creeper loves how soft your skin is compared to his.
he's older, covered in scars, both big and small, and weathered from years of working in the sun and riding bikes. his skin isn't exactly smooth. but yours is. and he loves to trace his fingers over the soft flesh, following any lines from ink or your own scars, and trailing over the unmarked skin like it's something precious. he loves to follow the invisible line left behind by his fingers with his lips, pressing kisses to your skin, feeling the smoothness and softness under his kisses. loves to trace the softness all the way down to your pussy, fingers and lips exploring the perfect skin there. he's more than content to spend hourssss between your legs, feeling how soft you are.
You jokingly call him your emotional support biker. He nods once and says, "Works for me."
The first time you called him your emotional support biker, it wasn't planned, dramatic, or even particularly clever—it was just one of those ridiculous comments that escaped while the two of you were walking out of a grocery store together, your reusable bags hanging from one arm while Creeper carried the heavier ones without asking because somewhere along the way he'd quietly decided that if something was heavy, dangerous, inconvenient, or annoying, it was automatically his responsibility instead of yours.
It had been one of those long days where absolutely nothing catastrophic had happened and yet somehow everything had gone wrong anyway.
You'd forgotten your wallet and had to run back inside. Someone had nearly backed into his bike in the parking lot. The self-checkout had frozen twice. You'd dropped a jar of pasta sauce—not enough to break it, just enough to make you think it would—and by the time you finally reached the bike, you sighed dramatically before looking at the heavily tattooed man standing beside you.
"You know," you said, completely deadpan, "you're basically my emotional support biker."
There was a beat of silence.
A passing family glanced toward the enormous Mayan covered in ink and leather.
Creeper looked at you.
Then he gave one slow, thoughtful nod.
"Works for me."
That was it.
Complete, unwavering acceptance.
You stared.
"...That's all you've got?"
"What else is there?"
"I don't know," you laughed. "I expected at least one joke."
"You made one."
"I know."
"I agreed."
Like that explained everything.
Maybe, to him, it did.
You shook your head, grinning despite yourself, while he reached over to take the grocery bags from your hand before you could protest, loading them onto the bike with the same calm efficiency he seemed to approach everything with, completely unfazed by the fact that he'd just accepted perhaps the strangest title anyone had ever given him.
The thing was...
He took it seriously.
You realized that over the next few weeks.
If you had a stressful day at work, somehow Creeper appeared before you'd even texted him twice.
"You ate?"
If you looked tired, there was suddenly coffee in your hand.
If you got overwhelmed in crowded places, he'd quietly step beside you without saying a word, broad shoulders naturally creating space around you until you could breathe again.
If someone irritated you...
Well.
Usually they stopped irritating you the second they noticed the six-foot-something Mayan with prison tattoos calmly standing behind you with his arms crossed.
He rarely had to say anything.
Apparently looking like Neron Vargas was enough.
One afternoon, EZ caught the two of you at the scrapyard after you'd had a particularly awful morning.
You were sitting on an overturned crate, looking exhausted.
Creeper stood beside you with two drinks.
One for himself, and one for you.
He handed yours over automatically.
You accepted it just as automatically.
EZ watched the exchange.
"...You okay?"
You shrugged.
"Bad day."
Before EZ could ask anything else, Creeper spoke.
"She's got me."
Three simple words.
Matter-of-fact.
Certain.
Like it wasn't even up for discussion.
EZ looked between the two of you.
"...Right."
He walked away.
You blinked.
"...Did you just tell EZ you were handling my emotional stability?"
"You said I'm your emotional support biker."
"I was kidding."
"I wasn't."
Your mouth actually fell open.
He looked completely sincere. Like he was simply... accepting the assignment.
From then on, the joke spread through Santo Padre far faster than either of you expected.
Angel overheard it first.
Then Bishop.
Then Hank.
Soon enough, whenever someone asked where you were, "She's with her emotional support biker."
Or, "Go ask her emotional support biker."
Or, "Don't worry. Emotional Support Creeper's got it."
The nickname should have annoyed him.
It absolutely would have annoyed almost anyone else.
Instead, he answered to it. Without complaint or embarrassment.
Someone yelled across the yard one afternoon.
"Hey, Emotional Support Biker!"
Creeper looked up.
"What?"
The prospect burst into laughter.
"So you're really just rolling with that?"
He frowned slightly.
"...It's accurate."
The entire yard lost it.
Angel had to lean against a truck because he was laughing too hard to stand.
He wandered over to where you were standing, completely ignoring everyone else's amusement.
"You ready?"
"For what?"
"You looked tired."
"...So?"
"I figured we'd go home."
Home.
The word slipped out so naturally neither of you caught it immediately.
He did.
His eyes flickered toward yours.
You saw the tiny pause.
The microscopic hesitation.
Like he'd only just realized what he'd said.
You smiled so softly it almost hurt.
"Yeah," you answered quietly. "Let's go home."
The laughter around the yard faded into background noise as he took your helmet from the handlebars, checked the strap like he always did, then settled it carefully onto your head with surprisingly gentle hands, his rough fingers brushing your jaw for just a second longer than necessary before he fastened the buckle.
"You good?"
"Mhm."
"You sure?"
"I've got my emotional support biker."
The corner of his mouth lifted.
Tiny.
Barely noticeable.
Enough to make your heart stumble.
"You do."
When you climbed onto the back of the bike, your arms wrapped naturally around his waist, your cheek resting comfortably against the solid warmth of his back, he covered one of your hands with his own for the briefest moment before starting the engine, grounding you with nothing more than that quiet touch, and as the motorcycle carried the two of you away from the clubhouse and toward the place that had somehow become home simply because the other person was there, you couldn't help smiling to yourself because what had started as a throwaway joke had become something wonderfully, beautifully true.
He really was your emotional support biker.
And judging by the way he reached back at the next red light just to make sure you were still holding onto him, you had quietly become his emotional support girl, too.
You unconsciously hold onto the back of his kutte whenever you're walking through crowds.
It started without you even noticing, the way most things between you and Creeper Vargas seemed to.
There was no defining moment, no decision, no conscious thought of this is what I’m doing now, just the simple, natural habit forming somewhere between one crowded parking lot and another, between club gatherings and late-night stops at gas stations where the lights buzzed too loudly and the air always smelled faintly like oil and dust and cheap coffee, where people pressed too close and movement became something you had to push through rather than walk through.
