Page 70 of Boulder's Weight

She makes a small sound but doesn't wake, instead curling into the warm spot I've left behind.

The sight does something strange to my chest, tightening it in a way that’s uncomfortable.

I grab a clean pair of jeans and a shirt, heading to the bathroom to shower.

The hot water helps clear my head, washing away the confusion that's threatening to cloud my judgment.

I'm a prospect.

My focus should be on earning my patch, proving myself to the club.

Not playing house with a woman I barely know, no matter how much she gets under my skin.

But last night, hearing her story... the courage it took for her to turn in her own father, knowing what it would cost her.

Few people have that kind of backbone, that kind of moral clarity.

I've seen hardened bikers look the other way for family—blood above all.

Not Kelsey. Not when the crimes were so unforgivable.

I dry off and dress, running a hand through my damp hair.

When I return to the bedroom, she's still asleep, and I take the opportunity to check my phone.

Three messages from Amara, sent just minutes ago:

0700 meeting. Chapel. Bring coffee. You look like shit when you don't get caffeine.

At least she's not still pissed about yesterday.

I glance at the time—0615.

Enough time to grab coffee for both of us and check in with the brothers on watch duty.

I scribble a quick note for Kelsey, telling her I'll be back after the meeting and not to leave the clubhouse alone.

I hesitate, then add my burner phone number, in case she needs to reach me on that one.

It's strange, this feeling in my chest—like I’m responsible for her.

I've never had to think about someone else's whereabouts, their safety.

Even with my sister, she has her husband to look after her.

I'm the one who passes through, the one who doesn't stick around.

Now I'm the one someone is depending on.

I head to the main room, finding it surprisingly busy this early in the morning.

Brick is sprawled on one of the couches, clearly having crashed there after his watch shift.

Python and Razor are at the bar, heads bent over a map, speaking in low tones.

"Morning, prospect," Python calls without looking up. "Your ol’ lady still sleeping?"

The term catches me off guard. Not because I'm ashamed of claiming Kelsey—but because it feels too right, too quickly.

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