Page 94 of Coming In Hot
I snort. “She’d never forgive you.”
“She’d run me over again.”
“She absolutely would.”
There’s a beat, and then I reach for his hand. Not because I have to—but because I want to. Because this—him—feels like the part I’ve been missing.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just laces our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And in this quiet, golden light, with his hand in mine and the promise of home waiting on the other side of goodbye, I finally feel like I don’t have to choose between the parts of me anymore.
Maybe I get to have it all.
EPILOGUE
PHARO
One YearLater
The shop smells like engine oil and old leather and something sweeter—coffee, probably, or the lingering scent of Jax’s cologne.
Sunlight cuts through the wall of windows, dust motes dancing in the golden haze as Stiles curses gently under his breath over a stubborn carburetor across the room. I’ve been busy all day, I haven’t even stopped for lunch, but Jax stopped by half an hour ago and hasn’t left.
Not that I want him to.
He’s leaning against the workbench now, arms crossed, watching me as I wipe down the vintage tank I’ve been nursing back to life for the last few weeks. It’s a 1968 Triumph Bonneville. Same kind of bike my father rode when he was young and reckless.
I glance up at Jax, and he’s smiling that lazy, fond smile—the one he thinks I don’t see.
“What?” I ask, brushing grease from my hands.
“Nothing,” he says, pushing off the bench to walk over. “Just thinking.”
“That’s always dangerous.”
He hums, stops beside me, eyes on the bike. “You look good like this.”
“Covered in engine oil?”
“Happy,” he says, and his voice goes quiet. “Rooted.”
I peer down, fingers running over the freshly painted tank. There’s a stillness here I didn’t know I craved until I found it. The kind of stillness that lets you breathe all the way to the bottom of your lungs.
“I used to think purpose had to come with a uniform,” I admit.
Jax leans in, resting his chin briefly on my shoulder before kissing the spot just beneath my jaw. “Turns out purpose can smell like gasoline and sound like classic rock.”
We both laugh quietly. Across the shop, Stiles mutters something about “get a room,” but he doesn’t even glance up. He’s used to us by now. The gruff grumbling is just for show.
Jax walks around the bike, trailing his fingers along the seat, the chrome, the bones of it. “You think you’ll keep this one?”
I give a slight tilt of my head. “Yeah. This one’s not for sale.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Sentimental?”
I glance at him, catch the way his eyes soften when they meet mine. “You could say that. It’s the one I was working on the day you finally admitted you were head over boots in love with me.”
“That’s not exactly the way I remember it,” Jax scoffs.