At some point, your hand just…found him. The back of his kutte, right between the patches and the worn leather that had softened over years of use, like your fingers had memorized the safest place to anchor themselves before your mind ever caught up.
Neron noticed, of course. He always noticed.
But he didn’t say anything the first time.
Or the second.
Or the third.
He just adjusted.
It was subtle, the way he shifted his position whenever the crowd thickened, never pulling you in front of him, never dragging you behind him like you needed managing, but instead angling himself so you naturally ended up at his side where your hand could settle against him without obstruction, like he’d quietly built a path through people just for you without making a single announcement about it.
And every time your fingers curled into the leather of his kutte, gripping lightly at first and then more securely when someone brushed too close or a stranger cut across your space, his shoulders would loosen in a way only someone paying close attention would ever notice.
You didn’t notice.
Not at first.
To you, it just felt…normal.
Safe, even if you didn’t consciously label it that way.
You’d be walking through a busy lot outside the clubhouse, music spilling out of open doors and bikes lined up in heavy rows like sleeping animals, people talking over each other and laughing and moving in unpredictable clusters, and without thinking your hand would slide back, fingers curling into the familiar worn leather between his shoulder blades. And Neron would immediately adjust his pace to match yours, not faster, not slower, just together, like the entire world around you could hurry or shove or spill over and it wouldn’t matter as long as you stayed connected to him in that small, quiet way.
And he never broke that connection.
Even when people brushed past too close.
Even when someone bumped your shoulder hard enough that you would’ve stumbled if not for the steadying presence of him just slightly in front of you, absorbing the impact of the crowd without ever making it obvious he was doing it.
Even when the club got loud and chaotic and someone shouted your name from across the lot and you instinctively tightened your grip on his kutte without thinking, he would just glance back once—quick, controlled, unreadable to anyone else—and then subtly shift you a fraction closer to his side, like it was the most natural thing in the world for you to be there.
Which, eventually, it started to feel like.
People noticed, of course.
They always noticed things like that long before the people involved ever did.
Angel was the first to comment on it, because of course he was, because Angel couldn’t see something mildly interesting happening without putting his entire personality into pointing it out.
It happened one night outside a bar in Santo Padre when the sidewalks were packed and you’d stepped down off the curb a little too quickly, immediately reaching back for Neron’s kutte without hesitation, fingers gripping like a reflex you hadn’t learned how to turn off yet.
“Man,” Angel had said, leaning against a bike with a grin already forming, “she got you on a leash or somethin’?”
You’d blinked, confused, looking down at your hand like it didn’t belong to you.
Neron, standing perfectly still beside you, didn’t even look offended. Didn’t even look surprised.
He just glanced down at your hand for half a second, then back up at Angel.
“No.”
That was it.
One word.
Flat.
Final.
Angel had laughed like he didn’t believe him at all.
But Neron didn’t elaborate.
He didn’t need to.
Because even as he said it, his stance didn’t change.
He didn’t move away from you. Didn’t shrug your hand off or break the contact.
Instead, he shifted just enough that your grip stayed easy, effortless, like he’d decided without fanfare that your hand belonged there for as long as you needed it to.
And you…still didn’t really think about it.
Not in a way that made sense of it.
It was just something your body did when things got crowded. When noise got too loud. When strangers moved too unpredictably. When the world felt a fraction too sharp around the edges.
Your hand found the back of his kutte.
And he was always there when it did.
There were moments, though, when you almost noticed.
Like the time a group pushed through a festival crowd too fast and you barely had time to step aside before instinct had you grabbing him tighter, fingers bunching the leather at his spine, and instead of continuing forward like nothing happened, Neron had stopped completely—just stopped—planting himself like an anchor in the middle of the moving crowd until it passed, letting people flow around you both like water around stone, his hand never touching you directly, never pulling you in, just existing there as a boundary between you and everything else.
Or the time you let go for half a second to adjust your bag and immediately felt the absence like something had been cut from your balance, only to find his hand hovering just behind you—not touching, never grabbing—waiting until your fingers returned to his kutte like they belonged there before he moved again.
You never asked about it.
And he never offered explanations.
That was how it stayed between you.
Unspoken.
Uncomplicated in a way that somehow felt heavier than words.
Until one night, after a run that left the whole club restless and tired and scattered across the clubhouse in different states of recovery, you ended up walking with him through a dense strip of downtown where the sidewalks narrowed and the crowd thickened into something almost constant, bodies moving in every direction at once under flickering neon signs and too-bright streetlights, and without thinking your hand reached up again, fingers curling into the familiar worn leather of his kutte as easily as breathing.
This time, though, you were aware of it.
Just slightly.
Just enough that you looked down at your own hand and then up at him, like you were seeing the habit for the first time instead of the thousandth.
Neron didn’t look back at you right away.
He just adjusted his pace, like always, letting you stay close without ever making it feel like you were being guided.
And that was when it finally clicked, slow and quiet and almost startling in its simplicity.
It wasn’t that you were holding onto him.
It was that he had made it so you could.
Every step.
Every crowd.
Every moment you didn’t know where to put yourself in the world.
He had already decided.
And somewhere in that realization, your grip tightened—not out of fear, but understanding—and Neron finally glanced back at you, just once, as if checking without words whether you were still okay, still there, still with him in the way you always seemed to be without trying.
You met his eyes.
And instead of letting go, you stayed exactly where you were, fingers curled into his kutte, walking beside him through the noise and lights and movement like it had always been the only place you were meant to fit.
And for once, Neron didn’t look forward right away.
He looked at you a second longer than usual.
Then he slowed half a step—not enough to announce anything, not enough for anyone else to notice—and let the space between you disappear entirely as you walked together, hand still on his back, the world moving around you like it always did, while neither of you moved alone again.
You're tiny but absolutely fearless, and Creeper has a heart attack every time you wander into dangerous situations completely oblivious.
The first time Creeper realized you had absolutely no sense of self-preservation, he honestly thought it was a one-off.
He was wrong.
Painfully, catastrophically wrong.
Because it turned out you weren't reckless.
You were just... completely incapable of recognizing when something was dangerous.
