"Where is he?"
I come out. Vaughn's standing by our table in full leather — jacket, boots, the whole outfit — looking like the kind of manthat other men cross the street to avoid. His hair's down from the bun, dark and loose around his jaw, and his eyes are locked on Brett with the flat, assessing gaze of someone deciding exactly how much force the situation requires.
Brett has gone pale. To his credit, he hasn't stood up, which means whatever survival instinct he possesses is functioning correctly.
I cross the restaurant and Vaughn moves immediately — one step, smooth and certain, putting his body between me and the table. His hand finds the small of my back. Warm. Steady. Not grabbing. Just there.
"We're leaving," Vaughn says to Brett. Not a question. Not a suggestion.
"We're in the middle of dinner," Brett protests, but his voice has lost all its confidence. He reaches toward me and Vaughn catches his wrist — the same way Brett caught mine, except Vaughn's grip makes Brett wince.
"No," Vaughn says. "We're not."
"Robin—"
I press against Vaughn's back, my forehead between his shoulder blades, and I can feel his heartbeat. Slow. Perfectly steady. Mine is hammering and his is calm, and the contrast makes me want to crawl inside his jacket and never come out.
"We're done, Brett."
Vaughn releases Brett's wrist. Holds his gaze for one more second — just long enough to communicate everything that doesn't need words — then turns and walks me out with his hand still on my back.
His bike is parked right out front, angled like he pulled up fast and didn't bother straightening it. He hands me his helmet without a word.
"Where are we going?" he asks once I'm on behind him, my arms locked around his waist, my cheek against his leather jacket.
"Can we just... go?"
"Yeah. Hold on."
We ride for a long time. Out of town, through the winding roads that lead into the hills, the engine thrumming between my thighs and the wind pulling everything tight out of my chest. My arms are around Vaughn's waist — hands laced against his stomach, fingers pressing the warm cotton of his shirt beneath the open jacket — and with each mile the shaking stops a little more.
I don't know where we're going and I don't care. Vaughn drives the way he does everything — controlled, certain, taking the curves with just enough lean that my body has to follow his. I press closer than I need to. He doesn't pull away.
He stops at an overlook above the city. Local kids call it Make Out Point, which I'll never tell him because he'd turn the bike around. Tonight it's empty. Just us and the stars and the distant orange sprawl of the city below.
I slide off the bike and immediately lie down in the grass. The sky is huge up here — dark and dense with stars, the kind of sky you forget exists when you live in a city and work in a kitchen with no windows.
"You okay?" Vaughn stands over me, hands in his jacket pockets.
"Yeah. Just... thanks. For coming."
"He hurt you?"
"No. Wouldn't take no for an answer." I hold up my wrist. In the moonlight, I can just see the faint red marks where Brett's fingers pressed. "This is nothing. I've had worse."
Vaughn crouches beside me. Takes my wrist in both his hands — gently, so gently, like he's handling something fragile — and turns it in the light. His thumb traces the marks. His jaw works.
"Vaughn. It's fine."
"Stop saying that."
"Saying what?"
"That everything's fine. That this is nothing. That you've had worse." His voice is low, rough at the edges. "None of that is fine."
I don't know what to say to that. So I do what I always do when someone gets too close to the truth — I deflect.
"Lie down with me. The stars are incredible up here."