11. Stone
She was smaller than she looked, but the way she settled behind me felt... solid.
There was no awkward hovering. She tucked in close, her thighs bracing against the bike and her chest pressing into my back, a sudden, searing heat through my leather jacket. When I kicked the engine over, the frame shuddered, a low-frequency roar that seemed to vibrate straight through both of us. I felt her inhale sharply—a tiny hitch of breath against my shoulder—before her arms slid around my waist.
She didn't claw at me like a terrified passenger. She just held on, her grip firm and certain.
I kept my eyes on the blacktop, but I was hyper-aware of every inch of her. Every lean, every shift in weight, the way her helmet knocked against my shoulder blades when I shifted gears. I felt the weight of her—not just her body, but the fact that I was the only thing between her and the asphalt at seventy miles an hour.
The city lights smeared into neon streaks in the rearview as we hit the coast road. The air turned sharp and salt-crusted, whipping past us in a cold rush. The road started to snake, climbing into the hills where the ocean was just a vast, churning ink-black void to our left.
She tightened her grip as I leaned into a long, sweeping curve, her body following mine like she’d been doing this her whole life.
"You okay back there?" I shouted over the wind.
"Yeah!" she called back, her voice muffled by the helmet but steady. "I'm okay."
She paused, and then I felt her forehead rest against the space between my shoulders for a split second. "I trust you," she added, the words barely reaching me over the roar of the pipes.
The words land heavier than they should.
I took us farther south, past the turnoffs tourists never find unless they know where to look. When I finally pull over, it’s quiet enough to hear the ocean breathing below us.
She swings off the bike and removes her helmet, hair tumbling loose again, chestnut catching the faint glow of the moon. She looks exhilarated, a little winded, eyes bright in a way I haven’t seen yet.
"That your first time on a bike?" I asked, killing the engine.
She let out a short, breathless laugh. "Yeah. Ever."
Something tightened in my chest—a sudden, sharp pull I didn't have a name for.
“Good” I say before I can stop myself. It was more than good. It was the realization that her first experience with that kind of speed, that kind of freedom, had been with me.
She caught the look on my face and tilted her head, her green eyes searching mine in the dim light. "Good?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"Yeah," the word is coming out rougher than I intended. I should have left it there. I should have turned around and walked away. Instead, I leaned against the seat, my gaze locked on hers. "I like knowing it was mine."
She walks to the edge of the overlook, stopping a safe distance back, like she’s learned to measure risk instinctively.
“So,” I say, trying to find a voice that doesn’t sound as wrecked as I feel. I lean back against the warm leather of the seat, watching her. “You stayed.”
She doesn’t answer right away. She just stands there for a second, letting the cold salt air mess with her hair, her back to me. She looks like a silhouette cut out of the dark.
“Yes,” she whispers.
The silence stretches out, filled only by the distant, rhythmic crash of the Pacific against the cliffs below.
“I could’ve gone with him,” she adds, her voice so quiet I almost miss it. “Rasmus... He’s safe.”
“But you didn’t.”
She finally turns then. The moonlight catches the green in her eyes, making them look sharp, almost silver. There’s no hesitation in her face anymore—none of that “shattering glass” look from the infirmary.
“No,” she says, the word solid and final.
She takes a half-step closer, the distance between us suddenly feeling dangerously small. “I felt safer staying,” she says, her breath hitching just once before she finishes. “With you.”
The air in my lungs stalls.
The thought settles in my chest before I can stop it, easing something tight and restless there. Relief, sharp and unwelcome. I tell myself it’s practical — easier to keep an eye on her, safer for everyone if she doesn’t move around alone. That’s all it is. Logistics.
She said she feels safe here. With me.
The words shouldn’t matter as much as they do, but they sit warm and solid in my ribs, grounding in a way I don’t expect. I’ve spent most of my life being the thing people brace against, not the place they rest. Knowing she chose this — chose me, even if she didn’t mean it like that — does something quiet and dangerous to my chest.
I don’t get a say either way. If she wanted to leave, to go back to campus, to go with Rasmus and step back into a life that makes sense on paper, I wouldn’t have had the right to stop her.
Still.
The image of her walking away with him doesn’t sit right. Not because I want her — that’s not it. It’s because he represents normal. Distance. An exit I can’t follow. And the idea of her choosing that, of choosing someone who doesn’t live in the shadows I do, lands like a dull ache I don’t have a name for.
I don’t own her.
I don’t even know what this is yet.