Not because you were stupid.
Quite the opposite. You were intelligent, observant, and calm under pressure.
You simply looked at situations that made fully-grown, heavily-armed bikers pause and thought, Oh, someone should probably help.
Then you walked straight toward them.
The fact that you were barely five feet tall only made it worse.
Not for you.
For him.
The first incident involved a stray pit bull.
The poor thing had wandered into the industrial lot behind the garage with a length of chain dragging behind it, ribs visible beneath patchy fur, growling at anyone who came within twenty feet.
Even Hank stayed back.
Angel tossed it half a burger from a safe distance.
Gilly suggested Animal Control.
Everyone agreed getting bitten sounded like a terrible way to spend Tuesday.
Then you walked outside carrying a bottle of water.
"Aw."
Every Mayan froze.
Angel actually reached for your arm. "Don't."
"It looks thirsty."
"It looks homicidal."
"It looks scared."
"It looks like it'll eat your face."
You looked between Angel and the dog.
Then shrugged.
"It probably won't."
Creeper had never moved so fast in his life.
By the time he'd crossed half the yard, you were already kneeling twenty feet away from the animal, speaking so softly nobody else could hear the words, only the warm cadence of your voice, while the dog stared at you with ears pinned flat, muscles trembling, every instinct screaming at it to run or fight.
And every instinct in Creeper's body was screaming at you to stand up and walk away before one bad decision changed everything forever.
"Cariño," he called carefully.
You glanced over your shoulder.
"One second."
One second.
Like you were asking him to wait while you finished making tea.
Not while you were introducing yourself to forty pounds of frightened muscle and teeth.
He was halfway to drawing his gun—not to shoot the dog, never that, but because panic had completely overridden common sense—when the pit bull slowly lowered its head.
Then...
It took one hesitant step.
Then another.
Then, unbelievably...
It pressed its nose into your waiting hand.
The entire yard went silent.
You smiled with heartbreaking gentleness.
"There you are."
Five minutes later you were sitting on the concrete with the dog's head in your lap while it sighed like it had finally found somewhere safe enough to rest.
Angel blinked. "...What."
Gilly frowned. "...How."
Bishop looked at Creeper.
"You okay?"
Creeper hadn't breathed in approximately three minutes.
"I almost died."
"No," Bishop corrected. "She almost gave you a heart attack."
"Same thing."
The second incident happened at a gas station three counties over.
The Mayans had stopped to refuel before heading home when shouting erupted near the convenience store.
A man was screaming at the teenage cashier, slamming both hands on the counter hard enough to make the candy displays rattle, while the kid behind the register looked seconds away from crying.
Every brother turned toward the noise.
They were deciding whether to intervene.
You...
Didn't decide.
You simply walked inside.
Creeper saw you disappear through the doors.
His soul left his body.
"Oh, fuck," he muttered, already moving.
He reached the entrance just in time to hear your voice.
"Sir."
The yelling stopped.
Not because you were loud.
Because you sounded so genuinely concerned.
"You seem really upset."
The man spun toward you.
"What?"
"I said..." You offered him the sweetest smile imaginable. "You seem upset."
"I am upset."
"I noticed."
"..."
"Would yelling at a seventeen-year-old fix your problem?"
Silence.
"No."
"Okay."
"..."
"So maybe don't do that."
The man blinked.
The cashier blinked.
Three customers blinked.
Creeper blinked.
You hadn't sounded frightened.
Or confrontational.
You'd sounded like you were explaining basic manners to someone who'd somehow missed kindergarten.
The man's shoulders slowly deflated.
He looked embarrassed.
Mumbled something under his breath.
Walked out.
You smiled at the cashier.
"You okay?"
The kid nodded numbly.
"Yeah."
"Good."
Then you bought two bottles of water and wandered back outside.
Creeper was waiting by the door.
"You scared ten years off my life."
You frowned.
"Why?"
"He could've hurt you."
"He didn't."
"That's not the point."
You reached up and gently squeezed his forearm.
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do."
You tilted your head.
"I figured if someone spoke to him like he was still a person instead of a problem, he'd calm down."
"..."
"...I was right."
He sighed so deeply Angel claimed later it physically aged him.
The third incident was the one that finally convinced the club you possessed some bizarre supernatural immunity to danger.
A little girl wandered away from her parents during a community festival.
Within minutes, panic spread through the crowd.
People shouted her name.
Police began searching.
Volunteers fanned out.
Then someone mentioned they'd seen her heading toward the old riverside construction site.
Half-finished buildings.
Open foundations.
Rusted equipment.
Everyone hesitated because it genuinely was dangerous.
You were already jogging that direction.
"Cariño!"
Creeper shouted.
You waved without slowing down.
"I'll be right back!"
Right back.
Like you were running to grab ice cream.
He took off after you so fast his boots barely touched the pavement.
By the time he caught up, you had already found the little girl sitting on a stack of concrete pipes, happily talking to a tiny orange kitten she'd discovered.
The child wasn't crying.
Wasn't scared.
Just stuck because climbing down looked harder than climbing up.
You smiled.
"Hey."
She looked over.
"Hi."
"That's a cute kitty."
"I know."
"Wanna help me rescue it?"
She nodded enthusiastically.
You carefully coaxed both child and kitten back to solid ground just as Creeper reached you, breathing hard enough that you'd think he'd sprinted a marathon.
The little girl immediately hugged your legs.
"My mommy's crying."
"I bet she is." You took her hand. "Let's go fix that."
Her mother burst into tears the second she saw her daughter.
There were hugs.
More tears.
Gratitude.
The kitten got adopted on the spot.
Everyone celebrated.
Meanwhile...
Creeper stood off to the side with both hands on his hips, staring at you.
You walked over.
"What?"
"You climbed scaffolding."
"There were stairs."
"There were missing stairs."
"I stepped around those."
"There were exposed beams."
"I watched where I was going."
"There were nails."
"I wore boots."
"There was—"
"I got the kid."
"..."
"..."
"You got the kid."
"I did."
He closed his eyes.
He couldn't even argue.
You had.
By this point the club had started taking bets.
Not on whether you'd wander into another dangerous situation. That was a given.
On how long it would take.
"Three days," Angel guessed.
"Tomorrow," Gilly said.
