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She takes a step closer.

“I don't want another man telling me what my life is supposed to look like.”

“You won't get it from me.”

“I don't want to become somebody's property because he loves me.”

Something old in me shifts.

The club language. Cuts, claims, property patches, all the ways bikers say mine and pretend the word cannot become a cage.

I reach for her hand but stop before touching.

Sweet notices.

Then puts her fingers in mine.

“You belong to yourself,” I say.

Her throat moves.

“Always.”

“Yeah.”

“And if I ever wear anything that says otherwise, it'll be because I picked it.”

A smile pulls at my mouth.

“That sounded suspiciously specific.”

“Do not get excited.”

“Too late.”

“Bitter.”

“I ain't buying leather.”

“Good.”

“Tonight.”

She laughs.

There she is.

I step closer but leave space.

“I love you.”

Sweet looks up at me.

This time the words do not scare her.

Not the same way.

“I know.”