me. A slow breath fills my lungs. Then leaves. Leaving is an illusion.
Staying is something else. Not safe. Not really. But controlled. Structured. Protected in a way I didn’t understand before. I lean back slightly, palms pressing into the bed behind me as I let the realization settle without pushing it away.
I’m not trapped.
The thought lands clearly. Cleanly. Without the panic that used to come with it.
I’m not trapped.
I’m staying.
There’s no dramatic shift. No sudden rush of emotion. No tears. No fear spiraling out of control. Just clarity. Simple. Solid. I’m choosing this. Choosing him. Choosing this place. Not because I don’t have another option. Because I do. I just don’t want it right now. That changes something inside me. Something quiet but important. I’m not reacting anymore. Not just trying to survive whatever gets thrown at me next.
