“Work in the garage,” I answer. “Then feeding the strays.”
Syvannah nods like she approves of the agenda. “I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” she says, simple as that. And it does something to me that she says it with no hesitation. Like she isn’t asking whether she’s allowed to take up space in my life anymore.
She just does.
The days that follow don’t explode into fireworks. They settle into something quieter and more dangerous. Routine.
She sits on the workbench while I replace a belt on one of the bikes, sipping coffee and telling Peanut to stop bullying the dogs at the fence line. She argues with Torch over whether cilantro is soap, which turns into a full-on brother debate that ends with Trigger threatening to ban vegetables from the compound out of spite.
She falls asleep on the couch in the common room with her legs draped across mine while the brothers watch a fight on TV, and I don’t even realize I’m stroking her ankle until Blayze tosses popcorn at my head and calls me a lovesick bastard.
Syvannah flips him off without opening her eyes.
Monica starts pulling her into Ol’ Lady business like it’s natural. Grocery lists, schedules, security notes. Syvannah listens and nods like she’s learning the rhythm of leadership through the women the same way I learned it through the men.
I catch Syvannah in the kitchen one night, standing barefoot in front of the fridge, humming again while she reads something on the grocery list. She looks up when she feels me there.
What?” she asks.
I step closer, hooking a finger under her chin. “You’re happy.”
Her eyes widen slightly, like she’s surprised I noticed. “Yeah,” she admits. “I think I am.”
That word,happy, lands like a bullet. I kiss her right there by the fridge. Slow and deep. Her hands slide into my hair like she trusts I’ll stay.
When we break apart, her forehead rests against mine. She breathes steadily. “No running,” she whispers.
“No running,” I promise. That’s when I know. Not in a dramatic lightning bolt way. In a quiet, terrifying certainty that settles in my bones.
I stand in the garage alone, staring at the wrecked parts I kept, burnt metal, twisted chrome, pieces of the old bike that used to represent everything I lost. My fingers close around a small gear, rough edges biting into my skin.
I think about Syvannah when she’s asleep in our room. I think about her voice sayingstill hereand I realize I don’t just want her safe. I want her forever.
The ring sits heavy in my cut for three days before I finally stop pretending I’m not carrying it.
Tonight, Capone looks at me over his cigarette and says, “Roof.”
My stomach drops like I’m nineteen again, about to earn something I’m terrified of losing. I’m halfway down the hall when I stop.
The small gear presses against my ribs through leather and fabric, warm from my body, the edges worn smooth from days of handling it when no one was looking.
I reach inside and touch it. It’s still there, still real. My chest tightens.
“You good?” Trigger’s voice comes from the hallway. He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching me in that quietway he does when he already knows the answer but wants to hear it anyway.
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
“You look like you’re about to do something permanent,” he says.
I huff a breath. “Feels about right.”
Trigger straightens, steps closer. His eyes flick to my cut, then back to my face. “You nervous?”
I nod once. No point lying.