Chapter 21
Fawnie
Sunlight slips through the blinds, laying soft stripes across my bedroom wall and the rumpled sheet tangled around my legs.
And then there’s Shadow.
He’s sprawled on his back beside me, one arm thrown over his head like he went to sleep mid-thought.
His hair is a mess in the best way, and his face is turned just enough that I can see the strong line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows that never fully goes away, even when he’s resting.
I watch him for a second too long.
It still feels unreal sometimes, waking up with him here. In my apartment, in my bed, like he belongs.
Like I belong.
A couple of weeks isn’t long. I know that.
It’s barely enough time to learn someone’s coffee order without asking twice, and I still jokingly offer him tea.
But the space Shadow’s carved out in my life feels bigger than the number of days should allow.
Like something that was always meant to be there and just finally snapped into place.
In a way he was. Even though I didn’t know it was him who’d saved me.
We’re still keeping it quiet. We’re only just trying to figure out what it is we have, let alone involve my dad in anything.
Not that I think my dad would disapprove.
I know he likes Shadow, he pretty much told me he’d always thought of him as a son, and finding out that he saved me from the fire cemented our lives together in ways we couldn’t deny.
But there’s a world of difference between respecting a man and being happy about him dating your only daughter.
I know we have to tell them soon. I’ve seen the glances. We’ve been to the clubhouse together a couple of times. Shadow on his bike, me driving my car. I’m never on the back, because that would pretty much advertise the fact we’re together.
But no one has said anything, and neither have we.
It’s our little secret.
For now.
Shadow exhales, slow and steady, and his fingers twitch once against the pillow. Like he’s reaching for something in his sleep.
I think about the last time I saw him after his first session with Lockwood.
I wasn’t there with him, but I’d gone to see him at his house later that day. He looked like he was wearing a weight no one else could see. His shoulders were tight, and his gaze unfocused. Like he was still in some place far away, fighting something with his bare hands.
I’d wanted to ask. I’d wanted to touch his arm, make him look at me, make him tell me what was happening inside his head.
But I didn’t. If he wanted me to know then he’d tell me.
Instead, I’d waited.
And eventually, the fog had cleared. He’d blinked like he was coming back to himself, and the first thing he’d done was find me across the room and hold my gaze like a lifeline. Like I was the tether.
After that, little things started shifting.
Not dramatically. Not like a movie montage where someone wakes up healed and smiling.
But… subtle.
He still gets withdrawn. Still goes quiet.
He still won’t give himself to me entirely.
We make love, but he’s always wearing a t-shirt.
I’ve given up telling him that his scars don’t bother me, because I realize it’s not me he’s seeking approval from, it’s himself.
Once he’s come to terms with whatever that is, then maybe he’ll shed the final layer.
Both literally and metaphorically. He still disappears inside himself sometimes, his eyes turning inward like he’s listening to something I can’t hear.
But when he comes back, it’s faster.
And the way he looks afterward—there’s something lighter in it. A fraction of softness that wasn’t there before.
Then there’s the piano.
The first time I heard it, I thought I was imagining it. I’d gone to visit him, as usual I’d parked my car further up the street so no one would see me, and I was walking towards his door when the faint sound of music drifted through the open windows.
It was hesitant, like someone was testing the keys, letting their hands remember the shape of melody.
Rather than knock on the door, I’d sat outside on the porch for a few minutes and listened, not wanting to break the spell.
In the end I knew I couldn’t sit there all evening, so I’d got up and knocked, but not before I’d peeked through the living room window and saw him sitting there.
His shoulders were hunched, his head bowed, his hair falling forward as his fingers moved.
He looked free. But he also must have sensed something because at that moment he looked up and caught my eye. His expression was as if he’d been caught doing something too intimate.
He’s been playing more since then.
I’m thinking about that when his eyes open. They’re the kind of dark that doesn’t really have a color until the light hits them. Brown, maybe. Or some deep shade that looks almost black when he’s tired.
He blinks once, then turns his head towards me. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Watchin’ me sleep, Fawnie?”
My cheeks heat instantly. “No.”
