Page 6 of Diesel
She offered him another half-smile and turned to go.
Diesel tightened his jaw as he watched her walk away.Sophie was too damn kind and he didn’t deserve kindness.Not from someone like her.
The truth was, Sophie had been lodged under his skin from the second he saw her standing outside her wrecked shop with that tight, broken look on her face, like she was holding herself together with string and willpower alone.
She hadn’t cried in front of him, but he’d seen the tension in her shoulders.The haunted edge in her eyes.She reminded him of someone.Something tightened in him painfully.
Emily.His little sister had looked like that too, the day their father died.Scared, brave, stubborn as hell.She’d had a smile just like Sophie’s—soft, cautious, always a little unsure if it was welcome.
Emily had brought him coffee too, every time he’d come home bruised from another job or scrape.He hadn’t protected Emily.Not when it counted.
He’d been away on club business the night she’d called him.She’d left a message.Her voice was shaking, telling him something felt wrong, that she thought someone was following her.
He hadn’t listened to it until the next morning.By then, she was already gone.“Carjacked,” the police had said.Wrong place, wrong time.But Diesel had known better.He’d felt it.The guilt was still there—a dull, permanent burn in his gut.A rot that festered no matter how many favors he ran for the club, no matter how many assholes he put in the ground.He hadn’t saved her.
But he sure as hell wasn’t letting anything happen to Sophie.She might have been a stranger yesterday, but now she was under his watch and he didn’t fail people he protected.
Especially not anymore.
The shop bell jingled faintly as Sophie went back inside.Diesel stared at the unopened coffee cup in her hands, then exhaled hard and dragged a palm down his face.
Damn it.It would’ve been easier if she’d been rude.Or cold.Or indifferent.Instead, she was sweet—soft voice, worried eyes, bringing him coffee like she thought he might be tired.
Tired didn’t matter.Feelings didn’t matter.He just had to keep watch.Find the punks who did this.Handle it and walk away.
****
By noon, he’d alreadyhad to talk himself down three separate times.
First, when a couple of teenagers wandered by, snickering as they pointed at the boarded-up window like it was part of some urban scavenger hunt.Diesel tightened his jaw.He even lifted one boot off the pavement like he might stand, like he might do something about it.In the end, he forced himself to stay put.Not his job to scare kids.Not today.
Second, when some asshole in a pressed button-down tried to squeeze his Tesla into the narrow space beside Diesel’s Harley.The guy had eyed the bike like it was an eyesore, something greasy and outdated.Diesel had stood that time, deliberately slow, all six-foot-five inches of him rising like a thundercloud.The Tesla peeled away a second later.
But it was the third time, the hardest, that had Diesel gritting his teeth until his molars hurt.
Sophie stepped out of the shop again, her soft tread barely audible over the faint hum of traffic.She carried a plate this time.A dozen small muffins, golden-brown and still warm, if the curl of steam was anything to go by.He caught the scent before she even reached him—cinnamon, butter, something sweet and spiced that hit him harder than it should have.Like comfort.Like care.
She smiled as she approached, tentative but real.“Apple muffins.I made too many,” she said, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.
Diesel raised a brow.“You’re bribing the guy standing guard with baked goods?”
Her smile widened just a little, warmer this time, her eyes flicking up to meet his.“I figured caffeine wasn’t enough,” she told him, and in that moment, something loosened in his chest that had no damn business loosening.
He stared at the muffins, then at her.Her hands were small, fingers pink from holding the warm plate.Her wrists were delicate, the kind that looked like they’d snap under pressure but held more strength than people probably gave her credit for.There were faint smudges of flour on her jeans, and a strand of hair had come loose from her ponytail, curling along her cheek.He hated how badly he wanted to tuck it behind her ear.
He didn’t reach for the plate.
“Look,” he said, voice dropping an octave as he fought to keep it steady, impersonal.“You don’t have to keep bringing me stuff.I’m not here to socialize.”
The words came out sharper than he meant them, and he saw the small hitch in her expression, the flicker of confusion before she caught herself.
“I wasn’t trying to—” she began, but he cut her off.
“I’m here to keep you safe.That’s it,” he said.
Silence stretched between them like wire, tight and uncomfortable.
Sophie lowered her gaze, looking down at the plate for a second before nodding.She didn’t push, didn’t argue.Instead, she set the plate gently on the windowsill beside his chair, careful not to disturb anything, and turned back toward the shop.