I just know that her saying she feels safe with me lingers longer than it should — and I shove that realization back down where it belongs.
She turns back toward the cliffs, exhaling softly. “It’s beautiful.”
The coast stretches out in front of us, cliffs dropping sharply into dark water far below. Moonlight spills across the waves, turning them silver as they crash against stone. Untouched. Wild. Honest. Like the land doesn’t care who you are — only whether you can keep up.
“Figured you could use something that doesn’t ask anything from you,” I say.
She turns toward me, studying my face like she’s memorizing it. “You bring everyone here?”
“No.”
That earns a small smile.
We lean back against the bike, the metal ticking softly as it cools behind us. The night air is crisp, carrying salt and wind, the distant crash of water far below. She’s close enough that our arms brush when one of us shifts, close enough that I’m aware of her without trying to be.
The silence between us is easy. Not empty.
She’s the one who breaks it.
“So,” she says, glancing sideways at me. “The club.”
I wait, letting her choose the question.
“Not the illegal shit,” she adds quickly, a corner of her mouth lifting. “I get that part’s off-limits. I mean… the structure. The people. What it actually means to wear the patch.”
I nod. “It’s family,” I say simply. “Not the kind you’re born into, but the kind you choose.” I pause, watching her face. “And once you’re in, you’re all in. No sidelines. No part-time.”
My jaw tightens just a fraction. “People don’t leave. They’re carried out.”
She hums, absorbing that. “And you?”
“I grew up here,” I tell her. “Clubhouse was my second home before I could ride. My father was prez before me.”
Her head turns fully toward me. “That must’ve been… a lot.”
“It was normal,” I shrug. “Until it wasn’t.”
“He didn’t step down willingly,” I add after a beat. “Health forced his hand. Club voted me in after.”
“And he was okay with that?” she asks, genuinely curious.
“He watches,” I say. “Offers advice when I ask. Lets me make my own mistakes.”
A few moments later I add “My parents are still disgustingly in love. Always have been.”
She smiles at that, soft and unguarded. “That’s… actually nice.”
“It is,” I agree. The words settle heavier than I expect. “I want that. Someday.”
I don’t say with you. I don’t have to. The thought’s already there, fully formed, landing too fast for comfort. Lex feels like something I’ve been circling without knowing how to name it.
She’s quiet for a moment, then shifts, pulling her knees closer.
“My parents are… different,” she says. “Not cruel. Just distant, functional. We coexist more than connect.”
“They didn’t fight you on leaving?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “They knew there was nothing for me there. No future. No space to become my own person.”
“And you left.”
“I left,” she confirms. “Everyone thought I was brave. Or reckless.” A faint smile. “Maybe both. Especially my best friend.”
She hesitates, fingers worrying at the seam of her sleeve.
“We grew up together. She’s a couple years older but we went to the same school.” she adds. “Same everything.” Her voice softens. “She stayed.”
She tells me about Denmark then. About how badly she wanted to study abroad, how it felt like finally stepping into her own life. How she loved it there — the independence, the structure, the feeling of belonging somewhere on her own terms.
“All of it,” she says softly, “except for the cheating ex.”
I snort. “There’s always one.”
She laughs, then sobers. “I probably wouldn’t even be here if that hadn’t happened.”
Her gaze lifts to mine, steady and searching. “Maybe it’s not that bad being here after all. All things considered.”
For a second, I think about kissing her.
I shift closer instead, close enough that I can feel her warmth, close enough that her breath ghosts over my mouth when she exhales. My hand lifts, hovering at her waist.
She doesn’t move away.
I don’t do it.
Instead, I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, slow and deliberate, letting my knuckles brush her cheek. Her skin is warm under my touch, and the way she stills tells me she feels it too.
The moment stretches, unspoken and loaded.
Hours pass without either of us keeping track. The cold creeps in slowly, chased away by shared warmth and low voices. By proximity. By things not said.
When we finally ride back, the sky is lightening at the edges, dawn bleeding in soft and gray. She’s quieter now, tired in a way that feels safe instead of brittle.
The clubhouse is waking when we return. Engines rumble in the lot. A couple of bikes I don’t recognize are parked near the entrance, unfamiliar plates catching the early light.
New arrivals.
I shut the engine off and scan the scene automatically. A group of men stands near the door, voices low, posture wrong. Not family.
Business.
Lex slides off the bike behind me, helmet still in her hands. She doesn’t notice them yet.
I do.
And I don’t like the timing.