"Two hours," Hank muttered.
Creeper pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You people are not helping."
Bishop laughed.
"We're coping."
The thing was...
You truly weren't trying to be brave.
One evening, while you and Creeper sat on the roof of the clubhouse watching the sunset paint the sky in streaks of orange and violet, he finally asked the question that had been haunting him for months.
"Why do you do it?"
You looked confused.
"Do what?"
"You walk toward trouble."
You thought for a long moment.
"I don't think about trouble."
"No?"
"I think about whoever's standing in the middle of it."
He stayed quiet.
"If someone's scared..." You looked out toward the horizon. "...then they're probably more frightened than I am."
"You get scared?"
"Of course."
"You never look scared."
"I just don't like leaving people alone."
Your answer settled somewhere deep inside him.
Because suddenly it all made sense.
You weren't fearless because you believed nothing bad could happen.
You were fearless because someone else's fear mattered more to you than your own.
That wasn't carelessness.
That was compassion so instinctive it overrode self-preservation.
It was beautiful.
It also terrified him.
The day he finally admitted he loved you came after yet another incident.
An elderly man had collapsed in a supermarket parking lot.
Before anyone else processed what had happened, you were already kneeling beside him, calmly directing bystanders to call an ambulance, checking that he was breathing, keeping him talking until paramedics arrived.
Creeper had watched the entire thing from across the lot, his heart lodged firmly in his throat.
When everything was over and the ambulance pulled away, you walked back to him brushing dust off your jeans.
"He'll be okay."
Creeper didn't answer.
Instead, he stepped forward, cupped your face in both weathered hands, and searched your eyes as if reassuring himself that you were really standing there, unharmed.
"You drive me insane."
You smiled apologetically.
"I know."
"I spend half my life convinced you're about to get hurt."
"I know."
"I've never met anyone who scares me this much."
You laughed softly.
"I'm five feet tall."
"Exactly."
His forehead rested against yours.
"And yet, you keep walking straight into danger with the confidence of a six-foot-four Marine."
"I don't mean to."
"I know."
"You know?"
"I know." His thumbs stroked your cheeks. "You don't go looking for danger."
"You don't?"
"No."
"You go looking for people."
Your eyes shimmered.
"I can't help it."
"I know."
"I just..." You swallowed. "...I hate seeing people alone when they're scared."
Something inside him finally gave way.
He smiled, helplessly, hopelessly in love.
"That's exactly why I love you."
You froze.
"You..."
"I love you."
Your breath caught.
"You've been giving me heart attacks since the day we met."
A laugh escaped you through suddenly watery eyes.
"I know."
"I'll probably spend the rest of my life worrying."
"I know."
"I'll probably age twenty years."
You giggled.
"I'm sorry."
He kissed your forehead.
"No."
Then your nose.
"No, you're not."
Finally, he kissed your lips—slowly, warmly, with all the tenderness he'd been carrying for months, the kiss lingering just long enough to say everything neither of you had ever quite managed to put into words.
When you finally pulled back, you smiled up at him with that same open-hearted expression that had always convinced frightened dogs, lost children, and angry strangers that they were safe with you.
"I love you too."
He wrapped you in his arms, holding you so carefully you'd think you were made of glass.
You weren't.
You were stronger than almost anyone he'd ever known.
But from then on, whenever your enormous heart inevitably led you toward someone in need, Creeper was always just a few steps behind—not because he wanted to stop you from being exactly who you were, but because loving someone as fearlessly kind as you meant accepting that you would always run toward people who needed help, and making sure that, no matter what happened, there would always be someone just as determined to come running after you.
Your rescue cat decides Creeper belongs to her and constantly sleeps on his chest.
The first time your rescue cat climbed into Neron Vargas' lap, it wasn't even remotely planned, and honestly, it shouldn't have happened at all considering she'd spent the better part of two years making it abundantly clear that she despised almost every human being who crossed the threshold of your apartment, hissing at delivery drivers through the screen door, vanishing beneath the bed whenever your neighbors stopped by, swatting at hands that reached toward her without permission, and generally behaving like a tiny, judgmental queen who had decided the world had failed her once already before you found her half-starved behind a laundromat, wrapped in motor oil stains and terror, with one ear permanently nicked from whatever life she'd survived before you.
So when Creeper came over one rainy afternoon to help fix a stubborn leak beneath your kitchen sink after discovering you'd been trying to do it yourself with a borrowed wrench and a YouTube video, you were already apologizing before he'd even stepped inside, warning him that your cat wasn't friendly, wasn't social, wasn't anything except deeply suspicious and mildly homicidal toward strangers, only for him to nod once, shrug out of his kutte, crouch beneath the sink without another word, and completely ignore the little pair of glowing eyes watching him from behind the hallway corner.
"You don't gotta apologise for her," he'd said quietly while tightening a pipe. "She's got her reasons."
You'd smiled at that because, somehow, that was exactly the right thing to say.
He didn't whistle for her.
Didn't click his tongue.
Didn't try to bribe her with treats or baby-talk or insist that all cats secretly loved him because they always knew a good person when they saw one, which seemed to be the favorite line of every overly confident man she'd ever scratched.
He simply existed in your apartment with the same calm, patient stillness that seemed woven into everything about him, speaking only when necessary, answering your questions with that gravelly voice that somehow always sounded softer when directed toward you, and when he eventually finished repairing the leak, wiped his hands on a rag, and leaned back against your couch with an exhausted sigh, your cat emerged from the hallway as though she'd been waiting for permission from some invisible force neither of you could see.
You watched in complete disbelief as she walked directly toward him.
Past you.
Ignoring you entirely.
She sniffed one of his boots.
Circled twice.
Then, with absolute confidence, climbed into his lap.
"...What?"
Creeper looked equally confused.
"I didn't do nothin'."
"I know you didn't."
Your cat kneaded his jeans exactly three times before curling into a neat little ball, tucking her nose beneath her tail as if she'd known him for years instead of thirty-eight minutes.
The silence that followed was almost comical.
You stared.
He stared.
Your cat immediately fell asleep.
"...I think," you managed eventually, "she just adopted you."
Creeper looked down at the tiny orange-and-white menace currently drooling on his thigh.
"I don't think I had much say."
