Page 11 of Clay

Chapter 5

Dylan

I lick my lips and smile. It feels good. In fact, it feelsgreat.

The diner hums with a cheerful buzz as Clay and I finish our breakfast, the clatter of plates and the murmur of voices filling the air.

Sunlight streams through the big windows, painting the checkered floor in warm gold, and the smell of coffee and bacon lingers, mingling with the faint sweetness of syrup.

It’s busy this morning—families crammed into booths with kids scribbling on placemats, old-timers at the counter swapping gossip over their third refills, a couple of truckers hunched over hashbrowns in the corner.

Jenny weaves through it all, her tray loaded with steaming mugs and plates of pancakes, flashing smiles like she’s the unofficial mayor of Willow Creek.

There’s a good vibe here, a small-town rhythm that’s easy and familiar, the kind of morning where everyone’s just happy to be awake and fed.

I sip the last of my coffee, the mug warm against my palms, and glance across the table at Clay. He’s scraping the last bite of eggs off his plate, his broad shoulders relaxed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he catches me watching.

It’s been… nice. Really nice.

We’ve talked about nothing and everything—how the hardware store’s still got that same rusty sign out front, how the river’s running high this spring, how Mrs. Carter still yells at kids cutting through her yard.

It’s light, easy, like slipping back into an old pair of jeans that still fit just right.

For a little while, it feels like the good old days—back when we were nineteen and twenty-one, stealing moments between his shifts at the garage and my summer job at the library, when the world was ours and nothing could touch us.

“More coffee?” Clay asks, nodding at my empty mug, his voice low and rough in that way that sends a shiver down my spine.

I shake my head, smiling. “Nah, I’m good. Three’s my limit, or I’ll be bouncing off the walls.”

Clay chuckles, a sound that’s warm and deep, and leans back in the booth, stretching his arms along the top of the seat. His leather jacket creaks, and I can’t help but notice how it hugs his frame, how the years have filled him out in all the right ways.

He’s still Clay—messy hair, sharp green eyes, that cocky edge—but there’s a weight to him now, a hardness I didn’t see back then. It’s not just prison, though that’s part of it. It’s the life he’s chosen, the Wolf Riders MC, the kind of world I only glimpsed before he went away.

And that’s where my mind snags.

As good as this feels—sitting here, laughing over dumb stories—this isn’t just a cute breakfast date.

Clay isn’t some guy with a nine-to-five and a picket fence in his future. He’s a biker, a member of a club that lives on the edge, where fights and shady deals are as normal as breathing.

I saw the bruise on his jaw, the way his knuckles are scuffed, and I know it’s not from some barroom scuffle over a spilled drink. He’s in deep, and I don’t know if that’s something I can handle.

I left the city to get away from chaos, to find peace and write my novel, not to dive into a life that’s all adrenaline and risk.

Could I ever get on board with that? Be the boy waiting at home while he’s out doing God-knows-what with the Riders?

It’s a dilemma, a knot I can’t untangle, and it sits heavy in my chest even as I smile at him across the table.

Jenny swings by with the check, and we split it—Clay tries to pay, but I shove a ten at him, insisting. “I’m not broke yet,” I say, and he responds with a grin that reminds me of how it used to be between us back in the day.

Clay was my Daddy then, and always knew when to let his boy have his way.

We slide out of the booth, weaving through the crowd, and step outside into the crisp morning air. The parking lot’s alive with the crunch of gravel and the rumble of engines as people come and go, and then I see it—his Harley, parked near the edge, all black and chrome, gleaming in the sunlight like it’s daring me to look away.

A surge of adrenaline hits me, sharp and sudden, stealing my breath.

That bike—it’s not just a machine.

It’s a memory, a thousand nights of tearing through the backroads with my arms around his waist, the wind screaming past us, the world a blur of freedom and danger.

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