Page 48 of Wings
"There's this Italian place across town. Quiet, intimate. They make their pasta fresh." The light turned green, and we were moving again. "Want to see you in a pretty dress, hold your hand over candlelight. Court you proper, like you deserve."
Court me. Like I was worth the effort, worth the romance. My eyes burned with sudden tears that I blamed on the wind.
"I don't know," I said into his ear. "Being out there, where people might see . . ."
"I'll keep you safe," he promised immediately. "Anyone tries to bother you, they go through me. But Ki, we can't hide forever. Part of being mine means the world gets to know it."
He was right. I knew he was right. Hiding felt safe, but it also felt like letting Alex still control my life. Like giving him power he didn't deserve.
"When?" I asked, decision made.
"Tonight, if you're up for it. Give you time to sleep first, then I pick you up at seven?"
"Okay," I whispered, then louder, "Yes. I'd like that."
His hand found mine briefly where it rested on his stomach, squeezing. "That's my brave girl."
The rest of the ride passed in a blur of sensation—wind and warmth and the steady thrum of the engine. By the time we pulled into the clubhouse lot, exhaustion was winning over anxiety. He helped me off the bike, steadying me when my legs wobbled.
"Bed," he ordered, steering me toward the entrance. "Sleep until at least two. Then we'll figure out what you're wearing tonight."
"Bossy," I mumbled, but I was already leaning into him, letting him guide me.
"That's Daddy's job," he said, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Being bossy about taking care of you."
Inside, the clubhouse was quiet—too early for most of the members, too late for the real night owls. He walked me to my room, not the nursery but the regular bedroom I'd been assigned when I first arrived. At the door, he cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone.
"Sleep well, baby girl. Dream of pasta and candlelight."
"And you," I added sleepily.
His smile was soft, private, just for me. "And me."
Two PM came too soon, consciousness returning in slow waves like tide creeping up sand. Not long until Gabe would pick me up for our date. Our real date. In public. Where people would see us together and know I belonged to him.
The butterfly collar shifted against my throat as I sat up, a gentle reminder that centered me immediately. Right. I was his. He would keep me safe. All I had to do was trust him—something that got easier every day but still required conscious choice.
I padded down the hall to the nursery, needing the comfort of that space while I figured out what to wear. The fairy lights were on—Gabe must have come in while I slept—casting everything in that dreamy glow that made the room feel separate from reality. My safe space. Our safe space.
The closet door stood open, revealing more clothes than I'd ever owned at once. Gabe had been adding things gradually—a dress here, a soft sweater there, always in colors that made me feel pretty. Nothing harsh or severe like the armor I'd worn for three years. These clothes were for a girl who was allowed to be soft.
But standing there in my sleep shorts and one of Gabe's t-shirts I'd stolen, I felt paralyzed by choice. The red dress was beautiful but felt too bold for a first public date. The floral one might be too casual. The black one was sophisticated but reminded me too much of the person I'd pretended to be—controlled, distant, untouchable.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, pulling out hangers at random. "It's just dinner. Just picking something to wear. Normal people do this every day."
But I hadn't been normal people in so long. I'd been surviving-people. Hide-in-plain-sight people. Don't-draw-attention people. The idea of dressing to be seen, to be admired, to belong to someone publicly—my hands shook as I held up another option.
"Having trouble, baby girl?"
I spun to find Gabe in the doorway, hip cocked against the frame, watching me with that particular blend of amusementand affection that made my insides go liquid. He'd changed into dark jeans and a button-down that probably cost more than my old work wardrobe combined. The sleeves were rolled up, showing forearms that made my mouth water.
"I don't know what to wear," I admitted, gesturing helplessly at the chaos I'd created. "Everything feels wrong."
He pushed off the doorframe, moving into the room with that deliberate grace. Not rushing, just steady. Sure. He stopped at the closet, fingers trailing over fabric as he considered.
"What feels wrong about them?" he asked, pulling out the red dress I'd rejected.
"Too much," I said immediately. "Too look-at-me."
