Page 83 of Boulder's Weight

I look down at my sketch, surprised to find Boulder's face taking shape on the page—the strong line of his jaw, the intense eyes that see too much.

"I never planned on staying in one place this long," I admit quietly. "Not until my brothers were dealt with."

Oakleigh's brush pauses. "And now?"

"Now I'm not sure what I want," I confess. "Which is scary. Wanting things makes you vulnerable."

"It also makes you human," she counters. "There's more to life than running, Kelsey."

I continue sketching, adding details to Boulder's face—the slight scar above his eyebrow, the crease that forms between his brows when he's thinking, the full lips that so recently were pressed against mine.

"He went to see my brothers," I say after a while. "Confronted them directly."

Oakleigh whistles low. "Ballsy move, especially since Amara didn’t want him doing it in the first place. They were supposed to be running surveillance, not getting up in their faces."

"He was an idiot," I mutter. "I… I like Boulder, but he doesn't know what they're capable of."

"Or maybe he does, and he's showing them he's not afraid," she suggests. "Taking the fight to them instead of waiting."

I haven't thought of it that way.

In my experience, confronting Benji head-on never ends well.

But Boulder isn't me.

He has the club behind him, a strength I never had when facing my family alone.

"He stopped the club from associating me with the Andrés situation," I say, remembering Amara's careful wording yesterday. "Made it clear these are separate issues."

Oakleigh nods. "Smart. Keeps club business separate from personal." She studies me for a moment. "You know, you could be good for him."

"How do you figure that?"

"Boulder's always been the wild one. Talented, loyal to the club, but...unanchored. Since you showed up, he's more focused. More deliberate." She smiles. "Maybe you're his weight."

"His what?"

"His weight," she repeats. "The thing that grounds him. Keeps him from floating away or burning out."

I look down at my drawing, at the face that's become so important to me in such a short time.

Could she be right?

Could I be something meaningful to Boulder rather than just another complication in his life?

As I add the final touches to my sketch, I realize I've created something more than just a likeness.

I've captured something in his eyes—a vulnerability I've only glimpsed in unguarded moments, a depth that goes beyond the cocky prospect image he projects.

For the first time in years, I feel a spark of creativity. And something else, something more dangerous—hope.

"Thank you," I say to Oakleigh, closing the sketchbook. "For this. For the talk."

She smiles, wiping a smudge of paint from her cheek. "Anytime, sister. We ol’ ladies have to stick together."

I don't correct her this time, don't insist that I'm not really Boulder's old lady.

Maybe because I'm starting to wonder if that's what I want to be.

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