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SIX

DIA

"A bear's loyalty mirrors the steadfastness of true friendship." — Unknown

The laughter from the Hellions' party still echoes in my ears as I sit on the edge of the bed, picking at the frayed hem of my hoodie. I’m in one of the crash pads usually reserved for the brothers. They are these duplex type set ups my grandfather had built years ago when he started doing the annual barbecues. Last night, the party was for Clutch. A memorial, a celebration, whatever word makes it feel less raw. They all wore their cuts with pride, toasted their fallen brother, and raised hell like he would’ve wanted. I smiled. I hugged. I thanked everyone for coming. But inside, I felt nothing.

That’s the worst part.

Not the pain. Not the emptiness.

The nothing.

It’s like grief hollowed me out and now I’m a walking shell. Everyone thinks I’m doing okay because I’m upright. Because I shower. Because I fake a smile when people look. But no one sees the numbness under my skin. The way I’ve turned everything off just to survive.

It’s been three weeks since Benji—Clutch—took his last breath. Three weeks since I laid beside him in that hospital bed and told him it was okay to let go. Three weeks since the world made any kind of sense.

How can I exist in a world where I don’t feel anymore?

What I had with Benji was sweet. He was safe to my heart, my life. Everything was about me. How do I move on when no one will ever love me like he did? How do I exist without the person who made me feel like I was on top of the world is gone?

How do I go back to simply being Dia again?

The knock on the door is soft, almost hesitant. Instantly, I look for Skye, my ever-watchful dog, she isn’t here tonight and I have to remember that. Being at the compound, I didn’t bring her. Even though I’ve had her for a few years now, she still hasn’t relaxed around people. Hell, she didn’t even tolerate Benji well some days. She didn’t bite him which is an improvement since she bit my brother once just for coming over. Benji she simply mean-mugged and barked at. As long as he didn’t mind her sleeping between us, they had a mutual understanding of each other. She came first. It is her house and she’s kind enough to let him hang out.

It's funny because with all the people who she literally has to be caged if they stop by, and how she was with Benji, the only person she ever embraced and accepted in her own was is Justin.

In the beginning she barked wildly but he would come in and somehow in moments she calmed down. Over time she stopped even barking at all when he came. I don’t know if it’s because he seemed to be the one always drawing the short straw of ‘Dia Duty’ to pick me up after I went out or what. BW told me once, Justin volunteered to be my keeper so to speak. I don’t know how true it is. But according to my dad he knew Justin and I had a thing long before the man came to him and spoke up.

We don’t talk about it. What happened with me and Justin or the club and how it all came to fall apart.

Maybe we should have.

Maybe we should talk about Benji more.

Except those are these inside pieces of me that feel too raw to share with anyone so I’m thankful they don’t want to talk about either man.

The knock comes again, softly. I don’t move at first. I don’t want company. I don’t want to pretend. It’s why I stayed here instead of going home after last night.

But something in me stirs. Some flicker of curiosity or maybe just habit. I get up, pad barefoot to the door, and open it.

Justin stands on the other side, holding a takeout bag and two drinks. He looks the same and different. His beard’s a little longer. His Hellions hoodie has paint on the sleeves. His eyes meet mine—warm, steady.

"Didn’t know what you were craving, so I went with Thai," he says. "Figured it’s hard to cry into Pad Thai for lunch."

I huff a quiet breath that might be a laugh.

"Can I come in?"

I hesitate, but step aside. He walks in like he’s done it a hundred times before, but with a new kind of caution. Like he knows he’s entering a museum of grief and doesn’t want to knock anything over.

"You didn’t have to?—"

"I wanted to," he says, setting the food on the counter. "And regardless of the past, I’m still your friend. I’m not going anywhere."

That makes something in my chest tighten. Because we do have a past. A long, complicated, beautiful and broken one. And for a moment, I wonder if this is a mistake—letting him in. But then I realize I don’t have the energy to fight him on it. And maybe I don’t want to.

We eat in silence for a while. The food is good, or at least I think it is. I can’t really taste much these days. But I appreciate the warmth of it, the way it fills the quiet between us.

"You’re letting yourself feel it, Dia," he says after a while. "That’s what matters. You don’t have to rush through this."

"It doesn’t feel like I’m feeling it," I murmur. "It feels like I’m dead inside. Like him."

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t offer me a platitude. He just nods.

"I know. I’ve felt that too."

We don’t talk about what we were. Not that night. We don’t talk about how we burned hot and fast once, or how we ended before we really got started. He just stays. And I let him.

A month passes with many evenings just like this one. A quiet dinner with nothing heavy spoken, shared, or felt.

