Page 19 of Clay

“Dylan,” I say, my voice low, rough from exertion. “We need to talk. For real this time.”

Dylan blinks, shifting to sit up a little, the sheet slipping down to his waist.

“Okay,” Dylan says, his tone cautious but steady. “What about?”

“My life,” I start, running a hand through my hair, still damp with sweat. “The club, the shit I do. It’s not just bikes and leather, you know that. There’s a heist coming up—big score, big risk. If it goes wrong, I could end up back in a cell. I’ve been there once, cut you off to keep you out of it, and I don’t wanna drag you through that again. You’ve got this—” I gesture around the room, the cottage, his quiet world—“and I’ve got… this. Me. The Riders. Can you handle what I bring to the table?”

I know this is a big moment. I don’t want to rush Dylan. he deserves more than that. I need to wait until Dylan is ready to speak.

I can see that Dylan is thinking. He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to the quilt, fingers tracing a faded stitch. I hold my breath, waiting, half-expecting him to pull back, to say it’s too much.

But then he looks up, his hazel eyes locking on mine, and there’s a fire there, a resolve I didn’t expect.

“I think I can,” he says, voice firm. “I’ve been thinking about it—since the diner, the forest, all of it. Yeah, your life’s messy, dangerous even, but I’m not the same boy I was at nineteen. I’ve seen some shit, lived some shit. And I still want you, Clay. I want us to have a second chance. As a couple. For real this time.”

His words hit me hard, a punch to the gut I didn’t see coming.

A second chance. For real.

It’s what I’ve wanted since I saw him in that diner, what I’ve been too chickenshit to admit even to myself. I reach out, cupping his face, my thumb brushing his cheek.

“You sure?” I ask, needing to hear it again. “’Cause once we’re in, I’m not half-assing it.”

“I’m sure,” he says, leaning into my touch. “I mean it.”

I nod, a slow grin tugging at my mouth.

“Okay. Then we’re doing this. After the heist tomorrow, the club’s gonna have cash—real cash. One hundred grand, maybe more. Enough that I can dial down the risk, pull back on the crazy shit. We can make this work, Dylan. I’ll make it work.”

He smiles, small but real, and leans in, kissing me soft and quick.

“Good. I’m holding you to that,” Dylan says, his face glowing.

We settle back down, Dylan’s head on my chest again, and I wrap my arm around him, pulling him close.

Dylan’s skin is warm against mine, his breathing slowing as he relaxes, and for a minute, it feels perfect—like we’ve got a shot, like the past doesn’t have to choke us.

But inside, my head’s spinning, doubts gnawing at the edges.

I meant what I said—about the money, about easing off the gas. The heist’s a big score, could set the Riders up nice, let me step back from the front lines. Maybe focus on the garage side of things, legit work to balance the scales.

But I know my brothers—Kreese especially.

One hundred grand’s a hell of a haul, but it’s also a taste, a tease of what’s possible.

They won’t stop there.

They’ll want more—bigger jobs, higher stakes, pushing further into the dark.

This heist might not be the end; it could be the beginning, the spark that lights a fire we can’t control.

And if it goes wrong?

If tomorrow night blows up, if the cops catch wind, I’m back in a cage—orange jumpsuit, concrete walls, three hots and a cot. I survived it once, barely, but doing it again would gut me. Worse, it would guthim.

Dylan is signing up for me, for us, but he doesn’t know the half of it—the late nights, the blood on my hands, the constant hum of danger. I cut him off before to spare him that, and now I’m pulling him back in, promising I can keep it tame.

What if I can’t?

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