Chapter 13 Stud
Thirteen
Stud
I wake up to the sound of dripping.
Not the storm anymore—no more howling wind, no more icy snow pelting the windows like gravel. Just a soft, steady drip… drip… drip from the eaves outside, like the whole cabin is finally exhaling.
For a second, I lay there and listen. Holley is warm and curled into my side, her breath slow against my chest, hair a dark tumble over my arm. The blankets are kicked half off us. Sometime in the night she must’ve gotten hot and shoved them down; I just went with it and kept her tucked against me.
The storm has been raging for days. We’ve been living in this little bubble—firelight, coffee, shared stories, too many looks that last a second too long. It’s been easy, in a way that nothing in my life ever is. Easy and dangerous all at once.
Now, that drip-drip-drip says it’s ending.
She shifts, making a sleepy sound, and tightens her hand against my chest. I watch her a second longer, then glance past her at the window. The world outside is still mostly white, but the edges are slushy, heavy. Snow sliding off branches. The sky is lighter, not that bruised-gray color it’s been.
If the roads clear today or tomorrow, I’m heading back to Salemburg.
My chest tightens with a weird mix of dread and relief.
I’m not built to stay. Never have been.
But this—this woman sleeping in my arms like it’s the safest place she knows—makes something in me want to forget that fact.
Holley inhales deeply and blinks herself awake, eyes hazy at first, then focusing on me. The way her gaze warms when she realizes where she is yeah, that does something to me I don’t want to name.
“Morning,” she whispers, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning, trouble,” I murmur back.
She smiles, soft and small and real. “Still stuck together?”
“For now.” I tilt my head toward the window. “But the thaw started. Hear it?”
She goes quiet, listening. The drip from the roof, the occasional whoosh of wet snow sliding off somewhere, the distant crack of ice letting go from a branch.
“Sounds like the world’s waking up,” she says.
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t miss the tone in my voice. She never does. Her fingers curl into my shirt again, like she’s anchoring herself—and me.
“How long until you have to go back?” she asks quietly.
“Depends on the roads,” I give her the truth. “If they plow today, tomorrow at the latest. Have business to get back to.”
There it is. Laid out between us like a line in the snow.
Her expression is controlled, but I see it—the little flicker of hurt, the way her eyes shutter like she’s bracing. I hate that I put that there. I knew this was coming. I warned her. No promises. No monogamy. No pretending.
But the warning doesn’t make it easier.
She nods, swallowing once. “Okay.”
I reach up and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Hey.”
She looks back at me.
“We got today,” I remind her. “Let’s use it.”
Her lips quirk, not quite a smile yet. “Bossy.”
“You like me bossy.”
Color blooms in her cheeks, but the tension in her shoulders eases a fraction. “Unfortunately,” she mutters.
I chuckle and pull her back into my chest, pressing my chin to the top of her head. We lie there like that for a while. No talking. Just breathing, feeling all the unsaid things moving between us.
The drip outside keeps going, steady as a clock.
Time running out.
By late morning, the sky is a pale blue and the snow has started collapsing in on itself.
The world looks softer, rounded at the edges.
The plow passes at some point, rumbling down the road, tossing a dirty wall of snow to the side.
I watch it from the front window, Holley standing beside me, arms crossed over her chest.
“There it is,” I tell her quietly. “Your ticket out of here.”
She huffs a little. “Yours too.”
“Yeah.”
We brew another pot of coffee and eat simple—eggs, toast, leftover chili warmed up because I made enough for an army and somehow the two of us almost finished it. She steals one of my hoodies and rolls the sleeves up three times to get them to pretend to fit.
By afternoon, we’re back in the living room, spread out on the floor in front of the fire. She’s sitting cross-legged under a blanket, hair falling over her face as she quietly reads a book. I’m leaning back against the couch, legs stretched out, and we’re in this comfortable silence between us.
We’ve been talking on and off all day. Little things.
Stories from Salemburg—her face when I told her about riding cross-country with the club, sleeping in cheap motels or under the stars, about bar fights that turned into lifelong friendships.
Stories from her life before the divorce—how she used to plan vacations she never took, how she always meant to learn how to hike but got too busy being what someone else needed.
We haven’t touched the heavy stuff again. Not directly. But it’s there, under every look, every brush of her hand over my forearm when she passes me something.
