Page 17

S unlight sliced through the gap in my curtains, painting golden stripes across the bedsheets and illuminating dust motes that danced in the morning air. The leather lay heavy across my body, warming my skin through the thin fabric of my shirt.

My fingertips traced V's cut, lingering over each faded patch and rough stitch. The material was scored with minute abrasions and knife marks—a violent history etched into its surface. I caught on a darker patch near the collar, tacky and stiff. Blood. Not fresh, but not cleaned either. The leather's texture contrasted sharply with the smooth cotton sheets beneath me, its weight creating indentations in my thighs that matched the pattern of the worn seams.

My mind drifted to last night on the couch. I remembered slumping against his chest, his calloused fingers methodically combing through my hair with unexpected patience. The pressure of his lips through the mask against my forehead, an unexpected gesture that made my breath catch. His weight settled between my thighs, the bruising grip as he held me in place. After that—nothing. He must have carried me to bed and left his cut over me.

Each time I woke up wrapped in his scent, I found myself less disturbed by it. My heart raced as I wondered what it meant that I was hoping that I would wake with it on me.

Moving brought winces as tender spots along my hips protested. Pulling back the covers revealed shadows of fingerprints marking my flesh—five distinct bruises on each hip, a perfect match to his hands. The morning light cast an amber glow across the marks, transforming them from purple-blue to a golden-tinged violet.

A burning smell invaded my senses, jolting me fully awake. The bedside clock read barely eight AM when I looked up. The bedroom door swung open with a creak, releasing a wave of thick, pungent smoke that rolled across the ceiling like storm clouds. V emerged through the gray haze, tray in hand, his broad silhouette cutting a sharp figure against the billowing smoke behind him. Charred pancakes and bright strawberries with stems still attached sat atop the tray while behind him, dense smoke continued to pour from the kitchen.

Smoke. Fire. Here?

He lifted up a plate, completely ignoring the disaster behind him. "Breakfast."

I coughed, leaping from bed as his cut fell to the floor with a soft thud. "Did you catch my kitchen on fire?"

He looked at the tray in his hands, then back at me, dark eyes unreadable above his mask—not guilty or apologetic, just observing my reaction. He shrugged, massive shoulders lifting beneath his long-sleeved black T-shirt straining across his chest. "I put it out."

Pushing past him, my shoulder barely reached his chest as I squeezed through the doorway. The scent of leather and smoke clung to his skin as I passed by. Approaching the kitchen, the smoke grew denser, stinging my eyes and coating my tongue with an ashy film.

My kitchen—my sanctuary—stood destroyed.

Black residue coated every surface. The once-white walls were now streaked with soot. Basic cabinet knobs had cracked in the heat, pieces fallen away. The laminate countertop felt gritty beneath my fingers.

Opening the oven door released a cloud of toxic smoke that engulfed me. I doubled over, coughing violently, vision blurring. V's hand landed between my shoulder blades, shoving me aside with casual strength. The force sent me stumbling sideways. He slammed the oven door shut with enough force to rattle the hinges.

Something inside me collapsed—each blackened surface represented my carefully built freedom, now reduced to smoldering ruins. Today was my baking day with orders I couldn't afford to lose: Mrs. Henderson's wedding anniversary cake, the Millers' custom birthday cookies, and the monthly pastry order for Diamond Java. Equipment wasn't just lost; my independence was crumbling to ash beneath my fingertips.

Wetness blurred my vision, tracking silently through fine soot. The room tilted slightly as I fought to breathe through the panic, nails digging into the charred wood counter edge.

"How am I supposed to get anything done?" The words emerged higher than intended, tight and strained. "I have orders due."

A cabinet revealed only melted measuring cups twisted into grotesque shapes. I'd refused my father's money a dozen times over the years, determined to build something wholly mine. Independence had been my shield, proof that I could stand on my own.

And now, in one morning, it was gone.

V leaned against the wall, his imposing frame casting a shadow across the ruined space as he scanned the destruction with an assessing rather than remorseful gaze.

"Use the clubhouse kitchen until yours is done."

"The clubhouse? I can't just—" My voice faltered as his expression hardened before fully registering what he said. "My what?

His dark eyes trailed down my body with an intensity that raised goosebumps in their wake. "Get dressed."

My legs moved forward automatically, brain lagging behind. Glancing down at my oversized shirt barely covering my thighs, I froze, suddenly aware of how exposed I was. The urgency of the kitchen disaster warred with modesty as I scrambled to gather my thoughts.

"O-Okay." The word escaped before I could stop it, small but steadier than I felt. I was too stunned to be mad, I would be later.

V didn't move, just watched. Twisting my shirt hem between fidgeting fingers, the cotton bunched in my nervous grasp. "C-can you leave?"

