Section 22
The Space Between
Lucky
She didn’t mean to see my face.
That’s the thing that keeps replaying in my head.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no buildup, no moment where she asked or demanded or even looked curious. She just… walked in. And suddenly there I was, barefaced and stupid and standing in a towel like some kind of shampoo commercial mistake.
I’ve spent years making sure that doesn’t happen.
Helmets are useful. People think they’re about intimidation, or mystery, or control.
They’re not.
They’re about not being seen.
Because once someone sees you, they start filling in gaps. They decide what kind of man you are. What you’re capable of. What you deserve.
And I don’t like leaving that up to chance.
When she stared at me, I braced for it—the flicker of disappointment, the recalibration. The oh that usually comes next.
Instead, she insulted me.
Twelve-year-old frat boy.
Honestly? Best possible outcome.
Still, when I pulled the helmet back on afterward, my hands shook a little.
I kept my distance for the rest of the night.
Professional distance. Clean lines. No jokes. No leaning in doorways. No commentary about dogs or mothers or anything that might make her think I expected something.
Because now she knows what I look like.
And I don’t know what that means.
When she told me I didn’t need to take the chair, I almost said no.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because I did.
Too much.
The bed is large. Expensive mattress. I lie on my back, rigid as a corpse with excellent posture, staring at the ceiling.
Gia lies beside me, turned slightly away.
Her breathing evens out faster than mine.
Diablo has wedged himself between us with the smug satisfaction of a creature who believes he has solved intimacy by force.
Good dog.
“Hey, bud, let’s not wake mommy,” I whisper, and discard my helmet and jeans.
It’d be far more appropriate if I had a pair of sweatpants to replace them with, but comfort over decorum.
It’s not like I didn’t notice her bare thighs under the oversized shirt that put all kinds of—nope. Professional distance.
I get under the covers and scoot as far toward the edge as I can without actually ending up on the floor.
If she wakes up and realizes I’m crowding her, I’ve already failed.
I’m hyper-aware of everything—the warmth through the mattress, the faint citrus-something of her shampoo, her soft breathing.
I’ve slept in some pretty bad places.
Foxholes. Trucks. Floors.
This is somehow worse.
Because I want to roll onto my side.
I want to look at her.
But I don’t.
Because she trusted me.
And trust is heavier than any weapon I’ve ever carried.
My back aches. The old injury flares in protest, reminding me that I am not, in fact, indestructible. I breathe through it quietly, careful not to wake her.
At some point, she shifts in her sleep. Just a little.
Her hand brushes Diablo’s side.
Then—barely—the back of her fingers graze my arm.
She doesn’t wake.
I freeze like a criminal caught mid-thought.
The contact lasts less than a second.
It might not even count, seeing how it wasn’t even intentional.
Still, my chest tightens for reasons that have nothing to do with pain.
I count the cracks above me and think, very deliberately, about neutral things.
Pasta strainers.
Pigeons.
The fact that she thinks she can intimidate men twice her size with a look and usually succeeds.
I think about anything except how easily she let me stay.
How she didn’t flinch.
Eventually, exhaustion wins.
Before I drift off, one thought settles heavy and certain in my chest:
She doesn’t know it yet, but she won’t stand alone again.