Page 34 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

The laughter fades, a vinyl record spinning down—soft, slow, curling into the silence, smoke dissolving into air.

One by one, they peel off into the night.

Frankie steals Ruby’s hoodie with a mischievous grin, and Nash slips away, a shadow that never needed announcing.

Knox murmurs something against Sloane’s temple, guiding her half-asleep body down the hall.

Even Darla throws me a lazy wave before disappearing, the damn popcorn bowl still cradled in her arms, a prize she earned.

Then it’s just me. The silence. And him.

The room stretches wide around me. Too open, too still. I’m wrapped in the blanket Ruby tossed at me, its weight a poor substitute for warmth, but my fingers stay tangled in the fleece, the only thing tethering me to this moment.

I won’t say it aloud, but I love how she fits here. Like she didn’t just wedge herself into my world. She built a nest inside it and dared me to call it anything but home.

A soft rhythm thrums beneath my fingertips just barely there. I don’t even realize I’m tapping it out. Not a song. Not yet. Just a heartbeat. Mine, maybe. Or something I haven’t named.

Malachi hasn’t said a word since we got back.

But I feel him. Sitting across the room, a thunderstorm with no rain. Charged, quiet, waiting. My skin still sings from the memory of his mouth, and there’s a stretch in my chest that feels split wide open, something inside me torn loose that never went back in place.

My shoulders rise in a breath I don’t remember taking. The fleece smells of sugar, cinnamon, and faint detergent. Ruby’s scent. Safe. But not enough.

I can’t do this. Not here.

I stand, slow and careful, folding the blanket with the kind of care that deserves a thank you. Each fold is a prayer. A delay. My fingers tremble slightly, and I pretend it’s from the cold.

As I move, I feel his eyes on me, dragging across my spine, my shoulders, a question he doesn’t know how to ask.

The hallway yawns open, dim and creaking with old memories. I walk barefoot over worn wood, each step quiet but not weightless. The chill kisses the soles of my feet. Somewhere in the walls, the house exhales. Old. Familiar. Haunted.

I don’t expect to hear the footsteps behind me. Or maybe some part of me did. Because they don’t rush. They don’t call out. They just follow. Steady. Measured. Like he waited for the moment everything else fell away. My pulse picks up. Not fast. Not panicked. Just… aware.

I stop halfway up the stairs. Turn. He’s already there.

Two steps below. Hands buried in his pockets. Watching me, something sacred and sharp at once. The way his gaze holds mine, it’s not hunger. It’s reverence. Bracing himself for a truth he won’t be able to undo.

“You’re supposed to stay down there,” I murmur, my voice brittle, fraying at the edges. My throat closes around the last syllable. Too close. Too exposed.

His shoulders lift, then fall. The idea of ‘supposed to’ means less than nothing to him.

“You didn’t run,” he says. Not accusing. Just a quiet fact. “I thought maybe… you didn’t want to be alone.”

I should lie. I should armor up. Say the kiss meant nothing.

That what I felt on the back of his bike was just adrenaline and confusion not this.

Not whatever this is curling in my gut and burning behind my ribs.

But the lie won’t form. Not tonight. My mouth moves, but nothing comes. Just silence thick enough to choke on.

But I’m so damn tired of lying. Especially to myself.

So I don’t say anything. Just turn and keep walking.

His footsteps fall in behind mine, calm and quiet.

Not chasing. Just there. Gravity. Inevitability.

As though he’s been waiting for this silence to hold us both.

The air shifts around us—warmer, heavier.

The way it does before a summer storm breaks.

At his bedroom door, I pause. My fingers hover over the knob. The air thickens, heavy with what hasn’t been said. I glance back.

He’s leaned against the opposite wall now, arms crossed, gaze locked on mine, bracing for impact. There’s something haunted in his eyes. And something more dangerous. Hope.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

His voice is low. “Waiting to see if you’d shut the door in my face.”

My hand tightens around the knob. I could. And he’d let me. It’s his room, but he’d let me shut him out of it. The choice clings to me. So simple. So final.

Instead, I push it open. Step inside. I don’t check to see if he follows, but the click of the door closing behind me lands with the force of thunder.

The room is dim, lit only by the spill of streetlight slicing through the blinds. Shadows stretch long over the floor. There’s the dresser he cleared for me with drawers I still haven’t filled. The chair I never sit in. The bed that feels borrowed even when I sleep in it.

I sit on the edge, arms curling around my stomach. My breath shudders. My fingertips twitch. The silence drapes heavy over my shoulders, a second skin.

He doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t fill the silence. Just takes the chair across from me, elbows on his knees, fingers loose, gaze steady.

It’s worse than if he touched me. Worse than if he left. He’s here. Seeing all of me. And not flinching. My ribs ache. The kind of ache that comes after crying, even when no tears fall.

I bite the inside of my cheek. Then it slips out, too raw to catch.

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

His answer is soft. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“But I kissed you back.” The admission cuts on the way out. “I felt something. And I don’t know if that makes me weak or stupid or—”

“Candace.” My name lands carrying the weight of a vow. “You’re not weak. Or stupid. You’re surviving. However you need to.”

I shake my head. “You make it so hard to hate you.” The truth cracks in my voice. A sliver of something too close to longing.

“I know.”