"No," you laughed. "You definitely didn't."
That should have been a one-time fluke.
It wasn't.
The second time he visited, she met him at the door before she'd even acknowledged your existence that morning.
The third time, she rubbed against his boots so enthusiastically that he nearly tripped.
By the fifth visit, she'd developed an entire routine.
The moment she heard his motorcycle pull into the parking lot, she abandoned whatever she was doing—even if that happened to include eating dinner or aggressively chasing a dust bunny beneath the couch—and sprinted toward the front door, chirping loudly enough that you could hear her from the bedroom.
"You've got to be kidding me," you muttered one evening as she practically vibrated with excitement.
Creeper hadn't even knocked yet.
She yet knew.
The second you opened the door, she shoved past your ankles.
Creeper barely had time to say hello before she wrapped herself around one of his legs.
He looked down.
"...Hey."
She answered with the loudest purr you'd ever heard.
"Traitor," you informed her.
She ignored you.
Completely.
Creeper scratched behind one tiny ear.
"I think she's mad at you."
"I feed her."
"Maybe she don't care."
"I literally rescued her."
He shrugged.
"I guess I rescued her boyfriend."
You laughed so hard you had to lean against the doorframe.
His ears immediately turned pink.
"I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant."
"No, you don't."
"Oh, I absolutely do."
Then came the chest.
You had no idea how she'd discovered it, but apparently she'd decided Creeper's chest was the greatest sleeping surface ever invented.
The first time happened during movie night.
You'd convinced him—after weeks of gentle persistence—to let you pick something that wasn't an action movie or an old western, and halfway through the film he'd settled comfortably into one end of your couch while you curled beneath a blanket at the other, both of you quietly sharing popcorn and comfortable conversation between scenes, when your cat launched herself onto the cushions with surprising determination.
She ignored you.
Naturally.
Instead, she climbed directly onto Creeper.
One paw.
Then another.
Carefully scaling him until she reached the center of his chest.
She turned three precise circles.
Collapsed.
And immediately began snoring.
Creeper froze.
"...Am I allowed to move?"
"No."
"I figured."
"I think she'd kill you."
"I think I'd kill me too."
You looked over.
The image almost made your heart stop.
This massive, broad-shouldered Mayan everyone described as intimidating, dangerous, and terrifying was sitting perfectly still because an eight-pound rescue cat had fallen asleep on him, his rough, scarred hands resting awkwardly on either side of her tiny body like he was afraid even breathing too deeply might wake her.
He caught you smiling.
"What?"
"You look cute."
He snorted.
"I look trapped."
"Both."
It became tradition after that.
He'd come over.
Your cat would greet him before greeting you.
She'd spend exactly fifteen minutes supervising whatever he was doing.
Then, eventually, she'd climb onto his chest and pass out as though she'd been assigned guard duty by some feline higher authority.
If he was sitting.
Chest.
If he was lying on the couch.
Chest.
If the two of you were stretched out on your apartment floor assembling cheap furniture.
Chest.
You began wondering whether she'd forgotten you were technically her owner.
One Saturday afternoon, you walked into your living room carrying fresh coffee only to stop dead in your tracks.
Creeper had fallen asleep.
Your cat was asleep on his chest.
One of his large hands had unconsciously settled around her tiny body protectively.
Neither of them had moved in what looked like hours.
Sunlight spilled across the couch.
Everything was peaceful.
Warm.
Quiet.
You stood there far longer than necessary, smiling to yourself because the sight tugged at something deep inside your chest that you'd been trying very hard not to examine, something that whispered this feels like home in a voice so soft it almost frightened you.
When Creeper finally blinked awake, he caught you watching.
"...How long?"
"Long enough."
He glanced down.
Your cat hadn't moved.
"I don't wanna wake her."
"You've been prisoner for two hours."
He sighed dramatically.
"I've accepted my fate."
The club found out eventually.
Of course they did.
You'd brought your cat to the clubhouse once after your apartment complex scheduled unexpected fumigation, figuring she'd spend most of the afternoon hidden inside her carrier while you waited for the all-clear.
Instead...
The second Creeper sat down.
Out she came.
Straight onto his chest.
Happy as could be.
Angel nearly dropped his drink.
"Gotta be kidding me."
Hank blinked twice.
"That cat likes nobody."
"Exactly," you answered.
Bishop folded his arms.
"So why's she glued to Creeper?"
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
"I honestly don't know."
Creeper looked down at the sleeping cat currently stretched across him like she'd paid rent.
"I think she just decided."
Angel laughed.
"Nah, hermano. Animals know."
"Know what?"
"Who their people are."
There was something about that sentence that made the room go unexpectedly quiet.
Because nobody laughed afterward.
Nobody argued.
Everyone simply looked at Creeper.
Then at you.
Then at the cat who had somehow appointed herself living evidence of feelings neither of you had managed to confess yet.
Several weeks later, after dinner together had stretched into another late evening filled with lazy conversation and comfortable silences, the television forgotten in the background while rain tapped steadily against your windows, your cat once again asleep on his chest with the unwavering certainty that she'd found exactly where she belonged, Creeper looked down at her before lifting his eyes toward you, his expression softer than you'd ever seen it, carrying that rare vulnerability he only seemed willing to show when it was just the two of you.
"I think..." he began slowly, "...she figured something out before I did."
You tilted your head.
"What?"
He smiled—a small, crooked thing that still managed to completely undo you.
"That I keep looking for excuses to come over."
You felt warmth creep into your cheeks.
"I noticed."
"I wasn't exactly subtle."
"No."
"I just..." He exhaled quietly. "Didn't know if you wanted me around that much."
You didn't answer immediately.
Instead, you stood, crossed the room, and carefully lifted your sleeping cat from his chest despite her tiny, indignant squeak before settling her onto the blanket beside him, where she barely stirred.
Then you sat down close enough that your knees touched.
"I've been hoping you'd stop looking for excuses," you admitted.
His brow furrowed.
He searched your face for several long seconds before reaching for your hand with that same gentleness he'd always shown your frightened little rescue, his calloused fingers threading carefully through yours as though afraid you'd disappear if he moved too quickly.
"So..." he murmured.
"So," you echoed.
"Would you let an old biker take you out on a real date?"
You smiled so brightly your cheeks hurt.
