Page 55

But it was the shelf of honor that made my knees weak.

Mr. Friendly sat in pride of place, centered on a shelf at perfect eye level.

But this wasn't the torn, desperate bear from the charity drive aftermath.

Someone—Dex—had carefully repaired him. His severed arm had been reattached with tiny, perfect stitches that somehow made him more beautiful than before.

The kind of stitches that took patience and love, that said broken things could be made whole without hiding their history.

"You fixed him," I whispered, reaching for my old friend with shaking hands.

"Thor's mom helped," Dex admitted. "Turns out she used to repair vintage toys as a hobby. Said Mr. Friendly had good bones, just needed some love."

I hugged the bear tight, breathing in his familiar smell mixed with something new—maybe the thread from his repairs, maybe just the scent of being cared for. His slightly lopsided ear felt right against my cheek, his worn fur soft as memory.

"And this is Mr. Friendly's brother," Dex continued, reaching for something else on the shelf. "Thought he might be lonely."

The wooden bear was beautiful. Carved from the same honey-colored wood as the rocking chair, with an expression that somehow captured Mr. Friendly's gentle wisdom.

About the same size, but solid, substantial.

The grain of the wood created natural patterns that looked like fur, and his eyes—somehow Dex had carved eyes that seemed kind.

"Where did you get him?”

“It’s a Scout Craft build,” he said. There was something about the way he said it that felt funny. But the feeling passed.

“He’s wonderful.”

I set both bears carefully on the daybed and continued exploring.

The low table for coloring wasn't just any table—it was the perfect height, with a slightly angled surface and a lip to keep pencils from rolling away.

The chairs were child-sized but sturdy enough for an adult. Probably custom made too, knowing Dex.

Art supplies filled clear containers on a narrow shelf above the table.

Colored pencils arranged by shade. Markers in rainbow order.

Crayons—not just the basic box but the huge set with colors like "cerulean" and "mahogany.

" Coloring books stacked neatly, their spines showing titles like "Enchanted Gardens" and "Fairy Tale Dreams."

In the corner sat a toy chest that belonged in a museum.

Painted with scenes that looked like they'd stepped out of a storybook—forests and castles, dragons that looked friendly rather than fierce, princesses who carried swords along with their crowns.

The paint had that deep, rich quality that spoke of multiple coats, of patience, of someone who understood that beautiful things were worth the time they took.

"How long have you been working on this?" I asked, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness in every detail.

"Started the day we got back from the bank," he said. "Figured you'd need a space that was really yours. Somewhere you could be little without worrying about anything else."

"It's perfect," I said. "Everything about it is perfect."

"Come here," he said, settling into the rocking chair and patting his lap. "Let's test it out properly."

I curled into his lap, fitting against him like I'd been carved to match his angles.

The chair rocked smooth and silent, and I could imagine it suddenly—sitting here years from now, a baby in my arms, Dex reading stories to a toddler on the daybed.

This room growing and changing but always, always being home.

"Thank you," I whispered against his neck. "For all of this. For knowing what I needed before I did."

"Thank you," he replied, "for trusting me enough to need it."

"There's one more thing," Dex said after we'd rocked in comfortable silence for a while. He shifted under me, and I felt the tension enter his body—unusual for a man who faced down rival clubs without blinking. "Another secret I've been keeping. A big one."

I sat up to study his face. Dex kept secrets like armor, revealing pieces of himself carefully, deliberately. But this felt different. He was fidgeting with his keys, spinning them around his finger in a nervous tell I'd never seen before.

"Bigger than the surprise room?" I asked, trying to lighten his obvious anxiety.

"Different." He helped me stand, then rose himself, still not quite meeting my eyes. "It's . . . fuck, I don't know how to explain it. Just need to show you."

Now I was worried. Dex didn't do nervous. Dex did controlled, measured, strategic. This restless energy made my stomach tight with sympathy nerves.

He led me to another door. A door he’d told me led to the boiler room.

"This is . . . this is where I really spend my time," he said, pulling out a different key. His hands actually shook as he fitted it into the lock. "Where I've been going when I said I was working on bike parts."

