2. Rory
RORY
Iwoke to walls I didn't recognize and sheets that smelled wrong—not the motel's industrial bleach, but something lived-in. Safe. Then Luna's giggle cut through my panic, and I remembered: Doc's apartment. We'd stopped running.
Luna's laugh came again, followed by a deep voice: "Easy, sweetheart. We want to mix it, not wear it."
I sat up, Doc's shirt—the one he'd given me last night. I padded barefoot toward the kitchen.
The scene that greeted me made my chest ache.
Luna stood on a chair at the counter, wooden spoon gripped in both hands, stirring what appeared to be pancake batter. Except the batter was everywhere—on her hands, her pajamas, the counter, and somehow on the side of her face.
"Mommy!" She spotted me and waved the spoon enthusiastically, sending droplets flying. "I'm helping!"
"I can see that." I couldn't stop the smile.
Doc stood beside her, one hand hovering near her back in case she wobbled. He'd showered—his dark hair still damp, water droplets catching on his shoulders. Low-slung gray sweats hung on his hips, and he was shirtless, all carved muscle and the sacred medical corps tattoo on his chest.
This man was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with the gun I'd spotted on his nightstand last night before he’d moved it.
"Morning." His voice was rough with sleep, and his gaze held mine a beat too long before he turned back to Luna. "We're making pancakes. Hope that's okay."
"More than okay." I moved closer, drawn by the domestic scene. "Though it seems you're wearing as much batter as is in the bowl."
"That's Luna's special technique." He grabbed a dish towel, gently wiping batter off Luna's cheek. "Can't argue with the results though. Best pancakes in Saint's Hollow, right, kiddo?"
"The bestest!" Luna beamed up at him like he'd hung the moon.
When was the last time someone had been this patient with her? This gentle? Matt had barely tolerated Luna, treating her like an inconvenience in his perfectly controlled life.
Doc caught me staring. The air between us hummed for a moment before Luna dropped the spoon.
"Oops." She stared down at the batter-splattered floor, her bottom lip trembling. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"Hey, it's okay." Doc crouched to her level, his tone staying calm. "Accidents happen. That's why we have towels, right? No big deal."
Luna hesitated, then whispered, “Daddy used to yell when I made messes."
My stomach dropped. Doc's jaw tightened, darkness flickering across his face before he smoothed it away.
"Well, daddy’s not here," he said quietly, firmly. "And in this house, spills aren't a big deal. We just clean them up and keep going. Sound good?"
Luna nodded, visibly relieved.
He cleaned up the mess with efficient movements, Luna chattering at him about Mr. Hops and how he needed breakfast too. I blinked back the sudden sting of tears.
This. This was what I'd wanted to give Luna. What I'd been running toward—not just away from Matt, but toward the possibility of normalcy. Of a life where a spilled spoon didn't mean shouting or punishment or walking on eggshells for hours afterward.
"Coffee?" Doc held out a fresh cup, our fingers brushing in the exchange.
The contact sent warmth spiraling low in my belly. His breath caught before he stepped back, putting distance between us.
"God, yes. Thank you." I wrapped both hands around the mug.
"Stay a few more days," he said, turning back to the stove where pancakes were starting to brown. "Until you figure things out. Where you're going next, what—"
"We can't keep imposing—"
"You're not." He flipped a pancake with practiced ease. "I've got the space. Luna's safe here. And honestly?" He glanced at me, raw vulnerability in his expression. "I like having you both around."
The admission hung in the air, honest and unguarded.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "A few more days."
Luna cheered, and Doc's smile—rare and devastating—made my pulse stutter.
Lunch at the Hellbound Saints clubhouse wasn't what I expected.
I'd pictured something out of a movie—dark, intimidating, full of rough men doing illegal things in corners.
Instead, the converted warehouse was surprisingly bright, with afternoon sun streaming through high windows.
It smelled like motor oil and leather, yes, but also like the burgers someone was grilling in the back.
And there were kids.
A few of them, running wild through the common area while a handful of bikers observed with indulgent expressions. Luna's eyes went wide, her hand clutching mine for about three seconds before one of the kids called out, "You wanna play?"
"Can I, Mommy?" Luna bounced on her toes, all her earlier shyness evaporating.
"Go ahead, baby." I barely got the words out before she was gone, chasing the other kids toward what appeared to be a makeshift play area in the corner.
"They're pretty good about including new friends," a woman's voice said beside me.
I turned to find Maddie—the baker from Sweet Salvation, the one married to Jax, the VP.
She had that kind of natural prettiness that came from being genuinely happy, and a baby on her hip who couldn't be more than nine or ten months old.
The little girl had dark curls and was currently trying to grab Maddie's necklace.
"I'm Rory." I offered my hand. "And that's Luna."
"I'm Maddie." She shifted the baby on her hip, who immediately reached for me with chubby hands. "Doc told us you'd be stopping by. Welcome to the madhouse. The kids will keep Luna entertained for hours."
"Thank you. She hasn't had much chance to just be a kid lately."
Understanding softened Maddie's expression. "Running's hard. Especially with a little one."
"Doc told you?"
"Not the details. Just that you needed a safe place." She gestured toward a cluster of tables. "Come on. I'll introduce you around. Everyone's harmless—mostly—and the food's actually good."
The next hour passed in a blur of names and faces. Hammer, the massive Sergeant at Arms who terrified until he smiled. Diesel, the Road Captain with laugh lines around his eyes. Rev, the mechanic who Maddie whispered had his own complicated love story.
And Pope.
The club president stood at the bar, talking with Doc in low tones. Even from across the room, his presence commanded attention—not through intimidation, but through the kind of quiet authority that came from actually earning respect.
I was near enough to overhear when Pope asked, "She in trouble?"