Justin pops in with coffee. With groceries. With a new chew toy for Skye. Sometimes he doesn’t say much. Sometimes he tells me about the shop or the clubhouse or the dumb shit his crew did that day. I start to expect him, even though I never ask him to come. And he never pushes.

He’s just there.

Patient.

And it means more than I can say.

It began after the party and has continued on for the weeks since.

Some nights I cry and he holds me. Other nights we sit on the couch watching shows I don’t remember the next day. He never tries to fix me. He never asks for more.

One night, I find myself thinking back to a time when Justin had shown up for me without hesitation. This was how it started. These moments, he embraced the dumb shit I got myself into, but always he put me back together.

It was years ago, long before things got complicated between us. I was on a date with some guy Maritza set me up with—a banker, clean-cut, all smiles until the drinks kicked in and the charm turned to pressure. He got pushy. Too handsy. I stepped outside under the pretense of taking a call and texted Justin one word:

Help.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t hesitate. Fifteen minutes later, the rumble of his bike cut through the street noise like thunder. He pulled up to the curb, cut the engine, and stalked toward me with murder in his eyes. The guy started mouthing off until Justin got within arm’s reach. Then he backed down fast.

"She’s done with this night. Back off," Justin said, his voice low and dangerous.

He put his helmet on my head before I could say a word and helped me onto the back of his bike. As we took off, the wind whipped away the tension, the fear, the anger. I remember clinging to his back, the scent of leather and pine grounding me.

He didn’t speak until we were on an empty stretch of road, stars blinking above us.

"Let it go, Dia," he shouted over the engine. "Let it all go and just feel."

And I did.

I let the cold night air rip through me, let my heartbeat sync with the hum of his bike, let the adrenaline chase away the shame. When we finally stopped, we sat on a bench in front of where he parked his bike drinking lukewarm coffee, watching headlights pass on the highway not far away.

That night, he didn’t try to fix anything. He didn’t try to talk me down or dig into my pain. He just let me be the mess I was .

Back in the present, my chest aches at the memory. I miss that version of us—the friendship before the fire. The way he could look at me and understand without me having to explain. That’s why Justin has always felt like home.

I don’t know how to feel about him. Because there is this part of me that finds comfort in him.

And that feels all too dangerous to my fragile heart.

It’s storming outside and I wonder if he will come tonight. Rain slams against the windows, thunder cracking like the world’s coming apart. Skye is curled up in her bed but alert. I’m on the floor again, curled into myself, sobbing until I can’t breathe.

Justin shows up without knocking. Just walks in like he’s done every night this week. He takes one look at me and drops to his knees, pulling me into his arms.

"I want to feel alive again," I sob. "I don’t want to be dead like him. I can’t keep living like this."

His hands cradle my face, his forehead against mine. "You’re not dead. You’re grieving. And I’m right here."

I don’t know what comes over me. I kiss him.

It’s desperate. Raw. Messy.

But he kisses me back like I’m something fragile and breakable. Like he wants to take my pain and hold it for me.

The kiss deepens. His hands slide into my hair, then down to my hips. He lifts me without a word and carries me to the bedroom. Our clothes fall away, slow and purposeful.

“You want this to stop, say so darlin’.”

I grab at him firmer, kissing him hard. I can’t speak. I can only fall in line with what my body craves.

Him.

In this moment, I’m not grieving the man who was safe for my heart. No, I’m embracing the passion that wrecked me once and will wreck me again. I can’t help myself. My very soul wants to be connected to him just once more.

When we fall into bed it’s not about sex. It’s not about the past. It’s about now.

About need.

About trying to remember what it feels like to be alive.

His touch is patient. Sweet. Every brush of his mouth on my skin is like a reminder that I still exist. That I still have a body. That I’m still here.

That I’m safe.

I’m always safe with Justin. The world can’t touch me when I’m in his arms. He’s always been my safety net. But what happens when he’s gone again? I shake off the thought. I can’t help myself. I’m a glutton for punishment and I need to be in his arms. I need my body connected to his. I need this feeling. The way he’s always cherished me, honored me.

He moves with me, not against me. And when I come undone, it’s not in pieces but in something whole. Something warm. Something human.

We fall asleep tangled together, his heartbeat steady under my cheek.

Morning comes with golden light through the blinds. My limbs ache in a way I forgot they could. My chest is heavy but not empty.

Justin is still here.

His arms wrapped around me, our bodies close.

I trace a line on his skin, then whisper, "Just like before, nothing changes."

He exhales slowly, his voice quiet. "I know."

I roll away, needing space, needing breath. He lets me. Doesn’t chase. Doesn’t push.

It was just release. A moment. Not a promise.

And yet, for the first time in weeks, I feel the flicker of something that might one day become hope. And that isn’t about Justin.

It’s about me being me once again.