His gaze raked over me again, from my tousled hair down to my bare toes. One dark eyebrow lifted. "Already seen everything."

The room shrank around his massive frame. I swallowed hard enough to hear the click in my throat, heat blooming across my cheeks and spreading down my neck. "C-Can you look away at least?"

He didn't turn away. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on me as he leaned harder against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Sighing in defeat, I reached for my leggings. Pulling them on with my back to him, catching against tender skin as I pulled them up. A small wince escaped when the waistband settled against the tender marks on my hips.

My drawer scraped open as I yanked out a bra. With my back still turned, I tugged and twisted, arms contorting as I worked it on under my shirt. The hooks refused to catch. Once. Twice. The third attempt clicked into place. All the while, I felt his eyes on me, patient and unwavering.

When I turned to face him, his disappointment was obvious—eyes narrowed, tension creasing his forehead. A muscle in his jaw twitched beneath the mask. I bit my lip hard, fighting back an unexpected laugh at his frustration.

He turned abruptly, stalking toward the front door without waiting, leaving ashy footprints on my floor. Grabbing keys and phone, I hurried after him, nearly colliding with his broad back when he stopped at the threshold. His large hand caught my wrist, palm warm against my skin. With careful guidance, he led me through the doorway ahead of him, his presence solid and reassuring behind me as we stepped into the sunshine.

Morning heat had already begun to build, sunlight stronger now. V strode to his motorcycle at the curb, long legs covering the distance with effortless grace, knowing I would follow. He had parked his motorcycle behind my car. V threw his leg over his bike, rumbling to life beneath him before I started my car. "Follow me."

Driving behind him, my stomach twisted, sick and strange with each bump in the road. Sunday morning roads remained empty except for occasional walkers and Diamond Java customers. Minutes later, we hit downtown. I saw people glance at V before quickly diverting their attention.

I parked behind him, stepping onto pavement scattered with broken glass. We approached what had once been the main street's crown jewel—old Diamond's Bakery, vacant for years since its owners retired to Florida. A town landmark for decades, its prime location made the extended vacancy surprising.

It was the place I was currently saving up to buy for Sweet Summer's.

Stepping up beside V, turning to face an abandoned structure with shattered windows and broken glass bottles littering the exterior. Angry red graffiti covered one wall—demonic figures with gaping maws reaching for fleeing stick forms. His boots crunched over debris as he unlocked the door. Curiosity overrode caution as I followed him inside.

The abandoned interior assaulted my senses: sharp tang of rusted metal, musty thickness of mold-laden air, and bitter dust coating my tongue. The smoke still clung—bitter, stubborn, refusing to fade. Needles and broken glass crunched beneath my sneakers. Vibrant red and black gang tags covered walls around a small register counter scarred by cigarette burns and chipped wood from knife marks.

A shattered mirror hung crooked on the wall, and for a moment, my reflection caught me off guard. The dust and dim light couldn't disguise my flushed cheeks or the way my jade eyes were wide with anxiety.

As we ventured deeper, my fingers flew to my nose, pinching against the thick stench of decay. V moved ahead, examining a crumbling counter. A sudden groan echoed above, and my gaze snapped upward just as the ceiling broke open. Long fractures split through the plaster, chunks peeling free and dropping straight toward me. Wood slats buckled mid-air, scattering pieces in every direction.

V slammed into me, driving us backward until my spine collided with cold brick. The impact punched the air from my lungs. His massive frame enveloped me, chest heaving against mine, muscles straining as he shielded me from the falling chaos. His forearms caged my head, veins bulging, his fists pressed so tight the skin split at the joints. Chunks exploded across his shoulders, plaster bursting like shrapnel mere inches from my skin.

Dust filled the gap between us, thick in my nose and throat. I trembled beneath him, feeling each jolt of his heart through my shirt. His masked face hovered inches from mine, heat rolling off him and ghosting across my mouth.

The initial adrenaline from our near-miss gradually shifted into something more complex. My heartbeat shifted from panic to something heavier, awareness narrowing sharply to every point our bodies connected. He hovered inches from my face while he looked at me frantically.

"Okay?" The question rumbled from his chest.

I nodded, unable to find my voice.

He remained motionless even after the debris settled. One hand released the wall to brush plaster from my hair, his knuckles grazing my cheek as he did. I flinched at the contact, but didn't pull away. His chest expanded against mine with each breath while his gaze traveled over my face, lingering on parted lips. V shifted beside me, moving to bracket my body with his arms on either side of my head. His cut creaked as he leaned in, then abruptly pushed off the wall. When he finally moved away, muscles rippling beneath his shirt as he put distance between us, the absence of his body heat left me shivering despite the morning warmth.

Taking a moment to look around, really seeing the disaster the building had become. Broken boards, shattered glass, and years of neglect surrounded us. The ceiling joists sagged ominously overhead, looking like they might give way any second and bury us both in debris.

