5. Naomi
NAOMI
For the first time in years, things are good.
I have a job — barista at the coffee shop Bella told me about, pouring lattes and making small talk with regulars.
The pay isn’t great, but it’s mine. I earned it.
Nobody handed it to me because of who my brother is.
My manager, a woman named Rosanna who takes absolutely no shit, told me last week that I’m a natural. That customers ask for me by name.
I have an apartment that’s starting to feel like home.
I bought a plant last week — a little succulent that sits on my kitchen windowsill.
It’s the first living thing I’ve been responsible for since I killed a goldfish in the fourth grade, and so far it’s still alive.
Progress. I’ve hung pictures on the walls.
I know which floorboards creak and which drawer sticks. It’s small and cheap and mine.
And I have Shadow.
He shows up most nights after dark. We cook dinner together — or, more accurately, I cook and he watches me with that quiet intensity that used to unnerve me and now just makes me want to climb him like a tree.
We eat. We talk about nothing and everything.
He tells me about prospect life, the shit jobs, the brothers who give him hell.
I tell him about the customers at the coffee shop, the weird orders, the old guy who comes in every Tuesday and tries to flirt with me.
And then we end up in bed, tangled together, learning each other’s bodies until I know every sound he makes, every spot that makes him groan.
He leaves before sunrise. That’s the rule. He slips out while it’s still dark, heads back to the clubhouse, and nobody knows. Nobody suspects.
It’s not sustainable. I know that. We’re playing with fire, building something on a foundation of secrets and lies. Eventually it’s going to blow up in our faces.
But right now, in this moment, I’m happy. Genuinely, stupidly happy in a way I haven’t been since before Vegas. Maybe ever.
Shadow is the best part of my day.
Which is why I notice immediately when something changes.
It’s a Thursday night. He’s been quiet all evening — not his usual quiet, not the comfortable silence we’ve settled into. This is different. Distant. He’s been staring at his plate instead of eating, giving me one-word answers, not meeting my eyes.
“Hey.” I reach across the table and touch his hand. “What’s going on with you?”
He pulls his hand away. Not fast, not aggressive — just a withdrawal. Like he can’t stand to be touched right now.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” I set down my fork. “You’ve been weird all night. Talk to me.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. I watch his jaw work, watch him fight with himself about something I can’t see. When he finally speaks, his voice is flat.
“We need to stop.”
The words don’t make sense at first. “Stop what?”
“This.” He gestures between us. “Us. Whatever this is. It has to stop.”
My stomach drops. “What are you talking about?”
“I can’t do this anymore, Naomi.” He looks at me then, and his eyes are hollow.
Empty in a way I’ve never seen. “The lying. The sneaking around. Every time King looks at me, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
He trusts me. He saved my life. And I’m repaying him by fucking his sister behind his back. ”
“So tell him.” The words come out sharp. Defensive. “If the lying is what’s killing you, then stop lying. Tell King about us.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll kill me.” Shadow’s laugh is bitter and hollow. “Or worse — he’ll look at me like I’m exactly what I was before he found me. A piece of shit who can’t even be trusted. A fuckup who ruins everything good in his life.”
“That’s not—”
“I owe him everything.” His voice cracks. “Everything, Naomi. My life. My future. The patch — the only thing I’ve ever wanted that I might actually deserve. And I’m throwing it all away for—”
He stops. But I hear what he doesn’t say.
For you.
He’s throwing it all away for me. And he’s decided I’m not worth it.
“So that’s it?” I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds. How calm. Like my heart isn’t shattering inside my chest. “You’re choosing the patch over me.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s exactly that simple.” I push back from the table and stand. My legs are shaking but I refuse to let him see. “Tyler chose drugs. You’re choosing the club. I’m the woman men leave when something more important comes along. I get it. I fucking get it.”
“Naomi—”
“Get out.”
“Please, just listen—”
“I said get out.” My voice breaks on the last word, and I hate myself for it. “You made your choice. Now leave.”
He stands. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Going to fight for us, for me, for whatever the hell we’ve been building these past few weeks.
He doesn’t.
He walks to the door, grabs his jacket, and leaves without looking back.
The click of the lock is the loudest sound I’ve ever heard.
I stand in my kitchen, alone, and wait for the tears to come. They don’t. I’m too angry to cry. Too furious at him, at myself, at the universe for confirming what I’ve always known.