The silence swells, but this time it doesn’t drown. It wraps around us, fog dense, unspoken, full of ache. I blink hard. Somewhere inside, the chorus of an old lyric echoes. D on’t fall, don’t break, don’t ask to be saved .

When he stands, I expect him to leave. To give me space, pretending it’s some noble gesture. But he doesn’t. He just moves to the bed, sitting beside me. Close, but not touching. His presence is a quiet promise.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand. He just is. No one’s ever done that for me. I don’t look at him. But I feel the warmth at my side. Steady. Uncomplicated. Mine.

So I don’t send him away.

We stay there, side by side, as if we’re strangers who know too much. We don’t get under the covers. Don’t pretend this is something it’s not. Just lay back, both of us fully clothed, a chasm of years and pain between us.

Eventually, I curl onto my side, facing the wall. He stays on his back, arms behind his head. Breathing steady. Breathing for both of us. The rhythm of his breath syncs with mine, a song without words.

In the dark, I whisper, “Do you ever wish you could forget? Everything. Not just the bad stuff. All of it. Start clean. Be someone new.”

His silence stretches so long, I think maybe he won’t answer.

Then… “I used to. Before I met you.” It doesn’t come with weight. Or pity. Just truth. Soft and wrecking.

I look at him. He’s staring at the ceiling, the truth having burned holes through it. Malachi doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.

It guts me. I shift closer. Just a little. Just enough. A lyric pulses at the edge of my thoughts. S omething in me stays when I should go .

“Stay,” I whisper. “Just for tonight.”

His body exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since I walked away from him in the rain.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can do that.”

We don’t get under the covers. Don’t crawl toward each other pretending to be lovers or press our foreheads together the way a movie ending would.

We just stretch out on top of the bed. Fully clothed, not touching, the space between us thick with the ghosts we carry. And still… something in me untangles.

I lie on my side, facing the wall. He lies on his back, hands behind his head like he’s holding up the weight of something invisible. The silence returns but it’s not cold this time. Just there. Full of breath and heartbeat and all the things we’re still too afraid to say.

Minutes pass. Or maybe more. My body stays tense, waiting for regret to crawl in and take over. But it doesn’t.

Then, through the dark, his voice—low, rough around the edges, costing him something just to speak.

“I didn’t mean to fall for you.” My chest stutters. My fingers twitch where they rest near my heart. “But I did.”

I don’t move. Don’t answer. I just let the words hang there, bare and trembling, until they find a place to land inside me.

I close my eyes. And let that truth curl into the dark with me.

I wake slowly. Not with the jolt of nightmares or the sharp breath of panic. Just… drifting. Sleep not wanting to let me go. The sheets are warm against my skin. Heavy with breath and something else. Something tethering.

It’s warm. Too warm. There’s a weight across my waist. A steady rhythm beneath my ear. The faint smell of leather and cedar and that clean heat that only belongs to one person. My eyes blink open.

His chest is the first thing I see. Broad. Steady. Bare beneath the hem of his shirt, where it’s ridden up just enough for skin to find mine. I freeze. The air catches in my lungs. His skin is warm against mine—too familiar, too easy. The quiet here is deeper than silence. It’s trust.

Malachi’s arm is slung around me, heavy and protective, belonging there. One of my legs is tangled with his. My fingers are curled into his shirt, clutching him in my sleep, as if he’s something I needed.

I don’t remember moving. Don’t remember shifting closer. But somehow, somehow, we ended up this way. Tangled. Quiet. Too close. His heartbeat pulses under my cheek. Steady. Strong. It hums through me, settling deep in my bones.

His breath brushes the top of my head, even. Calm. Still asleep. I close my eyes for one suspended breath and let myself feel the moment. The scent of him. The weight of his arm. That strange, terrifying calm in my own chest.

And I should move. Should untangle myself before he wakes up and sees how far I’ve slipped.

But I don’t. Not yet. Because for one impossible second, I let myself feel it; the way his body curves around mine, armor against the world.

The quiet of his chest rising and falling, a rhythm I forgot I trusted.

How my heart isn’t racing and I’m not scared.

The way it feels safe, and that alone makes my throat tighten.

I hate it. I hate how easy it is to stay.

My hand twitches, just barely. My body knows I need to let go, even if I don’t want to.

I close my eyes, just for a moment. Just to breathe him in. Then I feel the shift. His arm tightens slightly. Barely a twitch. But enough to tell me he’s awake too. The silence shifts—thicker now, charged.

I lift my head slowly. His eyes are open. They’re dark, unreadable, already on me. There’s no surprise in them. No smugness. Just... quiet gravity.

Neither of us says anything. I swallow, throat dry. The armor I’m trying to pull back on is cracked and too damn thin.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I whisper. A weak attempt at armor.

His jaw flexes, but he nods. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push.

Just says, quiet and steady, “Okay.” But he doesn’t let go. And I don’t move. Not yet. The space between us is still molten. Still trembling. And neither of us dares to breathe too loud.

Because walking away means something else entirely.

It means pretending this didn’t happen. Pretending that for a few hours, I didn’t find peace in the arms of the one man I’ve spent months trying to hate.

That I didn’t fall asleep with my fingers curled into his shirt and my body pressed against his, belonging there.

So I stay. Just a minute more. And he lets me, something he’s been waiting to do.