"Dex, you're scaring me." I touched his arm, feeling the tension vibrating through him. "Whatever it is, it's okay."

"It's not very . . . biker." The word came out like an admission of guilt. "Not what you'd expect from a Road Captain. Not what anyone expects."

The lock turned with a well-oiled click. He pushed the door open but didn't move to enter, just stood there like he was waiting for judgment.

I stepped around him and into the workshop. For a moment, my brain couldn't process what I was seeing. Then the pieces clicked together with an almost audible snap, and I had to grab the doorframe for support.

Tools covered every wall, but not the wrenches and socket sets I'd expected. These were woodworking tools—chisels and planes, saws of every size, sanders and files, all organized with military precision. The air smelled of sawdust and linseed oil, creativity and patience made manifest.

But the tools were just the frame. What filled the space, what made my chest tight and my eyes burn, was the art.

A dollhouse sat on the central workbench, three stories of Victorian perfection.

The siding showed individual shingles, each one carved and placed by hand.

Tiny windows with real glass panes caught the overhead light.

Through those windows, I could see furniture—a miniature dining set with chairs that had actual upholstery, a kitchen with cabinets whose doors would open.

"Oh my god," I breathed, moving deeper into the space.

Another bench held rocking horses in various stages of completion.

One was just rough-cut wood, the basic shape emerging.

Another had been sanded smooth, ready for paint.

A third was nearly finished—painted dappled gray with a black mane that looked like real horsehair, leather reins thin as thread.

Toy chests lined one wall. Some plain, waiting for decoration.

Others painted with scenes that made my heart ache with their beauty.

A dragon curled protectively around a castle.

A ship sailing through stars instead of water.

A garden where flowers bloomed impossibly bright, where butterflies looked ready to lift off the wood.

"You're Scout Craft," I said, and it wasn't a question.

The style was unmistakable now that I saw it all together.

The same attention to detail. The same love worked into every joint and curve.

"You're the one who's been making all those toys, who's been taking care of the shelter kids all these years. "

My eyes widened. “Oh my god, you made the rocking chair, didn’t you? And Mr. Friendly’s brother.”

"Guilty." The word came out rough, embarrassed. He still stood by the door like he might need to escape. "It all started about five years ago. Just wanted to do something . . . I don't know. Good. Clean. Something that built instead of destroyed."

I turned to look at him, this man who'd held me through nightmares, who'd rescued Jessie, who'd faced down my father without flinching. He looked young suddenly, vulnerable in a way I'd never seen. Color stained his cheeks as he watched me process his secret.

"Duke thinks it's hilarious," he continued, words tumbling out like he needed to fill the silence. "Big bad biker playing with dollhouses. Thor calls me Santa's helper sometimes. They don't mean anything by it, but..."

"But it still stings," I finished. "Having something pure that people turn into a joke."

He nodded, shoulders hunching slightly. I wanted to shake him, or kiss him, or possibly both.

Instead, I moved to what was clearly the finishing area.

An entire wall of wooden teddy bears watched with button eyes—some traditional, some whimsical, each one unique.

I recognized the style immediately. These were cousins to the wooden bear upstairs, to all the bears that had appeared mysteriously at shelter fundraisers for years.

"This one's for next year," Dex said, pointing to a bear with carefully carved spectacles and a tiny wooden book. "Thought maybe a scholar bear, for kids who love to read."

"And this?" I touched a dollhouse that looked like it belonged in a museum. Every room was complete, from the paper-thin wooden books in the library to the dishes in the kitchen sink.

"Custom order," he admitted. "For a little girl in Denver whose house burned down. Her mom reached out through the shelter network. Insurance will rebuild their house, but it won't bring back the dollhouse her grandmother made. So I'm trying to create something that might help fill that gap."

My eyes burned with tears I refused to shed. Not yet. Not when he was standing there looking like he expected me to laugh or judge or find him less of a man for this gentle secret.

"How do you have time?" I asked instead, practical questions being safer than the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. "Between the club and your actual job and taking care of me?"