I’m not worth choosing. I never have been.
I go to bed, but I can’t sleep.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every word, every moment, every sign I should have seen. He was pulling away for days. Maybe longer. I just didn’t want to see it.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
I finally drift off around two AM, exhausted and empty, my face stiff from tears that came eventually whether I wanted them or not.
I wake to the mattress dipping.
For a moment, I think I’m dreaming. Then I feel the warmth of him behind me, the careful way he slides under the covers, and my whole body goes rigid.
“Naomi.” His voice was rough. Wrecked. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I should tell him to leave. Should scream at him, throw something, make him hurt the way I’ve been hurting for the past four hours.
Instead, I turn over and look at him.
He looks terrible. Eyes red, jaw tight, like he’s been fighting himself the entire way back. His hands are shaking when he reaches for me.
“I got halfway to the clubhouse,” he says, “and I realized I was being a complete fucking idiot. The patch doesn’t mean anything if I lose you. Nothing means anything if I lose you.”
“Shadow—”
“I choose you.” His voice cracks. “I should have said it hours ago. I choose you, Naomi. I’ll figure out the rest. I’ll tell King, I’ll face whatever comes, but I’m not walking away from you again.”
I don’t have words. I just pulled him closer, burying my face against his chest, and he wraps his arms around me so tight it’s hard to breathe. I don’t care. I need this. Need him. Need to feel solid proof that he came back.
We don’t talk after that. There’s nothing left to say — not tonight, not when we’re both exhausted and raw and running on fumes. He holds me, I hold him, and eventually the tension drains out of both of us.
I fall asleep with his heartbeat under my ear and his arms around me.
The sound of the door wakes us both.
I’m disoriented for a second — warm body behind me, unfamiliar noise, middle of the night. Then Shadow goes rigid against my back, fully alert in an instant, and I hear it clearly: voices. Multiple voices. Male, unfamiliar, way too calm for three in the morning.
“Stay here,” Shadow breathes against my ear.
He’s already moving, sliding out of bed silent as a ghost, pulling on his jeans. I grab the baseball bat I keep in the corner — a habit from Vegas, from Tyler’s sketchy associates — and ignore his glare.
“Like hell I’m staying here.”
We move to the bedroom doorway together.
Three men. Standing in my living room like they own the place. Two of them are big — muscle, hired help, the sort of guys who hurt people for money. The third is older, maybe late forties, with gray streaking through his dark hair and eyes that assess the situation with cold calculation.
His gaze lands on Shadow. On me.
“Miss Medina.” His voice is calm. Businesslike. “We need to talk about your boyfriend’s debt.”
“What?” I grip the bat tighter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get the fuck out of my apartment.”
“Tyler Reeves.” The man takes a step closer. “He owes me a significant amount of money. He told me you’d be good for it. Then he disappeared.”
Tyler. Of course it’s Tyler. Even gone, even vanished, he’s still finding ways to ruin my life.
“He’s not my boyfriend anymore. And I don’t know anything about Tyler’s debts. I don’t have any money. He cleaned out my account when he left.”
“That’s unfortunate.” The man’s expression doesn’t change. “But debts don’t disappear just because the debtor does. Someone has to pay.”
“She’s not paying for his mistakes.” Shadow’s voice is flat. Dangerous. “And you’re not touching her.”
The older man raises an eyebrow. “And you are?”
“The guy who’s going to put you through that wall if you take another step toward her.”
One of the muscle guys laughs. “Kid, there’s three of us and one of you.”
“I like those odds.”
Everything happens at once.
The first guy lunges. Shadow meets him halfway, no hesitation, no fear — just violence, fast and brutal. His fist connects with a jaw and the man staggers. The second one is on him immediately, and suddenly there’s a fight happening in my living room.
I swing the bat at the older man when he tries to move past the chaos toward me. He dodges, but it keeps him back. Keeps him from getting close.
Shadow is a blur of motion. Fists and elbows and dirty tricks — he fights like someone who learned on the street, someone who knows there are no rules when your life is on the line.
He takes hits. A fist to the face, another to the ribs.
But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. Just keeps throwing himself at anyone who gets too close to me.
One of them pulls a knife. The blade glints in the dim light from the streetlamp outside.
“Shadow!”
