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My knees go a little weak anyway. “That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“Why is it in here?”

“Wanted it behind a locked door.”

I glance at him.

He looks straight ahead. “Club property.”

“Of course.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Also, your driver’s side lock was shit.”

“My lock was fine.”

“Your lock was a prayer with a keyhole.”

“It locked.”

“If a raccoon with ambition could get in, it ain’t a lock.”

Despite everything, I smile. “Did you fix it?”

“I’m fixing it.”

I follow him to the workbench, where my car door panel is partly removed and little screws sit in neat rows on a rag. Bitter Adams, terrifying club enforcer, has my cheap car taken apart with a focus so sharp it makes my throat feel strange.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why?”

He finally looks at me. “Because I can.”

There are many ways a man can say because I can. Razor used to say it like a threat, like permission belonged to him and refusal was only a delay.

Bitter says it like a fact. Because he can fix it, so he will. Because something is wrong and his hands know what to do with wrong things.

I step closer. “Can I watch?”

His gaze drops to my mouth. “You keep asking me things like that, sunshine, we’re gonna have problems.”

“I meant the lock.”

“I know what you meant.”

“Then behave.”

“I am.”

“That is deeply concerning.”