Now, she closes the book gently and looks over at me.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
“You.” No point lying.
She laughs softly. “That’s a dangerous habit.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to notice that.”
Her gaze lingers on my face like she’s memorizing it. It makes me feel raw. Exposed. Like she’s getting a version of me most people never see.
“You’re quieter today,” she says.
I shrug one shoulder. “Got things on my mind.”
“Like leaving?”
“Like making sure you’re okay when I do.”
Her eyes soften. “Tony, you’re awesome, but my life is fine. It was before you rode into it and it will be when you ride back out.”
The name hits me in the chest. I’m used to being Stud. Road name. Handle. The version of me that belongs to the club, to the world out there where men don’t usually sit on floors in front of fireplaces thinking about women who sleep in their t-shirts.
But from her mouth, “Tony” feels right. Like she’s talking to the man, not the myth. Sure, she’s said it plenty but today it hits different.
“I’ll be okay,” she states softly. “I was okay before you got here.”
“Were you?” I ask, voice low.
Her mouth presses into a line. “I was surviving.”
“Surviving isn’t the same as okay.”
She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “No. It’s not. But sometimes surviving is as close to okay as someone can get.”
I push myself up, propping an arm on my bent knee. “What’s your plan when I go?”
She looks at the fire, not at me. “Go back to work when they reopen. Keep saving. Maybe have a conversation with a property manager about the rentals and having someone to come in and do cleanings once I’m making more. Work on getting some of the jobs off my plate.”
“Maybe work in some time to come to Salemburg,” I let the sentence topple out with far too much hope.
She murmurs, “that would be nice.”
We sit there, the promise hanging between us like a new thread, thin but strong.
She shifts, pulling one knee up, resting her chin on it. “What about you? What’s your plan when you go back?”
“Same as always,” I tell her casually. “Check in with the guys. See who broke what while I was gone. Work on a couple bikes, pick up some jobs, ride when I can.”
“You make it sound simple,” she says.
“Doesn’t mean it’s easy,” I answer. “But it’s mine. I know who I am there.”
The slow burn between us picks up a degree, like someone turned a dial. She feels it too—I can tell by the way she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, by how her tongue darts out to wet her lips, nervous habit I’ve noticed.
I push off the floor and move over, dropping down beside her. The blanket shifts, making room for me like it’s expected this since the first day she stepped foot in this cabin.
“You cold?” I ask.
“A little.”
I lift the edge of the blanket. “Come here then.”
She hesitates only half a second before scooting closer. I tuck her into my side, my arm going around her shoulders, her legs stretching out and tangling with mine under the warmth. Her head finds my chest, like it’s done this a thousand times.
“Better?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Better.”
The fire pops. The ache in my chest turns into a steady heat.
I could kiss her right now. I want to. But I sit there instead, breathing her in, letting the moment stretch. This isn’t about taking everything just because I can. This is about giving her something solid to lean on when everything else feels uncertain.
She slides her hand over my thigh, fingers curling gently in the fabric of my sweats. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admits suddenly.
“Do what?”
“Whatever this is.” She tilts her head back to look at me. “I don’t know how to be close to someone without it turning into expectations. Without it feeling like a test I’m going to fail.”
I tighten my arm around her. “Then we don’t make it a test.”
She huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “That simple, huh?”
“For us? Yeah,” I say. “We’ve been pretty honest so far. No reason to stop now.”
Her gaze searches mine. “You really don’t want more? From anyone?”
The question is soft, not accusatory. Just curious.
I take a moment to answer. “I want to care and I do care,” I say. “I want to show up. I want to be there when I can and give what I’ve got. But I don’t want to be anybody’s only option. Or their safety net. Or their entire plan.”
“And you don’t want to have that from someone else either,” she says slowly, piecing it together.
“Exactly,” I agree. “I don’t want someone hitching their whole life to mine and then resenting me when I can’t carry it.”
She sits with that, chewing on the inside of her cheek.
“So we’re what? Friends who care about each other and sometimes…” She trails off, blushing.
“Friends who care about each other and sometimes make very questionable decisions in showers,” I offer with a smirk.
Her burst of laughter is bright and sudden, loosening my chest. “Okay, that’s one way to put it.”
“You want a different label?” I ask wondering if her acceptance of my lifestyle is too good to be true..