Chapter 22 Stud
Twenty-Two
Stud
I always thought “domestic” was a dirty word.
Not because I hated it.
Because it wasn’t meant for men like me.
Men who bury their wives too young.
Men who raise their daughters half in a garage and half in a motorcycle clubhouse.
Men who sleep better with something dangerous within reach.
Men who live with the knowledge that everything they care about can be stolen in a heartbeat.
I learned a long time ago:
Comfort is a trap.
Softness is a weakness.
Home is something you have to constantly defend or lose.
And then Holley happens to me.
Not all at once.
Not with fireworks or lightning bolts.
But slowly—like someone opening a window in a room I didn’t realize I’d sealed shut.
And now, three weeks after the kidnapping, I’m looking around my kitchen at eight in the morning watching her stand barefoot in one of my old t-shirts, hair up in a messy bun, humming some song I don’t know while she makes coffe …and I’m ruined.
Absolutely done for.
She opens a cabinet and frowns. “Tony? Why are your mugs on the top shelf? How tall do you think you are?”
“Tall enough,” I mutter, because that’s easier than saying, They’re up there because I don’t use them unless someone I care about is here, and that’s only been Tiffany and the occasional biker I’m too annoyed to tell to go home.
Holley gets on her toes trying to reach one.
I take exactly two steps and pluck it down for her.
She pretends not to notice how close I stand.
I pretend not to notice how good she smells—like soap and warm skin and the lingering hint of my sheets.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling over her shoulder.
My heart does something stupid in my chest.
I cover it with a grunt and go sit at the table before she notices.
But she does notice. She always notices.
She sets the mug down, pours coffee, and then carries two plates of eggs and toast over like it’s normal. Like she’s done it for years. Like this is her kitchen too.
And maybe that’s the part messing with my head the most.
It feels right.
It feels like something I want.
And that scares the hell out of me.
She slides into the seat next to mine—not across, not at a polite distance, but close enough that our knees touch.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Fine.”
She gives me a look that says: stop lying.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, slower, because that’s the version of the truth I’m willing to give.
She takes a bite of toast, watches me silently for a moment, then says, “You’re doing that thing where you stare at the table like it offended you.”
“The table’s innocent,” I say.
She bumps her leg against mine. “Then tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Nothing.”
“Tony.”
I sigh, run a hand through my hair. “I’m adjusting.”
Her brow lifts. “To what?”
I gesture vaguely around the kitchen. “This.”
She blinks. “A kitchen?”
“No,” I say. “You. In it.”
Her cheeks warm.
I keep going because hell, if I stop now I’ll chicken out.
“I’ve been on my own a long time. Even when Tiffany lived here, she was grown, in and out, living her own life. I didn’t share space. Didn’t want to. Didn’t need to.”
Holley sets her fork down, watching me carefully.
“And now,” I admit, “you’re here. Your toothbrush is in my bathroom. Your bag is on my dresser. Your hum is in my walls. And I don’t hate it.”
Her lips soften. “That’s… good?”
“Yeah,” I say roughly. “That’s what scares me.”
She leans closer, hand brushing mine. “Tony, wanting someone in your space doesn’t make you weak.”
“It does to men like me,” I say. “Or it used to.”
She squeezes my fingers once, light, like she’s offering a rope but letting me choose if I grab it.
“Well,” she murmurs, “maybe men like you deserve something soft too.”
I swallow hard.
Before I can answer, someone knocks.
Hard.
I already know who it is.
Smoke.
He doesn’t bother waiting for permission. He jogs in like he owns the place, tosses his keys onto my counter, and reaches for a cup.
Holley stands, already moving to help. “Tiff said you like yours black—”
“Sweetheart,” Smoke says, holding up a hand, “I’m capable of pouring my own damn coffee.”
I glare at him. “Then pour it and leave.”
He smirks. “Jealous, old man?”
“Not old. Not jealous.”
Holley bites back a smile.
Smoke strolls over to the table with his cup. “Tiff says you two are playing house.”
“We are not playing anything,” I growl.
Holley goes very still beside me.
Smoke tilts his head. “Look, it’s not my business—”
“Good,” I interrupt. “Then stop making it your business.”
“But you look happy,” he finishes.
I freeze.
Holley glances at me.
Smoke shrugs. “Tiff says she hasn’t seen you like this since before her mom died. Says you’re softer.”
“Get out of my kitchen,” I say immediately.
“Uh-huh,” he says, completely ignoring me. “So that’s a yes.”
Holley laughs, trying to hide it behind her coffee mug.
I glare at both of them.
Smoke drains his cup, sets it in the sink, and points a finger at me. “Soft looks good on you.”
“Leave,” I growl.
He leaves.
Holley bursts into quiet laughter once the door shuts.
I look at her sideways. “You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
I shake my head, but I can’t stop the tiny smirk tugging at my mouth.
She reaches across the table and traces a line along my forearm, just her fingertip, barely touching me.
“You are softer,” she says gently.
“I’m not,” I start to argue, but she gives me that look—the one that sees through bullshit the way headlights cut through fog.
I exhale.
“Okay,” I admit. “Maybe I am.”
She moves to sit in my lap without asking, without hesitation, and my arms circle around her instinctively. Like my body moves faster than my brain.
She cups my face. “You’re soft with me, Tony. Not with everyone else. That’s not weakness. That’s choosing who you let close.”
My throat tightens.
I rest my forehead against her shoulder. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Yes, you do,” she whispers, stroking the back of my head. “You’re already doing it.”
“I still don’t want marriage,” I warn.
“I didn’t ask you to marry me.”
“And I don’t want you losing independence.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I’m not giving it up.”
“And I don’t want to cage you.”
“You’re not.”
“But I want you close,” I say, voice cracking slightly. “And that makes me feel—”
“Human?”
I huff. “Weak.”
“Human,” she repeats, kissing my temple.
I close my eyes.
She shifts slightly, straddling my thighs, hands sliding up to my jaw. “You don’t have to be hard all the time.”
“I don’t know how not to be.”
“That’s okay,” she murmurs. “Let me help you learn.”
A pulse of something warm and overwhelming hits me square in the chest.
I’m jealous.
I’m domestic.
I’m soft.
And not one ounce of it feels wrong.
I grip her hips gently. “I want you to stay here tonight.”
“I was planning on it.”
“And tomorrow night.”
She smiles. “Probably.”
“And most nights.”
Her smile widens. “I like most.”
“But,” I add, “I don’t expect you to move in.”
“I know.”
“But I want you here anyway.”
Her eyes soften. “I’m here, Tony.”
“And if one day,” I say, “you want your own house nearby, or your own space, or whatever you need—I’ll help you build it.”
She kisses me.
Slow.
Soft.
Certain.
When she pulls back, she whispers, “You’re not losing me.”
The breath leaves my lungs.
She lays her head on my shoulder, and I wrap my arms around her, letting her weight settle into mine.
I never thought I’d get another chance at something that feels like a life.
Not just survival.
Not just routine.
But a life that opens its doors every morning with someone humming softly in my kitchen.
I don’t know where we’re going.
I just know I want to go there with her.
And for the first time in years, maybe decades, I let myself imagine something more than loss.
Something good.
Something mine.
Something ours.