His bare back is facing me, reaching for something near the dresser, the light catches across his back and there’s no missing them. They’re not small. Not hidden. They run across him in layers. Old. Faded in places. Sharp and raised in others. Lines that don’t come from accidents. Marks that don’t come from anything good.
My breath catches. I don’t say anything. Don’t move toward him. Don’t ask. I could.
God, I want to.
I want to know what did that to him, who did that to him, how he survived it. But something in me understands. That’s not mine to take. Not yet. Maybe not ever. So I don’t reach out. I don’t soften my expression. I don’t give him pity. I don’t give him anything that makes those scars into something he has to explain. I just see them, and accept them. Like they’re part of him. Like they don’t change anything.
He stills for half a second. Barely noticeable. But I see it. He felt it. He knows I saw. Slowly, he turns his head.Our eyes meet. There’s something sharp in his gaze for a second, something waiting.
For what?
Rejection. Discomfort. Questions.
He doesn’t get any of it. I hold his gaze. Steady. Unafraid. Then I look away like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s just another thing. That’s when something shifts. Subtle. But real.
And I know…
That mattered more than anything I could have said.
Leaving the clubhouse feels different than I expected. Not because I’m scared. I should be. I was almost taken off the street less than twenty-four hours ago. But the fear isn’t sharp anymore. It’s quieter. Controlled. Contained. Like everything else here.
Cobra doesn’t argue when I tell him I’m going to work. He doesn’t push back. He doesn’t try to stop me. He just moves. Grabs his keys and looks at me. “Helmet.”
I take it without arguing. Because I already know.He’s coming with me. That’s not up for discussion. I step outside, the cold air hitting my face harder than I expect after being inside for so long. It wakes me up instantly, sharp and clean.
The bike is already waiting. I hesitate for half a second. I’ve never done this before. Never been on the back of a motorcycle, never had to think about balance, about where to put my hands, about how close I’ll have to be to him.
Cobra notices. “Foot here,” he says, nodding slightly. “Swing over.”
I follow his instructions, a little awkward at first, but I manage it. Then I’m there. Behind him. Close.
Too close.
My breath catches. Because there’s no distance now. No space to pretend this isn’t what it is. I place my hands lightly on his sides at first. Testing.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. “Hold on,” he says. Simple. Direct.
I do. My arms slide around him, tightening slightly as I settle in.
And… God.
It hits. The heat of him. The solid line of his body under my hands. The way I have to press into him to stay balanced.It’s intoxicating. Not soft. Not gentle. Something deeper. More dangerous.
The engine roars to life beneath us, vibrating through my body, through him, through everything. I don’t think. I just hold on. And when we pull out, when the wind hits, when the world starts moving around us…
I don’t let go.
The salon feels like another life. Bright lights. Mirrors. The hum of dryers. The constant flow of voices that should feel familiar but don’t quite fit the same way they did before.
Tessa sees me immediately. Her eyes light up, then she sees him. And everything else disappears. “Jesus Christ, Liv,” she breathes, her gaze dragging slowly over Cobra like she’s not even trying to hide it. “Where have you been hiding that?”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “He’s not—”
“Does he have brothers?”
That does it. I laugh harder, shaking my head. “If you only knew…”
Cobra stands behind me. Silent. Still. Watching everything. His presence fills the space without him saying a word, without him needing to do anything at all.
