Chapter 5
Jason
Wednesday evening. I've changed shirts too many times.
The first one was too nice—a button-down that screamed "I'm trying to impress you.
" I looked like I was going on a first date, which I guess technically I might be, but I didn't want to look like I thought that.
The second was too casual, a ratty t-shirt with a hole near the hem that I should have thrown out months ago.
Made me look like I didn't care, which is the opposite of the problem.
The third was somewhere in between—a dark green henley that Robin once said "you look like you're going to a job interview at a motorcycle shop" and I went back upstairs.
Now I'm in a plain black t-shirt and jeans. Simple. Casual. Like I'm not dying inside.
"You look fine," Vaughn says from the doorway of my room. He's leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching me with that steady gaze that always makes me feel like he can see right through me. "Stop fidgeting."
"I'm not fidgeting."
"You've checked your hair in the mirror four times in the last two minutes."
"Maybe I have a lot of hair."
Vaughn snorts. "Just go. The longer you stand here, the worse it's going to get."
He's right. I know he's right. But my hands are shaking slightly and my heart is pounding and I'm about to go to Ash's house, alone, where there will be no one to interrupt us if things go—
If things go.
My lion is practically vibrating under my skin, eager and restless. He knows what we want. He's known since the moment Ash walked into the bar. But the rest of me is terrified of wanting something this badly and not getting it.
"Robin told me to be careful," I say.
"Robin's right."
"He said Ash is a hurricane."
"Also right."
"He said I'm going to get destroyed."
Vaughn doesn't answer that one. Just looks at me with those steady eyes that see too much. He's Knox's second for a reason—he notices things, files them away, only speaks when he has something worth saying.
"Do you think I'm making a mistake?"
"I think you're going to do whatever you're going to do, and I'll be here when you need to talk about it after." He steps aside to let me pass, one hand briefly squeezing my shoulder. "Go. Have fun. Try not to fall completely in love with him before midnight."
"It's only six o'clock."
"I know what I said."
---
Ash's house is on Maple Street, a quiet residential block with mature trees and well-kept lawns. The kind of street where people have lived for decades, where kids ride bikes in the summer and neighbors wave at each other.
The house itself is exactly what I expected—neat, minimal, functional. Dark gray siding, white trim, nothing remarkable about it. Could be any house on any suburban street. Nothing that says anything about the person who lives there.
Except for the detached garage. That's bigger than my entire apartment above the bar, a proper three-bay setup with clean white siding and what looks like a brand new roof. That's the real house, I realize. The building where people sleep is just an afterthought.
I park my bike in the driveway and sit there for a minute, trying to calm down. My lion is pacing, restless, eager to get inside and see him. Every instinct I have is screaming go, go, go, he's right there, claim him, keep him.
The rest of me is terrified.
The front door opens before I can decide whether to knock.
Ash is standing there in jeans and a black henley, barefoot, looking like something out of a magazine spread about rugged men who could kill you with their bare hands but would rather fix your motorcycle.
His hair is damp like he just showered. The henley clings to his chest and shoulders in a way that should be illegal.
He's watching me with those sharp hazel eyes, and I can't read his expression at all.
"You came," he says.
"Said I would."
"Wasn't sure you would."
"Why not?"
He shrugs, a small movement that does interesting things to his shoulders. "Robin probably told you to stay away."
"He did."
"But you came anyway."
"Yeah." I get off my bike, trying to project confidence I don't feel. My hands are steady, at least. Small mercies. "You said you'd show me the garage."
"I did say that." He steps back, gesturing me inside. "Come on."
I follow him through the house, and it's even more sparse than I expected.
The living room has a couch and a TV, nothing else.
No coffee table, no bookshelves, no random accumulation of stuff that happens when someone actually lives somewhere.
The kitchen has basic appliances, a coffee maker, a single mug in the dish rack.
No art on the walls, no photos, no personal touches of any kind.
It looks like a model home. Or a safe house. Somewhere someone stays temporarily before moving on to the next location.
"Still settling in," Ash says, catching me looking around. "Haven't had time to make it feel like a place yet."