The question snagged on my tongue, warped by too many feelings at once. "Why are we here?—"

"Your bakery." He cracked his neck with a sharp pop, his gaze swept the broken edges of my future.

His words didn't register. My thoughts stumbled. My bakery? The words seemed impossible, too large to fit in this broken space.

Moving to a stack of rotted wood blocking a doorway, he swung his bat in a semicircle before smashing it against the planks. The thunderous crack echoed off the walls. I flinched as muscles tensed, shoulders hunching instinctively. Memories flashed—another time and place where violence had shattered safety—as vision briefly tunneled and sweat beaded along my hairline.

His powerful arms flexed with each impact, splintering wood effortlessly. After clearing the path, he gestured toward the newly revealed space—what might have once been a kitchen.

My parents had offered to buy me a bakery a dozen times, and I'd refused each time, determined to earn it myself.

I didn't move as V turned, dark eyes finding mine. In three long strides, he closed the distance between us, his boots crushing glass with each step. I felt V's hand settle at the small of my back—not pushing, just present. When I didn't move, his fingers spread wider, spanning nearly half my lower back with subtle pressure that propelled me forward effortlessly.

At the center of the room, his fingers curled slightly in my shirt, making me halt. He circled me, hand sliding from back to hip then shoulder, rotating me slightly leftward. The maneuver positioned me precisely where sunlight streamed through a broken window, illuminating my face as he gauged my reaction.

"You—you bought me a bakery?" My voice trembled on the words.

"Us." The single syllable held more certainty than I'd ever heard from him.

Us? What did he mean by us ?

"This place is..." Words failed as possibility collided with practicality. "V, I can't accept?—"

"It's yours."

"But–"

His hand shot out, catching my wrist with his thumb pressed against the racing pulse. His other hand placed a key in my palm—cold metal warming instantly against my skin. His fingers closed over mine forcefully—not painful but allowing no resistance—sealing the metal between our hands as though soldering our futures together. That small, sharp piece of brass sat in my palm, something seemingly insignificant that held the power to reshape my entire future.

The key weighed heavily in my hand as imagination transformed the space around me. Visual chaos of destruction receded, replaced by pristine white walls, gleaming display cases filled with rows of glossy raspberry danishes and golden croissants, and polished hardwood floors. Then, emotional realization crashed through—independence, legacy, purpose—secret yearnings manifesting through this unexpected gift.

"Sweet Summer's," I whispered, the name I'd chosen when I was sixteen.

The words hung in the dust-filled air between us. Time thickened between us, each second louder than words. In that pocket of quiet, the name took on physical presence, becoming more real with each moment he allowed it to exist unchallenged.

A flash of memory hit me—age seven, pressing my nose against the glass of this very building, watching the cashiers give treats to children’s grabby hands, whispering "someday" as Dad pulled me away.

The barriers I'd created weren't just toward V but against possibility itself. I'd created a life of careful limits—modest dreams that couldn't hurt when shattered. V had crashed through those boundaries from the start, demanding more than I demanded of myself. This building represented everything I'd denied wanting.

I could refuse his gift. The image flashed before me—V dragging me back here day after day, his patience infinite and terrifying. I envisioned him chaining me to this very spot until I surrendered to this dream I'd never admitted wanting. My throat tightened. With V, saying no wasn't an option.

My arm lifted of its own accord, trembling fingers extending toward him until they connected with the firm surface of his forearm. His arm went tight under my fingers, but he didn't withdraw. Instead, his free hand captured my wrist—pressing against what throbbed under his thumb, louder than breath. Surrounding wood creaked under his weight as he moved closer, forcing me to tilt back to meet his gaze.

Stepping into him, my body fit against his. Arms encircled his waist as my face pressed against his solid chest, the steady thud beneath my ear. My eyes stung. His shirt blurred. I didn't stop.

Though his body remained still, his hand moved to cradle my head, fingers threading through hair with methodical gentleness. I felt it then—just once—the slight tremor in his fingertips against my scalp, gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

Looking up without wiping tears away, I whispered, "Thank you."

Reaching up, I brushed fingertips along his mask edge—another boundary crossed toward whatever we were becoming. His pupils dilated slightly at my touch, the minute black expansion within brown revealing more than words could offer.

Standing amid the rubble of what would become my dream, I recognized his offer extended beyond brick and mortar to something I'd sealed away long ago. The walls I'd constructed against hope were crumbling faster than the plaster at our feet.

"Let's build it," I whispered, voice shaking. "Together."

His hand tightened around mine, the key digging between our fingers.

For the first time, when I imagined my future, he was there—not an intruder breaking in, but a shadow cast long before I knew him, always waiting for me to turn and face what had been there all along.