I shouldn’t have left.
Simple. True. His.
And then whatever came after that was his to decide.
Pressing my hand flat against my chest and feeling my heartbeat and thinking about his voicemail—’I miss you’—said quietly, without performance, and meaning every word.
I miss you, too, I think.I’m coming.
Not too long later, theclubhouse looks exactly as it always has. Bikes are lined up outside, with the particular energy of the place even from the street. It’s contained, purposeful, the atmosphere of somewhere that knows what it is and doesn’t apologize for it.
I pay the driver, get out with my bag in hand, and the Vegas heat hits me immediately.
I stand on the sidewalk for just a moment.
‘You can do this.’Remy’s voice in my head from months ago, standing at this same door. ‘No need to be nervous. They already love you.’
I walk in.
The clubhouse is busy. There’s the voices, music, the smell of coffee and leather, and that particular warmth of people who belong to each other filling a space together. Several heads turn when I come through the door, and then settle again as they recognize me.
My eyes move through the room and find him immediately, the way they always do.
He is at the far end of the bar, standing with Luke, head slightly tilted the way it is when he is listening to something carefully, a beer loose in his hand. The dark curls. The tattoos.The particular way he occupies a space is solid, certain, and completely himself.
He hasn’t seen me yet.
Luke sees me first as I cross the room, something moving in his expression—surprise, relief, something warmer underneath both. He says something quietly to Tate and steps back.
Tate turns.
His eyes find mine.
And everything in his face, the careful controlled surface of it, the particular composure he carries like a second skin, goes completely still for just a moment. Then something moves underneath it. Something warm, certain, and real.
I stop in front of him.
“I’m sorry.” My voice is steady and completely certain. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have left. What Raven said got inside my head, and I let it… and I shouldn’t have, because I know what this is. I know what I feel.” Holding his gaze. “I know what you are to me, Tate.” A beat. “I’m not running again.”
The room is very quiet around us.
He crosses the remaining distance and cups my face in both hands the way he always does, and I lean into it, relief flooding through me, waiting for the kiss, waiting forI’m glad you’re back.
But he doesn’t kiss me.
He looks at me.
And I look back.
Up close, he looks tired, really tired, the particular exhaustion of someone who hasn’t been sleeping, not just a bad night but days of it, the kind that settles into the lines of a face and doesn’t lift easily. His eyes are warm, completely warm and certain, but underneath the warmth, there’s something else. The particular weight of a man carrying something he’s been carrying for too long and is finally, carefully, putting down.
“I need to tell you something.” His voice drops low. “Something important.”
Those words land somewhere unexpected. Not what I’d been bracing for or the warmth I’d rehearsed on my way toward the plane.
“Tate—”
“Sophia.” His voice is low and steady. “What I’m about to tell you, I need you to hear it, and I need you to know that whatever happens, whatever you feel, I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”