"How long have you owned it?"
"Six years."
I stop walking. "Six years?"
"Bought it before I deployed. Never actually lived here." He opens a door that leads to the garage, and his voice shifts—becomes warmer, more animated. "This is the part I cared about."
The garage is a different world.
Three bays, all immaculate. Fluorescent lights humming overhead, illuminating everything in crisp, shadowless detail.
The concrete floor is painted gray and spotlessly clean—not a single oil stain, not a dropped bolt, nothing out of place.
The walls are lined with pegboards and tool chests, everything organized with military precision.
And it is military precision, I realize.
The tools aren't just organized, they're arranged by function and frequency of use.
Wrenches sorted by size, yes, but also positioned so the most commonly used ones are at eye level.
Screwdrivers grouped by type, but also by head size within each type.
Everything labeled, everything accessible, everything designed for maximum efficiency.
A hydraulic lift dominates the center of the space, professional-grade, currently lowered to floor level.
Workbenches line one wall, surfaces clean and clear except for a partially disassembled engine that looks like a long-term project.
I can see the systematic way he's laid out the parts—each piece in its designated spot, each bolt in a labeled container.
And the bikes.
Three of them, each more beautiful than the last.
The Kawasaki H2R I've already seen, that matte black monster that makes my Harley look like a toy.
Up close it's even more impressive—the supercharger visible through the fairing, the aggressive stance, the raw power barely contained.
Track-bred machine modified for street use, probably worth more than most people's houses.
A Ducati Panigale V4 in racing red, all aggressive angles and barely contained speed. The Italian superbike that wins championships. I've seen pictures, watched videos, never seen one in person. The way the light catches the bodywork makes it look like it's already moving.
And a Honda CB750—vintage, probably from the mid-seventies, lovingly restored to better than showroom condition. Classic lines, chrome gleaming, original tank badges preserved. A museum piece that somehow also looks rideable.
"Holy shit," I breathe.
"The Kawasaki's my daily driver," Ash says, running his hand along the fuel tank with unmistakable affection. The gesture is almost tender, intimate in a way I wouldn't have expected from him. "But the Ducati's for track days. When I can find a track worth driving to."
"And the Honda?"
"First bike I ever bought." His voice changes, goes softer.
"Saved up for two years as a teenager, mowing lawns, washing cars, doing whatever shit work I could find.
Bought it as a wreck from some guy who'd dropped it in a ditch and left it there.
Frame was bent, engine was seized, everyone said I was wasting my money.
" He looks at it with something almost tender.
"Rebuilt it from the frame up. Took me three years. "
"You're sentimental?"
He looks at me then, his eyes gone dark. "About certain things."
The air between us shifts. I can feel the tension building, neither of us saying what we're both thinking.
I walk around the space, taking it all in, trying to get my equilibrium back. The organization is beautiful in its functionality—this is a space designed by someone who thinks systematically, who values efficiency, who has spent years learning exactly what they need and exactly where it should be.
I understand this space. I understand the mind that created it.
"This is incredible," I say, and I mean it. "The organization alone—I've never seen anything like it. Even Vaughn's setup at the shop isn't this precise."
"Like things where I can find them. Hate wasting time looking for tools." He shrugs, but I can tell he's pleased by the compliment. "Nothing worse than being in the middle of a job and having to stop because you can't find the right wrench."
"I get that. My space at the shop is the same way—not this level, but the same principle. Vaughn calls me obsessive."
"Nothing wrong with knowing where your shit is."
He's closer now. I didn't see him move, but suddenly he's right there, close enough that I can smell him—leather and something clean like soap and underneath it, just him, warm and male and making my lion want to roll over and show his belly.
Want to submit, to surrender, to let this man do whatever he wants to me.
"Want to see the engine I'm rebuilding?" he asks.
His eyes aren't looking at the engine.
"Sure."
He moves past me to get to the workbench, and I can't help myself. I reach out and touch his arm, just barely, just my fingertips brushing the warm skin below his pushed-up sleeve.
He freezes.
"Jason."
"Yeah?"