Raven
It’s been three weeks since I left Samuel alone in the clubhouse. Each day, he pulls away a little more. Not in big, obvious ways. Not enough that anyone else would notice. But I do.
He texts less. His messages are shorter. More careful.
When I see him across a room, our eyes lock for half a second before he looks away. When I pass him in the hallway, he shifts just enough to give me space, like proximity itself is a violation.
Like he’s already practicing letting go.
The thought makes my chest ache.
I tell myself I can handle it. That distance is safer. That this is only temporary. But every day without him feels like I’m being slowly erased from his life.
The clubhouse is busy today, louder than usual, with engines cycling in and out and voices bouncing off concrete walls. Everyone’s on high alert.
I didn’t plan to be here. My plan was to spend the afternoon doing some retail therapy, but Knox insisted on coming with me, so my shopping was short-lived. On the way home, he said he needed to stop at the clubhouse. He didn’t ask, and I didn’t argue. Silently, I prayed Samuel would be there.
While Knox is busy with a few of the guys, I wander over to the garage. That’s when I see him. He’s bent over an engine, sleeves pushed up, grease streaked across his forearms.
I lean against the doorframe and watch him. The way his shoulders tense when someone passes too close. The way his eyes track movement without him realizing it. Like he’s bracing for an impact that never quite comes.
“Are you going to keep pretending I’m not here,” I ask, “or do you want to talk?”
He stills. Then, straightens slowly, wiping his hands on a rag. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says carefully.
That’s what finally snaps something in me. I cross the space between us in three steps and press my palm flat to his chest. His heart pounds under my hand.
“You don’t get to do this,” I say quietly.
“Do what?”
“This,” I answer, gesturing between us. “Pulling away for me.”
He looks away, toward the open doors. “I’m not pushing you away,” he says, his jaw tightening. “I’ve been busy. A lot’s going on right now.”
“That’s bullshit,” I say, taking a step forward, forcing him to look at me.
His eyes snap back to mine, dark and conflicted. “Raven—”
“No,” I cut in. “Don’t try to make up excuses. You’re pulling away.”
His jaw flexes. “It’s not like that.”
“Then say it,” I challenge. “Say what you’re actually doing.”
Silence stretches. The garage noise fades into something distant, like we’re standing in a bubble no one else can breach.
“Shit’s about to go down, and I’m trying to keep you out of the line of fire,” he finally admits.
“Don't tell yourself this is for me.” My voice is quiet, but steady. “You don’t get to decide what I’m willing to risk.”
His eyes meet mine.
“I’m still here,” I say.
“That’s exactly what scares me.”
“You think I don’t understand risk?” I ask. “You think I don’t know what it means to love someone who stands in front of storms?”
His breath catches.
“I grew up in this world,” I continue. “I lost my mother young. I’ve watched men bleed, and women wait. I know what it costs.”
I reach up, cupping his face, my thumb brushing the scar at his jaw.
“And I’m still choosing you.”
“I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you,” he says, his voice rough.
I shake my head. “You don’t get to decide that alone.”
“I do if it keeps you breathing.”
“That’s not protection,” I say. “That’s control. And it hurts.”
That lands. I see it in the way his shoulders sag. Like he’s been holding himself rigid for days and finally ran out of strength.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says quietly.
“Then stop choosing for me. Let me choose you.”
He searches my face like he’s looking for permission he’s afraid to take.
“I’m not asking you to be reckless,” I continue. “I’m asking you to be honest. With me. Not with my dad. Not with the club. With me.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then he closes his eyes. When he opens them, the distance is gone.
“Where have you been staying?” I ask. “I overheard Knox and Dad saying you weren’t at the motel anymore.”
“I found a place,” he says. “A small cabin outside town. It’s quiet and away from everything.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He hesitates just long enough to hurt. “Because it’s not safe.”
“For whom?” I press. “Me or you?”
His jaw flexes. “Raven—”
“It feels like you're already saying goodbye,” I say, the words coming out steadier than I feel. “You just haven't walked away yet.”
“I’m still here,” he says quickly. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“You have,” I whisper. “Every day you’re disappearing a little more.”
He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping in front of me again. “I’m on probation. Every move I make right now is watched. I’m trying not to make this worse.”
“What about me?” I ask. “Am I supposed to sit quietly on the side while you build a life without me?”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?” I demand. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re preparing to lose me.”
“I’m trying to survive this without dragging you down with me,” he says. “I’m trying to make sure when this settles, there’s still something left for us.”
My throat burns. “You don’t get to decide what I can survive.”
Before he can answer, a presence shifts behind me.
“Raven.” Knox’s voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.
I turn to find him standing a few steps away, his eyes darting from me to Samuel and back again. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. “I’m ready to leave,” he says. “Now.”
I look back at Samuel, wanting to say a thousand things at once.
Go,” he says quietly. “Please.”
The word guts me.
I nod once because if I try to speak, the tears I’m holding back will start to fall.
As Knox turns, he throws one last look over his shoulder at Samuel. “Remember where you stand,” he says.
Samuel doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.
As I follow my brother out of the garage, I don’t look back either.
Not because I don’t want to. Because I know if I do, I won’t leave.
Distance isn’t keeping me safe. It’s just teaching us how to live without each other.
And I already know how that story ends.