Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Angel
The clubhouse couch smells like old leather, spilt beer, and ghosts. I know every crack in this place. Every sound it makes when it settles at night. I’ve slept here a hundred times over the years. after late runs, bad calls, too much whiskey. It’s never bothered me before.
Tonight, it feels like a reminder. A reminder that I’ve had somewhere to land every time life knocked me sideways. Stevie doesn’t. Not the same way.
I stare up at the ceiling, hands folded over my chest, listening to the low murmur of brothers moving through the building. A laugh drifts down the hall. Someone slams a locker. Music hums faintly from the bar.
Life goes on. Mine feels like it’s paused mid-breath. Stevie asked for space. Not divorce. Not an ending. Just… space. And somehow that hurts worse than if she’d slammed the door and told me to get the hell out.
I roll onto my side and stare at the empty stretch of couch beside me, keep replaying her face. Not the anger or the tears. The moment right after I said it.
Having kids isn’t everything.
The way she went still. That’s the part that keeps me up. I’ve seen that look before. On prospects who realize too late they walked into something they can’t fight. On men in hospital rooms when the doctor starts using careful words.
It’s the look of something cracking inside.
And I put it there. Not because I don’t want a child.
But because I was scared that I was losing her to the obsession.
Scared that no matter how hard I loved her, it wouldn’t outweigh what her body couldn’t give, that one day she’d look at me and see compromise instead of partnership.
So, I threw the wrong words into the air and hoped they’d land softer than they did. They didn’t.
Joker finds me in the common room around midnight, two beers in hand. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just hands me one and sits down like he knows better than to crowd a man who’s barely holding it together.
"She okay?" he asks eventually.
“She’s gone to her sister’s.”
He nods once. “For good?”
“No.” I swallow. “Trial separation.”
Joker exhales through his nose. “That’s rough.”
I laugh once, bitterly. “That’s polite.”
We sit in silence for a while. The TV’s on, volume low, but neither of us is watching.
“She said she feels like she’s failing around me,” I say finally. “Like every time she looks at me, she’s reminded of what she can’t give.”
Joker’s jaw tightens slightly.
“That’s not on you,” he says.
“Feels like it is,” I mutter. “Feels like if I were enough, if I were enough, this wouldn’t be happening.”
He turns to look at me then. Really look.
“You think being enough means not wantin’ something else?” he asks.
I don’t answer. Because the truth is ugly. Somewhere deep down, there’s a part of me that’s scared she wants a future I can’t guarantee, and one day, she’ll decide love isn’t enough to make up for it. And that terrifies me more than any war we’ve ever ridden into.
Joker leans back, studying the ceiling.
“You ever think maybe this ain’t about what you can give?” he says. “Maybe it’s about what she believes about herself.”
I clench my jaw.
“I know that,” I say. “Doesn’t mean I don’t feel like I should’ve handled it better.”
“You handled it human,” he replies. “That’s different.”
I don’t drink myself stupid. That would be easier. Instead, I pace the property like a guard dog with nothing left to guard, run drills in the gym until my arms shake, and clean my bike even though it doesn’t need it.
I even reorganize the storage room and rewrite security protocols that were fine to begin with. Anything to keep my hands busy, to keep my head from replaying her words.
I can’t be around you right now without feeling like I’m failing.
That one guts me. Because the last thing I ever wanted was for her to feel small around me. I’ve spent my whole life making sure the people I love feel safe. And somehow, in trying to protect her from the spiral, I made her feel judged instead.
Carrie corners me in the kitchen the next morning. She doesn’t hug me. Doesn’t scold. Just pours coffee and slides the mug across the counter like she knows exactly how shattered I am.
“She, okay?” she asks quietly.
“She’s takin’ space.”
Carrie nods. “That’s brave of her.”
“And of me?”
She meets my eyes.
“If you let her, have it without punishing her for it—yeah.”
That lands.
Harder than I expected.
“I want to text her every five minutes,” I admit. “Tell her I miss her. Tell her I’m sorry again. Tell her I’ll be better.”
Carrie’s mouth softens.
“And what did she ask for?”
“Space.”
“Then give her space,” she says gently. “Not silence. Space. There’s a difference.”
I nod slowly. “How do I do that without losin’ her?”
“You trust her,” Carrie says. “And you trust that loving you doesn’t disappear just because you’re not standing in front of her.”
She pauses, then adds quietly, “And you work on the part of you that thinks you’re only valuable if you can give her everything.”
I stare into my coffee. That one cuts deep because she’s right. Somewhere along the way, I tied my worth to being the man who fixes it.
The nights are the worst. The clubhouse never really sleeps, but there’s a stretch between two and four a.m. where it quiets just enough for your thoughts to get loud. That’s when the doubt creeps in.
What if she realizes life is lighter without me hovering, worrying, and trying too hard?
What if she decides she wants a future that doesn’t include compromise?
What if love just… isn’t enough?
I sit on the edge of the bed and press my elbows into my knees, breathing through the ache like it’s a wound that hasn’t quite decided if it wants to heal or fester. I open my phone. Her name sits there, bright, and dangerous.
Stevie ??
I type out a message several times before deleting it and starting again. Finally, I settle on something simple.
Thinking of you. No pressure to reply.
I send it before I can overthink it. Then I set the phone face down and force myself not to watch it.
Respecting boundaries feels like standing still while your insides are screaming to run.
But I do it. Because loving her means trusting she knows what she needs, even when it scares the hell out of me.
Afew days pass. Then a week. We text lightly. Carefully. Like we’re relearning each other’s edges. No talk about babies or apologies rehashed. Just check-ins. A photo of the sunset, she sends me one evening. A dumb joke I send her about Tank nearly dropping a keg. It’s torture. And it’s necessary.
I don’t ask when she’s coming home if she misses me the way I miss her. I let her lead. And that might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
One night, lying on the clubhouse bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, I finally admit something I’ve been dodging for months. This isn’t just about her grief, but about mine too. I wanted that future—that child. The version of us I could see so clearly, it felt real.
I pictured tiny boots by the door. Her laugh echoing down the hallway. Teaching a kid how to ride. Showing them the bikes, the brothers, the code we live by. Losing that hurts more than I let myself admit. I’ve been so focused on being strong for her that I forgot I’m allowed to hurt, too.
Maybe that’s part of the problem; she never saw how much I wanted it and thought it was all her burden. And I let her carry it alone because I thought that was protection. But it wasn’t. It was silent. And silence is a slow killer.
A message buzzes on my phone. I reach for it way too fast. It’s her; my heart starts to beat a little faster.
Missed you today.
Three words. And my chest caves in. I stare at them for a long time before replying.
Miss you every day.
Simple. Honest.
No pressure.
She replies a minute later.
I’m not ready yet.
My jaw tightens; I force myself to breathe. I’m not angry, but I am scared. Scared she will never be ready.
Take your time. I’m here.
And I mean it. Because loving her isn’t about dragging her back into my arms before she’s ready; it’s about being the place she can come back to when she is.
I don’t know how long this space will last or what version of us will come out the other side, but I’m not going anywhere. Not because I’m afraid of being alone. But because I chose her.
For the first time since this all started, I stop trying to be the man who fixes everything and start trying to be the man who stays. That’s the only thing she needs from me right now.
I lie back against the leather couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of the clubhouse breathing around me. Centering me, knowing I have their support at my back.