His eyebrow lifts. The smirk turns real. “Liar.”
“I’m not a liar,” I mutter, even though I absolutely am.
He rolls onto his side, closer, and his hand slides over my hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s been doing it forever.
His palm is warm. I look at those fingers. Long, slim, and imagine them playing my body like he plays the piano. I know he’d been scared to try in case the scars on the back of his hands affected his playing, but if they did, it was minor.
“What time is it?” I ask, mostly because my brain needs a job.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “That’s the time.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he leans in and kisses me before I can. When he pulls back, he studies my face in that quiet way he has.
Then he says, “I got a surprise for you.”
I grin because I can’t help it. “I thought you didn’t like surprises.”
He exhales through his nose like he’s bracing himself for my reaction. “Yeah, I don’t. But I want to do something special for you.”
“That’s nice, but you don’t have to.”
“Why?” His eyes narrow playfully. “Do you think it will be an unmitigated disaster like the symphony? Don’t worry, for what I’ve got in mind we won’t have to worry about ignorant assholes who don’t like bikers.”
I groan and flop back onto my pillow remembering my great idea. That turned out to be not so great. Though then ended up being actually a really nice evening… Once the drama had subsided.
He laughs, and the sound does something to my insides.
I press my hand to his chest to hold him off—not because I don’t want him, but because if he kisses me again, I might never leave this bed. “I mean that I’m happy doing anything with you. Every time I’m with you is special. I don’t need a grand gesture.”
“I know.” His expression turns earnest. “It’s not a grand gesture. In fact it’s pretty boring.”
“You’re really selling it to me,” I joke.
He pauses, then says, almost casually, “I thought you might like to go to Willa’s antique store.”
My brain stalls.
My body, however, reacts instantly—my head shoots up so fast I nearly headbutt him.
“What? Be seen together?”
He looks almost shy. “She and Atlas were at the club when I went yesterday afternoon and Atlas was giving her a hard time about buying up the entire contents of a locker filled with old clothes.” He tilts his head.
“Dead people’s shit, he called it. Anyway, Willa said you might be interested, there’s some genuine treasures…
apparently. She said to tell you that you get first dibs before she puts it on the racks”
Then I squeal. I actually squeal. “Are you for real?” I grab his face with both hands. “That would be amazing!”
His eyes soften again, something warm flickering through the darkness. “Yeah?”
“Yes!” I kiss him hard and fast, then kiss him again, then press my forehead to his. “That’s the best surprise. That’s literally the best surprise.”
“Good. ‘Cause I wasn’t sure.”
“How could you not be sure?” I sit up, already throwing the sheet off my legs. “Willa’s shop is like a treasure cave—at least from what I’ve heard.”
“A treasure cave,” he repeats, sounding amused. “More like the stuff of nightmares. Have you seen those dolls she collects—”
I cut him off, squinting at him. “Wait. Did you go to the club yesterday?”
His expression shifts. Just a flicker. “Had another session.”
My stomach dips with the realization.
Lockwood.
I don’t say it. I don’t ask. I don’t want to push him into that place this morning when things are light and happy. Instead, I reach for his hand and squeeze once.
His fingers curl around mine, firm.
“Get dressed,” he says, voice gentler. “We’ll go early.”
“Before anyone sees us together?” I ask.
“If we’re gonna tell Preacher at the weekend then maybe having us spotted about town will soften the blow.”
I shake my head at that. I know we’ve been putting it off. But I know my dad. He’s the definition of a good person. He always sees the best in people and wants nothing but the best for me. I know he’ll support us. At least I hope so.
***
By the time we leave, I’ve forgone my ripped jeans and patchwork and safety pinned shirt in favor of a Fifties inspired sundress because I’m trying to look like a person who casually browses antiques and not a feral raccoon who will dive headfirst into a bin of vintage scarves.
Shadow’s in his customary dark jeans and a black Henley, his cut folded over his arm.
It’s still early and Crow hasn’t opened up the tattoo parlor yet, so instead of sneaking out we walk down the staircase together.
There’s something thrilling about that. About the way we can be just two people and not a secret.
