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Taking a breath, Truck approached slowly, deliberately. Hemlock had a way of disappearing when things got too heavy, like a shadow slipping through your fingers, and Truck wasn’t about to rush in like a bull. He needed to handle this with care—like he was approaching a feral cat that might bolt at the slightest wrong move.

“Hemlock.” The word was calm, low, but there was a rough edge to it, a mix of concern and anger that Truck couldn’t hide. His gaze tracked the younger man carefully, watching for any shift in his posture, any sign he was about to react.

Hemlock didn’t look up right away. The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until finally, after what felt like an eternity, Hemlock lifted his head. His eyes, sunken and tired, met Truck’s, but there was no apology in them. No explanation. Just that same distant look that said he wasn’t ready to talk.

Truck took another step forward, but this time, his voice was firmer. “What the hell, kid? Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you—worriedsick.”

Hemlock didn’t move; he was more embarrassed than anything. Hemlock’s lips twitched, but he didn’t respond immediately. He just sat there, shoulders tight, like he was trying to hold everything in.“I fixed the door.”

“I’m not fucking worried about that door, Truck said, stepping closer to Hemlock.

“I hate you right now,” Hemlock muttered, his voice thick with a sadness.

The sound of Hemlock’s words made Truck’s chest tighten. The words cut deeper than they should have, especially coming from the kid. The kind of words that made you feel like you’d failed them somehow, even when you didn’t know what you’d done wrong.

Truck took a steadying breath, fighting the instinct to snap back. It wasn’t the kid’s fault. Not entirely, anyway. He hated the hurt in Hemlock’s voice, the way it sounded like all the trust he’d built between them was crumbling. He hated that Hemlock had let all the crap Razor had filled his head with take root.

“Don’t. You read the room wrong. My question is why. Why would you ever think, me of all people… Why would I hurt you?”

Hemlock didn’t answer right away. He just stared straight ahead, picking at the edge of his jeans like he could avoid the question entirely. Truck could see it in his posture, though—the way his shoulders were tight, like he was holding something back. It wasn’t just about the misunderstanding. It was more than that.

Truck kept his voice level, trying to keep the conversation calm. “You know me better than that, kid. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Not like that.”

Hemlock wanted to believe Truck and Charlie hadn’t been together. Why couldn’t he? He opened his mouth, then closed it again, like he wasn’t sure what to say. “It looked...,” he began, but his words trailed off, the doubt thick in the air between them.

Truck’s brow furrowed. “What? That we’d been screwing?”

Hemlock nodded, barely a twitch in the affirmative. His face was like a storm cloud, the confusion, hurt, and frustration written all over him. “Yeah.”

Truck’s mouth twitched. He couldn’t help it—he needed to break the tension, if only a little. “I’m a stud but even I don’t work up that kinda sweat.”

When Hemlock didn’t react, Truck took a deep breath, sat down on the steps next to him, his legs stretching out in front of him, trying to give Hemlock some space while still being close enough to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

For a long moment, the only sound between them was the soft rustling of the evening breeze.

Finally, Truck spoke again, his voice gentler this time, laced with a kind of weary affection. “I’d been working out in the garage. And Charlie—well, she’d been swimming. She had a bathing suit on under that towel, son.”

He glanced at Hemlock to gauge his reaction. When the younger man didn’t say anything, didn’t even flinch, Truck kept talking, trying to clear the air.

“Look,” he went on, the frustration now fading to exhaustion, “I get it. It looked bad. But I promise you, nothing’s going on between me and Charlie. Not in the way you think.”

Hemlock shifted, still not looking at him directly, but there was a subtle softening in his posture. As if maybe the weight of his own assumptions was beginning to crack a little.

“I just…” Hemlock finally muttered, but he couldn’t finish. Whatever was on his mind, it was stuck.

Truck leaned forward and looked at Hemlock’s face and saw his eyes were glassy from unshed tears. The kid had a childhood that just kept on giving when it came to abandonment issues. “Emile, look at me.”

Hearing Truck use his real name had Hemlock glancing at his brother.

Truck’s heart pounded in his chest, a relentless thumping that felt like it might break through his ribs. The moment that had haunted him for days—the fear—hit him full force in the chest, more visceral than anything he had expected. He hadn’t realized just how scared he was that Hemlock might’ve taken things too far—that he might have done something stupid.

That maybe, just maybe, the kid—his damnbrother—wasn’t as okay as he pretended to be.

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, raw and real, “I won’t ever leave you. I won’t ever abandon you. Not for the club. Not for some piece of ass. Not for anything. You’re the closest thing I’ve got to a sibling or a damn kid.”

Hemlock didn’t react right away, his eyes were back and fixed on the concrete steps beneath him, scraping the toe of his boot against the rough surface. His voice was small, almost hesitant, when he spoke, “Sounds weird when you put it like that.”

Truck blinked, surprised by the response. He hadn’t thought about it that way, hadn’t realized how his words might sound. The truth was, Hemlock was more than just a kid to him—he was family.Realfamily. And for all the times the club had come first, for all the shit they’d been through, Hemlock was the one person Truck would never turn his back on.