He turns at my voice, and the blade catches him across the ribs. Blood blooms through his shirt — dark, spreading fast — but he doesn’t go down. He grabs the guy’s wrist, twists hard, and something cracks. The knife clatters to the floor. Shadow’s elbow connects with the guy’s temple and he drops.
The other muscle guy is already down, groaning on the floor, not getting back up.
That leaves the older man. He’s watching Shadow with something that might be respect, might be calculation. His two guys are on the ground, and the prospect is still standing, bleeding but ready to go again.
The man reaches into his jacket. I don’t think — I just swing. The bat catches him across the shoulder, hard enough to knock him sideways, and Shadow is on him before he can recover. One punch, two, and the man crumples.
Silence.
Shadow is breathing hard, swaying on his feet. Blood drips from his ribs onto my floor. But he’s still standing. Still between me and the three unconscious men in my living room.
“Extension cords,” I say, my voice shaking. “The drawer by the fridge. And I have zip ties in my junk drawer — leftover from hanging pictures.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“We’re not letting them wake up and walk out of here,” I say. “Tie them up. Then we call King.”
It takes us ten minutes. Shadow’s hands are shaking — blood loss, adrenaline crash, probably both — but we get it done. Three men, wrists and ankles bound, lined up against my living room wall. The older one is starting to stir, groaning, but he’s not going anywhere.
“Bathroom,” I tell Shadow. “Now. You’re bleeding everywhere.”
He doesn’t argue. I push him to sit on the edge of the tub while I dig through my medicine cabinet. Gauze, antiseptic, bandages, butterfly closures I bought months ago and never used. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold anything.
“Take off your shirt. I need to see it.”
He peels the fabric away with a wince. The wound is long but not deep — a diagonal slash across his ribs, still seeping but slowing. The skin around it is already bruising.
“This needs real stitches,” I say.
“Later.”
“Shadow—”
“Later.” His eyes meet mine. “Patch me up enough to stop the bleeding. We’ve got bigger problems right now.”
I do my best. Clean the wound, apply pressure until the bleeding slows, tape gauze over it in layers. My hands shake the whole time. When I’m done, I sit back on my heels and look at him — pale, bleeding through the bandages already, but alive.
“I’m gonna have to call King now.”
“I know. But let me do it. Please.”
Neither of us moves.
“When he gets here,” Shadow says quietly, “he’s going to know. About us. There’s no hiding this.”
“I know.”
“He might—” Shadow stops. Swallows. “I don’t know what he’s going to do.”
“I don’t care.” I take his hand, thread my fingers through his. “You chose me. Whatever comes next, we face it together.”
He pulls me closer, presses his forehead to mine. We stay like that for a long moment, breathing each other’s air, stealing one last second of peace before the storm hits.
Then I pull back, find my phone, and call my brother.
It rings twice before he picks up.
“Naomi?” King’s voice is alert, like he hadn’t even been sleeping. “It’s three in the morning. What’s wrong?”
“I need you to come to my apartment. Now.”
A pause. I hear rustling, movement. “What happened?”
“Three men broke in. They’re — they’re tied up in my living room. Something about Tyler owing money. I don’t — King, just come. Please.”
“I’m on my way.”
He hangs up. I lower the phone and look at Shadow, who’s watching me with that quiet, resigned expression I’m starting to hate.
“He’s coming,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“It’s going to be okay.”
He doesn’t answer. We both know I might be lying.
I help him to his feet and we walk back out to the living room, where three men are still zip-tied against the wall. The older one is fully awake now, watching us with cold eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Smart man.
Shadow lowers himself onto my couch, one hand pressed to his ribs. I sit next to him, close enough that our shoulders touch. Close enough that King will see, the second he walks through that door, exactly what we are to each other.
“You don’t have to sit with me,” Shadow says quietly. “You could — when he gets here, you could say I was just doing the job. Protecting you. Nothing else.”
“No.”
“Naomi—”
“No.” I turn to look at him. “I’m not hiding anymore. I’m not pretending you don’t matter to me. You took a knife for me tonight. You came back for me. If King can’t handle that, then that’s his problem.”
Shadow stares at me for a long moment. Then something in his expression shifts — the resignation giving way to something warmer. Something that looks almost like hope.
“I love you,” he says.
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. Not because they’re unexpected — I think I’ve known for a while now — but because he said them. Out loud. Right before everything might fall apart.
“I love you too,” I whisper.
He takes my hand. Holds on tight.
And we wait.