"I was wondering how long it'd take."
His quiet laugh rumbled between you, warm and genuine, before he leaned forward slowly enough to give you every chance to pull away, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead first, then another to your lips that tasted faintly of coffee and carried every unspoken feeling the two of you had been dancing around for months.
Behind you, your rescue cat cracked open one sleepy eye, watched the kiss with what looked suspiciously like satisfaction, stretched luxuriously across the couch, and immediately climbed back onto Creeper's chest the second the two of you settled together, earning an amused groan from him and helpless laughter from you both, because apparently she'd been right all along—he belonged to her, certainly, but somewhere along the way, he'd come to belong to you too, and neither of you had any intention of ever changing that.
You have chronic pain. He learns every tiny thing that helps without ever making you feel guilty.
The first time Creeper noticed it, he didn't even realise he was noticing it.
You had become such a normal part of the Santo Padre clubhouse that your quiet habits blended into the background like the scrape of boots across concrete or the clink of beer bottles against scarred wooden tables.
And all he really registered at first was that every now and then, usually after sitting too long or standing too long or riding too far or even after what looked like an easy afternoon, your smile would tighten just a fraction around the edges before you shifted your weight with practiced subtlety, as though you were trying to negotiate with your own body without anyone else seeing the conversation happening.
Most people never would have caught it.
Creeper did.
He didn't ask.
Not because he didn't care, but because he knew enough about pain to understand that people who lived with it usually got asked the wrong questions.
"What happened?"
"Did you try stretching?"
"You're too young to hurt."
"You don't look sick."
People always wanted an explanation before they offered kindness.
Creeper figured the kindness should come first.
So instead of asking, he started paying attention.
He noticed you always chose the end seat at the clubhouse table because it let you stand whenever you needed without making everyone shuffle their chairs. He noticed you leaned against walls whenever conversations ran long. He noticed you unconsciously rubbed your wrists when you were tired. He noticed that cold weather made your shoulders stiff enough that you stopped reaching for things on high shelves. He noticed you hated people making a fuss. He noticed you thanked people too much whenever they did something small.
That last one bothered him more than anything.
Because nobody should apologize for existing.
Weeks passed before you finally mentioned it yourself.
You were both sitting outside while the rest of the club argued over something inside that had somehow turned into yelling about carburetors despite starting as a discussion about routes, and you were staring out toward the empty lot while slowly rotating one shoulder.
"My joints are being assholes today."
Creeper looked over.
"You okay?"
You smiled.
"I will be."
Simple.
Matter-of-fact.
Like talking about the weather.
He nodded once.
Didn't pry or ask for details or offer miracle cures. Just accepted the answer exactly the way you'd given it.
You noticed.
Most people couldn't leave it alone.
He could.
The learning happened gradually.
Almost accidentally.
He discovered heat helped because one evening you sighed in relief after wrapping both hands around a mug of coffee that had gone cold enough to drink but was still warm enough to soothe aching fingers.
After that...
If he was making coffee, your mug somehow always arrived hotter than everyone else's.
Not boiling.
Just enough.
Exactly enough.
He tested temperatures without telling you until one afternoon you wrapped both hands around it, closed your eyes for one peaceful second, and smiled.
He stored that information away forever.
He learned you walked slower after long rides.
So he started slowing down too.
Never obviously.
Never enough for anyone else to notice.
Just enough that you never had to hurry to keep up beside him.
You didn't realize he'd adjusted until Angel jogged ahead one afternoon before glancing back.
"Damn, Creeps. Since when are you the slow one?"
Creeper shrugged.
"No rush."
Angel laughed.
You looked at Creeper.
He looked straight ahead.
You smiled quietly.
He learned sitting on the old clubhouse couches hurt after about twenty minutes because they sagged in the middle.
The next week, without explanation, one of the sturdier chairs mysteriously appeared in your usual corner.
Nobody knew who moved it.
Except Bishop, who had watched Creeper drag it across the room at six in the morning before anyone arrived.
"You gonna tell her?"
"No."
"You gonna tell anybody?"
"No."
Bishop grinned.
"You're screwed."
Creeper frowned.
"No."
"Sure."
He learned your pain wasn't predictable.
Sometimes you could spend all day working in the garage.
Other days opening a bottle made you wince.
He never tried to understand why.
Because you told him once, "I don't always know why."
That was enough.
If you didn't have an explanation, he didn't need one either.
The biggest surprise came when you apologized.
Again.
You'd been helping organize supplies when a bad flare hit suddenly enough that you had to stop halfway through lifting a box.
"I hate this," you muttered, frustration breaking through your calm. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For... this." You gestured vaguely toward yourself. "The pain. Slowing everybody down."
Creeper stared at you for several long seconds.
Then quietly reached over, picked up the box with one hand, and carried it the rest of the way.
"You know what slowed me down?"
You blinked.
"Hm?"
"Prison."
"..."
"This ain't slowing me down." His voice stayed calm, steady. "You hurting isn't something you're doing to me."
Something in your expression cracked.
Not into tears.
Into relief.
Like someone had finally removed a weight you'd been carrying for years.
From then on...
His kindness became almost invisible.
The kind people only notice when it's suddenly absent.
He parked closer whenever he could. He automatically took heavier bags. He remembered which booth at the diner had better back support. He kept extra pain patches in the saddlebag of his bike because you'd forgotten yours exactly once. He started carrying electrolyte packets after realising dehydration made your bad days worse. If the weather changed suddenly, he already had your hoodie. If rides ran longer than expected, he suggested breaks before you had to ask.
Never because he thought you couldn't manage.
Because he knew you would push yourself until you couldn't.
He quietly refused to let you reach that point.
Not by controlling you.
By giving you permission to rest before you felt guilty about needing to.
The club noticed.
Eventually.
"You babyin' her?" Gilly asked one afternoon.
Creeper looked genuinely confused.
"No."
"You carry stuff."
"So?"
"You pull out chairs."
"So?"
"You always ask if she's eaten."
"So?"
Angel burst into laughter.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"You don't even know you're doing boyfriend shit."
"I'm not—"
"You are."
"I'm being decent."
Bishop smirked.
"Nah."
Everyone looked at him.
He leaned back.
"Decent would've been holding the door."
