The liquor store sits at the corner like it’s waiting for me.
Neon hums behind the glass, rows of bottles glowing under fluorescent light. I stand there longer than I should, watching my reflection layered over the shelves. My eyes look too wide. My mouth is too tight.
One drink wouldn’t undo everything.
It would just quiet it.
“Syv.” Tiny’s voice carries across the street, steady and low.
I don’t turn right away. I can’t. When I finally do, he’s leaning against his bike, helmet in one hand, watching me with an expression that isn’t angry and isn’t soft, either. It’s something in between.
“How’d you know?” I ask.
He nods toward Peanut sitting in the saddlebag, tail flicking. “Snitch.”
A small laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and for a second, the craving loosens its grip.
He crosses the street slowly, not crowding me, not grabbing my arm. “Come on,” he says. “Ride with me.”
“I’m fine.”
He glances at the liquor store, then back at me. “You’re standing outside a relapse.”
The words aren’t harsh. They’re simply true.
“I just needed air.”
“Then we’ll find some that doesn’t come in a bottle.”
I want to tell him to go to hell, that I don’t need saving, but that low, patient rumble in his voice breaks me. I take the helmetfrom his hand before I can change my mind, secure it under my chin, and climb onto the bike behind him.
The engine starts, and the vibration settles into my bones as I wrap my arms around Tiny’s waist. The wind tears at my hair, cooling the heat under my skin. By the time we pull into a diner near the docks, my hands have stopped shaking.
Inside, the smell of coffee and grease wraps around us. We slide into a booth in the back, and the waitress calls him sweetheart, as if she’s done it a hundred times before.
He waits until we’re alone again before asking. “How long has it been?”
“Since what?”
“You know what.”
“Seven months,” I say, staring at the chipped mug. “Feels longer on some days. Feels shorter on others.” Tiny nods slowly, eyes fixed on the window. “You ever feel like you’re just pretending to be okay so others think you’re fine?” I ask.
“Every damn day.” Tiny answers without hesitation.
I smile faintly, feeling small and sad. “You hide it well.”
He shrugs. “Practice.”
We fall silent again. I trace the condensation on my glass, listening to the clatter of dishes and the low murmur of the night crew. Then I ask the question that’s been haunting me since the day I met him.
“Why me?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Tiny’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“You could’ve left me where I was. The club didn’t owe me anything.”
Tiny leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. “Maybe I saw something worth staying for.”