But then he reaches out and hooks his pinky around mine.
My heart does a full-body swoon.
I look up at him.
He keeps his eyes forward, expression neutral like he didn’t just undo me with a single finger.
I squeeze his hand back, matching his quiet.
Willa’s antique store is situated in an old warehouse on the outskirts of Hart.
There’s little to advertise what it is from the outside.
It’s only when we’re closer and I get a glimpse through the windows do I see what’s inside—vintage hats perched on stands, an old typewriter, a cracked mannequin draped in a beaded dress that looks like it’s seen a hundred parties.
A bell jingles when we step inside.
The air is warm and smells like dust and lavender sachets and old paper. My whole body relaxes like I’ve walked into a church. Willa appears from behind a rack of coats like she materializes out of the fabric itself.
She’s only a few years older than me. She’s Lynette’s younger sister. I kind of know bits of her story through my dad, though I’m only starting to get close to the other old ladies. I take a pause at that… other old ladies. Once Shadow and I officially become an item, then that’s what I’ll be.
“Fawnie!” she chirps, and I barely have time to smile before she’s hugging me.
Her arms are surprisingly strong. “I’ve been dying to get you in here.
Your clothes are so cool, I love the way you dress!
” she gushes. “Anyway, I kept telling Preacher that he needed to bring you here. But you know what your dad’s like. ”
I smile at that. Fashion has ever been on my dad’s list of interests.
Willa continues. “Atlas was telling me that we were gonna die under a mountain of motheaten velvet. He didn’t believe me when I told him that it’s a goldmine. But then I saw Shadow and I know the two of you have been getting close and—” she stops midsentence and looks at Shadow.
“Hi,” she says breezily.
He nods in response then wanders off to look at a vintage record player in the corner.
“So you and Shadow…?”
“It’s complicated,” I whisper.
Her face lights up at that. “How complicated?”
I shake my head and smile. “Okay, maybe compared to Hayley and Gunner, Ella and Raiden, and Crow and Tarynn it might not be complicated. But we haven’t told my dad yet.”
“Preacher’s always so laid back. He’ll be fine,” she says with certainty in her voice. “Anyway,” she starts. “I have things. So many things. Ella’s coming later on, she’s our other resident vintage queen, but seeing as she’s also six foot tall in heels you’ll not be fighting over my stock.”
I bark out a laugh. Ella is Raiden’s old lady. She’s a Fifties pinup with blonde hair and curves for days.
Shadow’s lips twitch at the sound.
Willa leads us deeper into the shop, past shelves stacked with teacups and porcelain dolls that absolutely, one hundred percent, are haunted. There are trunks overflowing with lace. Racks of clothes that range from grandmother chic to 1920s flapper who might stab you.
And then—bags.
Black garbage bags, bulging and piled like treasure.
For the next hour, time ceases to exist. By the time we leave the shop my arms are full.
The prize is a velvet blouse. Deep and rich.
Its sleeves are slightly puffed at the shoulder and tapering to the wrist. The neckline is modest but elegant, with tiny fabric-covered buttons.
Willa insisted that it was fifty dollars.
It was worth at least twice that, but she wouldn’t take any more money.
Instead I’d promised to bake her cookies and she’d finally relented.
Chocolate chips and sea salt.
Shadow carries most of the bags, and I walk beside him still clutching the velvet blouse in my arms like it’s precious. When we get to my car, I open the passenger door and stuff my bags on the seat.
This is where we part. For now. Shadow’s bike is parked at the far side of the lot.
I want to reach out and kiss him. Thank him for this lovely morning.
But it’s getting busier. There are more people out and about.
I know we joked about us giving my dad a heads-up, but I don’t want him to find out like this.
Shadow must catch my expression because he asks, “You happy?”
I look up at him, and my throat tightens again.
Not because I’m sad. Because I’m so full of something I don’t have a name for yet. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I’m really happy. Thank you for this morning.”
His gaze flicks to mine, then away, like eye contact is too much when feelings get close. But his pinky hooks around mine again. And for the first time in a while, the future doesn’t feel scary.
It feels… possible.