Page 19 of Goose's Wren

We all start our engines at the same time.The sound vibrates in the air around us as we head back down the driveway.I follow behind Goose while the twins are behind me.And for the first time in a long time...I feel like I can breathe.

The road to Wolf’s Ridge winds like a ribbon through the trees, the headlights casting long shadows that sway with the breeze.

The farther we drive, the quieter the world becomes until the silence settles in my bones and feels something like peace.

The scent of night air is earthy and clean.Nothing like the rank staleness of the trailer I’ve been surviving in.

When we finally pull into the gravel drive, our bike tires crunch to a stop in front of a small log cabin nestled deep in the woods.

There’s no sign of the other cabins, though I know they’re out here along this stretch of road tucked away like little secrets only the club knows how to find.A porch light glows amber, softening the edges of the dark.

It feels like another world.

Goose kills his engine, kicking out his kickstand.I follow slowly, nerves coiling in my gut as we both make our way to the front door.My heart’s pounding again, though for once it’s not out of fear, just uncertainty.

He grabs my bag without asking, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and leads the way up the steps.

The porch creaks under our boots, but it’s a welcoming kind of sound.Like it belongs to something old and trusted.

He unlocks the door and holds it open until I walk in ahead of him.

Warmth hits me immediately.Literal heat, from the small stove tucked into the corner, and something else too.

The inside of the cabin smells like cedar wood and worn leather, with a faint trace of smoke with motor oil that clings to Goose no matter where he goes.

There’s a well-worn couch against one wall, a few throw pillows scattered on it.A flannel blanket draped over the arm.Books stacked beside the TV.

A few framed photos hang crookedly on the walls of him and the guys, him on a bike, one of him and Timber at some outdoor cookout.

It’s a man’s space, sure, but not cold or empty.It feels lived in.

“Spare bedroom’s yours,” Goose says quietly, nodding toward a hallway off to the right.

That’s all he says.No fanfare.No awkward questions.No ‘are you okay’ pity I’m too raw to handle.

I walk down the hall, past a bathroom with a clean white towel folded neatly on the sink, and stop at the open door.

The room’s small, just a full-sized bed with gray flannel sheets, a wooden dresser, and a window that looks out into the dark.Moonlight filters through the glass, laying silver streaks across the floor.

I stand there for a long moment, my hand still wrapped around the strap of my bag, not quite crossing the threshold.

The last place I slept was on a blanket on the floor, a space I had to guard like a dog guarding a bone.No door to shut.No real walls.Just threats and silence.

This room...It's quiet in a different way.

It smells clean.The sheets are fresh.There’s no mold in the corners, no damp rot clinging to the drywall.There’s no bloodstain on the floor from the last time someone got too angry.

I take a shaky breath.This shouldn’t feel foreign, but it does.

Goose lingers behind me in the hallway, arms crossed, watching me the same way you’d watch a wounded animal; calm, still, giving me space.

“I don’t know what to say,” I murmur without turning around.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replies.His voice is low and even.“You’re safe here.”

Safe.

The word lands in my chest like a weighted blanket.Too heavy and too kind all at once.I blink fast, jaw tight.I don’t cry anymore, not when it counts, anyway.But something about hearing those words, from him, in this quiet cabin tucked away from the world...

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