"Ex won't leave her alone," Doc said, tension threading his words. "He's a cop. Uses his badge to track her down. She's been running for months."
"Cop from where?"
"Two counties over. No jurisdiction here."
Pope's expression hardened. "She's under our protection then. Make sure she knows it."
The knot in my chest loosened. Just like that—no questions about why I'd run, no judgment about my choices. Just immediate, unconditional protection.
"Thank you," I said quietly, and both men turned.
Pope's gaze was assessing but not unkind. "You Doc's girl?"
The question caught me off-guard. "I—we're not—"
"Not yet,” Doc said, and the words sent heat flooding through me. "But she's under club protection regardless."
"Then she's family." Pope nodded once, decisive. "You need anything—work, housing, someone to talk to—you ask. Clear?"
"Clear." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Thank you."
He moved away to talk with Hammer, leaving Doc and me with three feet of charged air between us.
"Sorry," he said, not meeting my eyes. "I shouldn't have implied—"
"It's okay." And weirdly, it was. Standing here in this clubhouse full of dangerous men who'd just claimed me as family, I felt safer than I had in years. "Thank you. For all of this."
"Nothing to thank me for." He finally met my gaze, intensity making my breath hitch. "You're not alone anymore, Rory. Neither of you. That's what matters."
Luna's laughter rang out from across the room, mixing with the other kids' giggles. She played—actually played, without fear or tension.
"She seems happy," Maddie said, appearing at my elbow with a plate of food. "That's good to see."
"She hasn't been happy in a long time."
"Neither have you, I'm guessing." She handed me the plate. "Eat. You look like you haven't had a decent meal in days."
She wasn't wrong. I'd been living on gas station food and whatever wouldn't spoil in the car. The burger was warm and perfectly cooked.
"Doc doesn't look at anyone the way he's looking at you," Maddie said casually, like she was commenting on the weather.
I nearly choked on my burger. "What?"
"I'm just saying." She grinned. "I know that look. My husband wore it for months before he finally admitted he was falling for me." She bumped my shoulder. "Doc's a good man. Damaged, like they all are. But good. And he clearly thinks you're something special."
"We just met."
"Sometimes that's all it takes." She gestured around the clubhouse. "Most of the couples here fell fast and hard. It's kind of the MC way—when you know, you know."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I just ate my burger and tried not to think about the way Doc kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn't paying attention.
Evening found us at Doc's clinic—the backroom operation behind the clubhouse where he kept the supplies that saved lives when people couldn't risk a hospital. Luna had crashed hard after all the playing with Mr. Hops clutched to her chest.
"She's out," Doc said, checking on her before returning to the supply closet where I was helping with inventory. "Probably won't wake up for a few hours."
"Playing with other kids wore her out." I ran my finger down the list he'd given me, checking off items. "Thank you for taking us to the clubhouse. She needed that."
"So did you."
I glanced up to find him near, reaching for a box on the shelf above my head. Heat radiated from his body, the space between us suddenly tight.
"Maybe," I admitted. "It's been a while since I felt like I could breathe around other people."
"You can breathe here." He moved closer, reaching for supplies. "You're safe, Rory. I meant what I said—you and Luna aren't alone anymore."
Our hands collided as we both reached for the same box. The contact was electric—his fingers warm and calloused against mine, his body a hand's width away.
We both froze.
"Rory—" My name came out rough.
"I know." I should have pulled away. Should have stepped back, put distance between us and this pull that felt too strong, too fast. "This is crazy. We barely know each other. It's too complicated—"
"But—"
"But nothing," I whispered, even as my body swayed toward his. "I feel it too."
His free hand came up, cupping my face with surprising gentleness. His thumb stroked my cheekbone, and my eyes fluttered closed at the contact. When was the last time someone had touched me like this? Like I was precious instead of property?
"I shouldn't want you this much," he said quietly. "Not when you've been through hell. Not when you need safety, not—"
"What if I need both?" I opened my eyes, meeting his dark gaze. "What if I need safety and this?"
His jaw clenched. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting across my lips. Another inch and we'd be kissing, crossing the line from protector and protected to something more complicated and infinitely more dangerous.
"Mommy?"
We sprang apart. Luna stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes, Mr. Hops dangling from one hand.
"I'm hungry."
Doc ran a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling like he'd been running. "Right. Food. Let's—let's get you something to eat, sweetheart."
Luna padded over to him, raising her arms to be picked up without hesitation. He lifted her easily, settling her on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Can we have the pancakes we made?" she asked.
"We ate those for breakfast, remember?"
"Oh yeah." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "What about pizza?"
"Pizza sounds perfect." He glanced at me over Luna's head, and the promise in his gaze made my pulse race. "Rory?"
"Pizza's great," I managed.
We walked back to his apartment through the evening light, Luna chattering about her new friends while Doc listened with the kind of patience Matt had never managed.
I followed behind them, observing the way Luna had already claimed him—the way she'd wrapped around him like she'd known him for years instead of hours.
By seven-fifteen, Luna was asleep—pizza demolished, teeth brushed, tucked into Doc's bed with Mr. Hops.
Doc closed the bedroom door softly and turned to me in the hallway. The space between us hummed.
"Seven-thirty," he said, voice low. "Then we talk."
I checked my watch. 7:16.
Fourteen minutes until everything changed.
"About this," I said. "About what happens next. About—"
"Everything." He nodded, jaw tight. "We talk about everything."
But the promise in his gaze said we'd be doing more than talking.
And despite every rational voice in my head screaming that this was too fast, too complicated, too risky—I wanted it.
I wanted him.
For the first time in six months of running, I wanted to stop and stay and see what might grow in the space between danger and safety.
Even if it terrified me.
Especially because it did.