I pull past him and park next to a Harley that does, in fact, need a wash, and text him.
I'm outside.
Thirty seconds later, he's at the door. Black t-shirt, sweats, bare feet. Hair pushed back like he's been running his fingers through it.
He looks at me and his face does something different. Not alarm. Assessment.
"Hey." He holds the door open, one arm braced against the frame. "You okay?"
"No." The word comes out before I can dress it up. Naked and shaking and more honest than I've been with anyone in months.
He doesn't ask what's wrong. Doesn't probe. Doesn't fill the silence with questions I'm not ready to answer.
He steps aside and lets me in.
His room is small. Bed, desk, lamp. A laptop open on the desk, lines of data on the screen. Boots by the door.
The room smells like him—clean, warm, and grounding—but all I can feel is the suffocating weight of the dread that’s been clawing at my chest since six this morning.
I’m a frayed wire, sparking and desperate, and he’s theonlything keeping me from snapping completely.
When I collide with him, it isn’t a gentle embrace—it’s a crash.
I press myself against him, needing to feel the solid, unwavering heat of his body to drown out the cold void inside me.
I need to feel something other than the panic.
He catches me instantly, his large palms sliding firmly over my waist and lower back, hauling me flush against him.
I kiss him with a starving kind of urgency, my mouth searching, demanding.
He doesn't flinch. He doesn't hesitate.
He meets my desperation with a fierce intensity of his own, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes my head spin.
The sheer relief of being held by someone who can handle the storm inside me makes my eyes sting, a sob catching in my throat that transforms into a moan.
My fingers scramble, frantic and clumsy, digging into the hem of his shirt.
I yank it upward, needing the barrier gone.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to whip the fabric over his head, revealing a chest that is lean and defined.
I gasp, my palms slamming against his warm skin, feeling the heavy, thudding gallop of his heart beneath his ribs.
It matches my own—a frantic, synchronized drumming.
He moves to my flannel buttons. He’s slow, deliberate, while my hands are still shaking from grabbing at him.
Every button he undoes feels like a question, a silent check-in to make sure I’m still with him.
I answer by arching my back, pressing my chest harder against him, my breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches.
The flannel slides off my shoulders, and my tank top follows, leaving me exposed to the cool air of the room and the searing heat of his gaze.
His mouth drops to my neck, his lips grazing the hollow of my throat.
He finds the spot just below my ear where my pulse is hammering wildly against the skin.