Page 10

Dylan

“Keep typing, keep typing,” I say, almost breathless with excitement.

I’m hunched over my desk in the study, my fingers dancing across the laptop keys, the words spilling out faster than I can think them.

The room’s a soft cocoon tonight—the fairy lights strung over the bookshelf twinkle like stars, casting a warm glow across the lavender walls and the tiny daisies I painted last fall.

The flowery curtain sways gently at the cracked window, letting in a whisper of cool night air, and the wildflowers in their chipped vase droop a little, their petals curling but still sweetening the air with their earthy scent.

The lavender candle on my desk flickers, its vanilla undertone blending with the quiet, and my coffee mug sits empty, a faint ring of brown staining the inside.

It’s late—well past midnight, the world beyond my cottage hushed except for the occasional chirp of crickets and the rustle of leaves—but I’m wide awake, electric with inspiration.

The novel’s alive again, Chapter Seven unfurling on the screen, and it’s all because of Clay.

He’s my spark, my muse, the flame that’s reignited everything.

Clay was my Daddy before, and I want him to be my Daddy again.

Our second chance—the diner glances, the forest heat, last night tangled in my sheets—has cracked open a well I thought had run dry.

The man in my story isn’t just running from his past anymore; he’s chasing something, someone—a man on a motorcycle with piercing green eyes and a shadowed history that pulls him in.

The words flow fast, sharp and vivid, painting their tension, their longing, the way they collide like magnets too strong to resist.

It’s us—me and Clay—woven into fiction, our rekindled fire bleeding onto the page. I can see him in every line—the leather jacket stretched over his broad shoulders, the messy chestnut hair I’ve always wanted to run my fingers through, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters.

It feels good, damn good, to watch it take shape, to feel the story breathe again.

The deadline’s still months off, but at this pace, I might beat it, might actually pull off this dream I’ve carried since I was a kid.

The panic that’s been clawing at me—the fear of failing my publisher, of wasting my advance—is quiet tonight, drowned by the steady clack of keys and the thrill of creation.

I pause, leaning back in my chair, the wood creaking under me as I stretch my arms overhead.

My eyes drift to the bookshelf, to the worn spines of books that shaped me—I was a voracious reader then, and it’s an honor and privilege to be writing books now.

The old books are like old friends, reminders of why I’m here, why I left the city’s grind to chase this.

I think back to those nights at nineteen, curled up on Clay’s couch in his trailer, reading aloud to him while he tinkered with bike parts, his laugh breaking through my dramatic pauses.

He’d tease me—“You’re gonna write us into one of those someday, huh?

”—and I’d blush, not admitting I already had, in secret notebooks I never showed him.

Now it’s real, and he’s the heartbeat of it, the rogue who’s giving my hero a reason to fight.

But even as the story sings, there’s a knot in my stomach I can’t untie—worry about the heist. Clay laid it out last night, his voice low and serious in the dark of my bedroom, promising he’d pull back after this one.

One hundred grand, he said, enough to shift things, to give us a shot at something steadier.

I trust him—I do—but his world isn’t soft edges and happy endings. It’s a heist tonight, a truck loaded with goods, and all I can see is him out there in the shadows, adrenaline pumping, one slip away from cuffs or worse.

I’ve been jumping at every creak outside, every gust of wind, my mind spinning with nightmares—sirens wailing, him hauled off again, me left alone like before.

I push it down, pour it into the story, but it’s there, a quiet ache under the joy.

Then I hear it—a low, throaty rumble slicing through the night, vibrating up through the floorboards and rattling the vase on my desk.

My heart leaps, my fingers freezing mid-word. I know that sound—Clay’s Harley, deep and unmistakable. Relief floods me, warm and sudden, washing away the worry like a river breaking a dam.

It worked—he’s here, safe, back to me. I just know he is.

I shove my chair back, the scrape loud in the stillness, and I’m out of the study in a heartbeat, bare feet slapping the cool wood as I race to the front door.

I fling open the door.

“Clay!” I holler, my eyes filling with tears of joy.

I don’t wait—I run to him, the night air sharp against my skin, my oversized sweater flapping as I close the distance.

We collide halfway, his arms catching me as I crash into him, and he’s solid, warm, smelling of road dust and leather and him.

I bury my face in his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under my cheek, and his hands slide to my back, pulling me tight like he’ll never let go.

His lips find mine, a kiss that’s deep and desperate, tasting of triumph and relief, and I kiss him back just as hard, my fingers curling into his jacket, anchoring myself to him.

“Dylan,” Clay says when we break apart, his voice rough and low, his forehead pressed to mine, breath warm against my lips. “I want you— forever this time. No matter what happens, no more running, no more cutting you off. I’m in, all the way.”

My breath hitches, tears stinging my eyes, but they’re the good kind, born from hearing what I’ve ached for since he walked back into my life.

“I feel the same,” I say, my voice steady despite the emotion clogging my throat. “I want you, Clay— forever . I know it won’t always be easy, being with a motorcycle club man, but I’m here for it. All of it. I’m here for all of it… Daddy.”

Clay pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine, a flicker of doubt there, like he’s still afraid I’ll turn tail.

“You mean that?” he asks, voice raw, needing to hear it again.

“I mean it,” I say, cupping his face, my thumbs brushing the stubble on his jaw. “I’ve loved you since I was nineteen, and I never stopped—not through prison, not through the city, not through anything. We’ve got this second chance, and I’m not letting it go.”

His grin breaks wide, all teeth and relief, and he pulls me in again, kissing me slower this time, softer, but no less intense. It’s a seal, a vow, and I melt into it, my hands sliding up to tangle in his hair.

The night wraps us in its cool embrace, but inside me, it’s all heat and certainty.

I know what I’m choosing—the club, the risks, the nights I’ll wonder where he is. It’s not a fairy tale, not neat or simple, but it’s us, and that’s everything.

He pulls back, hands framing my face, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“You can even use me for inspiration in your books,” Clay teases, voice light. “The badass biker Daddy—bet that’ll sell.”

I laugh, bright and free, the sound cutting through the last of my tension.

“Oh, I already am,” I say, laughing. “Chapter Seven’s got a guy who looks a hell of a lot like you—leather jacket, green eyes, trouble all over him.”

He laughs too, deep and warm, vibrating through me.

“Good. Make me look hot,” Clay says. “And write a spanking scene too…”

“ Hmmm . I’m thinking we try the spanking out in real life and then I write it, just to make it realistic,” I say, and then we’re kissing one last time, slow and deep, a kiss that says it all—love, trust, forever.

My lips linger on his, tasting the promise, and when we break apart, I rest my forehead against his chest, his arms wrapping me tight.

“I love you, Clay,” I whisper, soft but sure.

“I love you too, Dylan,” he says, rough with feeling, tilting my chin up to meet my eyes. “Always have, always will.”

We stand there, wrapped in each other, the Harley cooling beside us, the night stretching out endless and ours.

I take his hand, tugging him toward the door. “Come inside,” I say, smiling. “Coffee, whiskey, whatever you want. And a novel to finish—with you in it.”

He follows, his hand warm in mine, and we step into the cottage together, the door shutting behind us.

The study waits, my laptop glowing, the words ready to keep flowing, but right now, it’s just us—Dylan and Clay, Daddy and boy, two wild hearts beating as one, ready for whatever comes next.