He nodded toward you across the room, where you were laughing with Nails.
"Creeps memorised her whole operating manual."
"I did not."
"You know exactly how much sleep she needs before riding."
Silence.
"You know which shoulder hurts worse when it rains."
Silence.
"You know which pain meds upset her stomach."
Silence.
"You know how she likes blankets folded when she's having a rough day."
Complete silence.
Angel slowly turned toward him.
"...Bro."
Creeper rubbed a hand over his face.
"...Shit."
You found out completely by accident.
You'd had one of the worst flare-ups in months.
Everything hurt. Your patience had disappeared hours ago. You'd snapped at your own damn shoelaces.
By the time Creeper knocked on your apartment door carrying takeout, you looked exhausted enough that simply smiling seemed like work.
"You didn't have to come."
"I know."
"You didn't have to bring food."
"I know."
"You didn't have to—"
"I know."
He stepped inside.
Set the food down.
Without asking, he turned the thermostat up three degrees. Closed the blinds because bright light gave you headaches when the pain got bad. Filled your heating pad. Put water beside the couch. Moved your medication within arm's reach. Folded the blanket exactly the way you always did.
Then walked into the kitchen.
"...Where's the ginger tea?"
You stared.
"The..."
"You keep it somewhere."
"...Second cupboard."
He found it immediately.
Made it.
Brought it back.
Only then did he sit beside you.
You looked around your apartment.
Then back at him.
"...How do you know all this?"
He looked almost embarrassed.
"I pay attention."
Your throat tightened.
"You remembered."
He frowned slightly.
"Why wouldn't I?"
Because people usually didn't. Because even people who loved you forgot. Because people got tired. Because eventually they sighed when plans changed. Eventually they rolled their eyes. Eventually they asked if you were still hurting. Eventually they acted like your body was something inconvenient.
But here sat Creeper...
Who remembered things you hadn't even realised you'd mentioned. Who never made you justify cancelling plans. Who never questioned whether you were really hurting. Who never sighed when you needed another break. Who never once made your pain feel like a burden he was carrying instead of something you were surviving.
You reached over.
Took his rough hand.
"You make this easier."
His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.
"I can't fix it."
"I know."
"I wish I could."
"I know." You smiled through suspiciously wet eyes. "But you never make me feel guilty for it."
He looked at you with that quiet, steady expression that had somehow become your safest place.
"I'd feel guilty if I made you think you had to earn being cared about."
The silence afterward felt full instead of empty.
You leaned your forehead against his shoulder.
His arm settled around you naturally, carefully, giving you room to move if you needed, holding you only as tightly as you wanted to be held.
"You know," you murmured, "I think I'm falling in love with you."
His heartbeat stumbled beneath your cheek.
"I think..." he admitted softly, "...I've been there for a while."
You laughed quietly.
"So that's why you know where I keep the tea."
"Nah."
"No?"
"I knew I was in trouble when I started checking weather reports to figure out whether your knees were gonna hurt."
You laughed harder, genuine this time, the sound filling your apartment.
Then you tipped your face up and kissed him.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
The kind of kiss that wasn't born from grand declarations or dramatic confessions, but from months of quiet observation, remembered details, shared silences, and the certainty that love wasn't always loud enough to hear across a crowded room—sometimes it was simply someone noticing your mug had gone cold and replacing it with a warmer one before you'd even realized you needed it.
From that day forward, nothing about your pain magically disappeared, and Creeper never pretended it would, but neither of you measured your life by the difficult days anymore, because those days were softened by the man who learned every tiny thing that made them just a little easier without keeping score, and by the woman who finally understood that being loved didn't require pretending to be easy to love, and together they built something steady enough to outlast the bad mornings, the aching nights, and every unpredictable flare in between.
Someone asks if you're dating. Before either of you answer, everyone looks at Creeper because he's already staring at you.
It was one of those long, lazy evenings where several charters had crossed paths after a run, bikes still ticking as they cooled outside while music drifted through the open doors, pool balls cracked against one another somewhere in the back, beer bottles collected in uneven circles across scarred wooden tables, and conversations overlapped until they became little more than comfortable background noise, everyone settled into that rare pocket of calm where nobody was bleeding, nobody was arguing, and nobody was rushing toward another problem.
You'd been around Santo Padre enough by then that your presence wasn't questioned anymore.
You wandered where you pleased, helped in the kitchen if Letty bullied you into it, stole fries off Angel's plate without asking, laughed with Bottles until he nearly cried from laughing harder, and generally existed in that strange little place where you weren't patched, weren't family by blood, but somehow belonged anyway.
Creeper sat across the room.
Or rather, Neron Vargas sat across the room. Everyone called him Creeper.
Everyone except you.
You'd tried calling him that once.
He'd looked up from cleaning one of his pistols, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly.
"...Neron suits you better."
He'd stared for another second before simply nodding.
"Yeah."
From then on, you never called him anything else.
Nobody mentioned it.
They definitely noticed it.
Because for a man who rarely let people close enough to use his real name, the fact he never corrected you was...telling.
Still.
Nothing had happened.
Not officially.
The age difference lingered in the back of both your minds like an unspoken rule neither of you wanted to cross first. Twenty-one years felt enormous when you let yourself think about it.
You assumed he looked at you and saw someone who still had her whole life ahead of her.
Neron assumed you looked at him and saw a man whose life had already happened.
So instead...
He quietly looked after you. He remembered you hated onions. He handed you his hoodie whenever nights got cold. If you disappeared for more than ten minutes, his eyes unconsciously searched until he found you again. If you stood up, he shifted just enough that he'd always have a line of sight.
He never hovered.
Never controlled.
He simply...watched.
Like breathing.
Like instinct.
Like something he couldn't stop doing even if he wanted to.
Everyone noticed.
Nobody said anything.
Mostly because teasing Creeper felt like volunteering for your own funeral.
Until tonight.
You were sitting on the arm of the couch beside Bottles, laughing so hard at something Angel had done earlier that tears had started collecting in your eyes when one of the Tucson members—new enough not to understand the dynamics yet—looked between you and the room.
"So..." he asked, shrugging. "You got a boyfriend?"
The question itself wasn't remarkable.
The silence afterward absolutely was.
You blinked.
"Huh?"
