Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Angel
I've faced worse rooms than a therapist’s office. Warehouses lit by flickering bulbs where the air smells like oil and gunpowder. Clubhouses thick with tension and bad decisions. Courtrooms where the air smells like money and lies and men pretending, they ain’t afraid.
Places where you walk in already knowing someone’s gonna bleed. Still, this one gets under my skin. Maybe because there’s nowhere to hide. No noise to drown things out, there is no enemy to point at and call the problem.
Just chairs. A couch. A rug that probably cost more than my first bike. A window letting in soft, polite light, like the world is trying to convince you everything’s manageable. It ain’t. But we’re here anyway.
The few nights before the appointment, I don’t sleep much. Not because she’s gone this time. She’s here, curled into my side like she used to. Trusting me with the soft parts again. I stare at the ceiling and let the quiet settle. The kind that asks questions you’ve been dodging for years.
What kind of man am I if I can’t fix this?
What good is being strong if the person you love is still breaking?
I’ve built my whole damn life on control. On knowing the route. The exits and any threats. Standing in front of the people I love and taking the hit, so they don’t have to. But this… this is a fight where every instinct I have is wrong.
I roll onto my side and watch Stevie sleep.
The faint crease between her brows is still there, like her body hasn’t quite learned how to rest yet.
There are shadows under her eyes I don’t remember seeing before all this started.
I hate that I helped put them there. Not by hurting her, but by staying quiet and thinking steady meant silent.
The guys notice when something’s off. They always do. It’s mid-morning at Havoc Security. Paperwork spreads across my desk like a challenge I don’t feel like taking. Screens flicker with security feeds. Radios crackle softly.
Joker leans against the doorframe, coffee in hand, studying me like I’m a problem he’s not sure how to solve yet.
“You gonna tell me what’s eatin’ you,” he says, "or are we just gonna pretend you don’t look like hell?”
I snort. “You always this charming?”
“Only when I’m worried.”
That gets my attention. Joker doesn't throw that word around. I lean back in my chair and scrub a hand over my face.
“Stevie and I are startin’ counseling.”
He doesn’t react right away, just a slow nod.
“Good.”
That’s it. Just… good. I didn’t realize how much I was bracing for judgment until it didn't come.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit quietly. “Talkin’ about feelings with some stranger. Feels like handin’ over my patch.”
Joker steps inside and closes the door behind him.
“You think leadin’ a club is about never showin’ weakness?”
“No,” I say automatically.
“It’s about knowin’ when to ask for help,” he finishes. “Same rules apply at home.”
I stare at the security monitor without really seeing it.
“I keep thinkin’ if I just stay steady enough, she’ll come back to herself.”
“And what if she needs you unsteady with her?” he asks.
That one sticks. He claps my shoulder once before heading out.
“Don’t confuse silence with strength, Angel.”
When he’s gone, I sit there staring at the desk. Realizing something that twists deep in my gut: I’ve been protecting Stevie from my fear instead of sharing it. And that ain’t protection, it's distance.
The night before the appointment, she’s quiet. She’s not shut down, just thoughtful, like she’s turning something over and over in her mind, checking it for cracks. We brush our teeth side by side in the bathroom mirror.
“You nervous?” I ask.
She nods slightly. “A little.”
“Me too.”
She pauses, toothbrush halfway to her mouth.
“Really?” I meet her eyes in the mirror.
“Yeah. Terrified.”
That earns me a small smile. “That actually helps.”
We climb into bed. She presses her forehead to my chest, listening to my heartbeat like she used to when things were simpler.
“What if I say the wrong thing?” she murmurs.
“There ain’t a wrong thing,” I say. “Just honest.”
She goes quiet. Then, softer, “What if honest hurts?”
I kiss the top of her head. “Then we deal with it together.”
That’s the promise I should’ve made a long time ago.
The office smells like citrus and something clean enough to make me uncomfortable. The kind of place where people speak softly and don’t swear. I keep my hands on my knees to stop them from fidgeting. Stevie’s leg brushes mine on the couch. Small contact, just enough to ground me.
The therapist, Carina, has kind eyes and a calm voice that doesn’t rush. She doesn’t look at me like I’m a problem to solve or a man to be fixed. That throws me off more than anything.
“So,” she says gently, settling into her chair. “What brings you in today?”
Stevie’s fingers tighten in mine. I take a breath.
“I don’t know how to help the woman I love,” I say. “And I’m scared that if I keep doin’ what I’ve always done, I’ll lose her.”
Carina nods. “That’s a brave place to start.”
Brave. No one’s called me that in a long time for anything that didn’t involve fists or fire. Stevie speaks next. Her voice shakes at first. But she doesn’t stop. She talks about the losses, about the fear, and about how her body feels like a battlefield she can’t retreat from.
She talks about control. About charts and apps and the terror of letting go. I listen. Really listen for what feels like the first time. And somewhere in the middle of it, something clicks.
I’ve been hearing her words all along, but I haven’t been hearing her. When it’s my turn again, the truth comes out rough and unpolished.
“I feel useless,” I say. “Like I’m failin’ her. And every time I see her hurt, it reminds me there’s shit I can’t protect her from.”
Carina leans forward slightly.
“What happens when you feel that way?”
“I shut down,” I admit. “Get quiet. Try to be strong.”
Stevie squeezes my hand. “That’s when I feel alone.”
That hurts. But it’s the good kind. The kind that means there’s still somethin’ to fix. Carina asks us about our patterns. About what we do when things get hard. I answer honestly.
“I go silent,” I say. “Figure if I hold it steady, she’ll settle.”
“And what does that feel like to you?” Carina asks Stevie.
“Like I’m grieving alone,” she says quietly.
That one lands deep. We don’t leave with answers or miracles.
No plan scribbled on a whiteboard. Just homework, to talk and really listen to what each other is saying.
Don’t try to fix, instead try to understand.
It feels small and impossible. It also feels like the first thing that ain’t about control.
When we step outside into the sun, Stevie exhales like she’s been holding her breath for weeks.
“I didn’t hate it,” she says.
I chuckle softly. “Low bar.”
She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Thank you for comin’.”
“Thank you for lettin’ me.”
On the drive home, she rests her hand on my thigh. Not because she needs reassurance. Just because she wants to. And that difference? It’s everything.
That night, I sit on the edge of the bed while she changes into one of my old shirts.
“Hey,” I say.
She looks up. “I’m scared too.”
She tilts her head slightly. “Of what?”
“Of not bein’ enough. Of you decidin’ you need somethin’ I can’t give.”
She steps closer. “You’re not the problem, Angel.”
“Feels like I am sometimes.”
She reaches up and cups my jaw. “You’re the reason I’m still here.”
“I don’t want to fix you,” I say quietly. “I just want to understand.”
Her eyes soften. “That’s enough.”
That night we climb into bed, without the expectations and schedule. Just closeness. I wrap an arm around her waist and let myself relax into the fact that she’s here. Still here. And for the first time in a long while, I realize something important:
I don’t have to be the man who carries everything. I just have to be the man who stays.
The man who listens.
The man who says he’s scared instead of pretending he ain’t.
And that?
That feels like strength I can actually live with.
We’re not fixed. Not even close. But we showed up. We spoke. We listened. And as I press a kiss into her hair and let sleep finally take me, I know this road ain’t about winning. It’s about walking it side by side. And I’m not lettin’ go.