"You." He pointed. "You dating anybody?"
Your mouth opened.
So did Neron's.
Neither of you managed a word.
Because before either answer could leave your mouths...
Every.
Single.
Person.
Turned.
Not toward you.
Toward Creeper.
The room shifted with almost eerie synchronization.
Bishop looked.
Angel looked.
EZ looked.
Hank looked.
Bottles slowly turned his head.
Even Gilly, halfway through drinking a beer, paused.
Every pair of eyes landed on Neron.
The Tucson member frowned.
"...Why's everyone looking at him?"
Nobody answered.
Because Neron wasn't looking at the guy.
He wasn't looking at the table.
Wasn't looking at the TV.
Wasn't looking anywhere except you.
His expression hadn't changed.
It almost never did.
But his eyes...
His eyes had softened in that tiny, almost imperceptible way they always did whenever you spoke, laughed, frowned, stretched, yawned, or simply existed somewhere within his field of vision.
He hadn't even realized he was doing it.
Again.
Angel pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Oh, for God's sake..."
Bishop sighed like a disappointed father.
"Hijo..."
Bottles whispered, "He's doing it again."
The Tucson member looked increasingly confused.
"Doing what?"
EZ answered without taking his eyes off Creeper.
"Staring."
"I'm not staring."
Neron's response came automatically.
You looked at him.
He looked right back.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even attempt to deny where his attention currently was.
Angel barked out a laugh.
"Dude."
"What?"
"You literally answered while still staring at her."
"I'm listening."
"With your eyeballs?"
"I'm capable of both."
The room dissolved into laughter.
Even Hank hid a grin behind his beer.
Your face had become noticeably warmer.
"Neron..."
"Hm?"
"They're making fun of you."
"I noticed."
"You could stop looking at me."
"I could."
He didn't.
The laughter doubled.
Angel actually slapped the table.
"He admitted it!"
"I didn't think he'd admit it!"
Bishop pointed directly at him.
"You've been watching that girl all damn night."
"I've been watching the room."
"The room she's in."
"...Yeah."
"Specifically wherever she walks."
"...Yeah."
"You tracked her when she went to the bathroom."
"I was making sure she got back."
"You knew how long she'd been gone."
"Eight minutes."
Silence.
Everyone stared.
Angel slowly turned toward you.
"He counted."
"I..." You blinked several times before looking back at Neron. "...You counted?"
His shoulders rose in the faintest shrug.
"I noticed."
"You noticed?"
"You hadn't come back."
"You timed it?"
"You usually take three."
"You know my average bathroom time?"
Another shrug.
"...Apparently."
Bottles wheezed so hard he almost slid off the couch.
"Oh my God."
Angel was laughing too hard to breathe.
"This man is fucked."
"Nah," Gilly grinned.
"He passed fucked six months ago."
You buried your face in your hands.
"Neron..."
"What?"
"Were you ever planning on telling me you liked me?"
His expression finally changed.
Barely.
His eyebrows pulled together.
"I thought it was obvious."
You slowly lowered your hands.
"...You did?"
"I didn't think I was hiding it."
The room erupted.
"HIDING IT?" Angel shouted.
"Brother, you've got heart eyes!"
"You practically orbit her!"
"You hand her drinks before she asks!"
"You move chairs so she has somewhere to sit!"
"You glare at people who stand too close!"
"You remember her coffee order!"
"You threatened Bottles because he made her cry during Monopoly!"
"He cheated," Neron answered flatly.
"I landed on Boardwalk!"
"You stole the bank."
"I was winning."
"You committed financial fraud."
"I was strategic."
The laughter became so loud that someone outside actually peeked in to see what was happening.
Meanwhile...
You simply stared at him.
He stared back.
"...You really thought I knew?"
"I figured."
"I thought you were just..." You searched for the right word. "...kind."
"I am."
"...To everyone."
"No."
That answer came immediately.
Firmly.
Without hesitation.
You blinked.
"No?"
"No."
"I don't look after everyone."
"You don't?"
"No."
"You don't remember everyone's coffee?"
"No."
"You don't notice if everyone skipped lunch?"
"No."
"You don't automatically stand beside everyone?"
"No."
"...You don't?"
"No."
You stared another long second.
"...Just me?"
His eyes never left yours.
"Just you."
Everything else disappeared.
The laughter.
The music.
The conversations.
Even the room itself seemed to fade until it was only the two of you standing in the middle of it.
You smiled first.
Small.
Nervous.
Hopeful.
"I thought...maybe the age difference meant you weren't interested."
For the first time all evening, genuine surprise crossed his face.
"I thought it meant you deserved someone younger."
You laughed softly, almost in disbelief.
"So we've both been idiots."
"...Looks that way."
You stepped closer.
Close enough that he instinctively adjusted his stance to give you room without ever backing away.
"So..."
You reached for his hand.
His larger fingers immediately curled around yours like they'd been waiting to do exactly that.
"...Want to finally answer that question?"
He looked down at your joined hands before lifting his eyes back to yours.
Then, with the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—a smile so rare that half the room gasped dramatically—he answered in the calm, steady voice that had always made you feel safe.
"I'd like us to be."
You squeezed his hand.
"I'd like that too."
Behind you, Angel threw both arms into the air.
"FINALLY!"
Bottles collapsed dramatically onto the couch.
"I've been waiting a year for this!"
Gilly pointed accusingly at Bishop.
"You owe me fifty bucks."
"I said by Christmas."
"You said next Christmas."
"They were taking forever!"
Neron glanced over at the chaos before looking back at you with quiet amusement.
"...They're never going to let this go."
You smiled.
"I know."
"...Still okay with it?"
You leaned forward just enough to rest your forehead against his shoulder, feeling him relax completely as one arm settled carefully around your waist, protective without ever being possessive, comfortable as though he'd finally stopped holding his breath after months of denying what everyone else had already seen.
"I think," you murmured, smiling against him, "they've known we were together long before we did."
Judging by the triumphant cheering echoing through the clubhouse, neither of you could honestly argue with that.
He learns that your ex used to purposely drive unsafely and like an idiot to scare you.
If someone deliberately speeds, swerves, drives aggressively, ignores your fear, or drives recklessly during arguments to intimidate or control you, that is not a joke, a personality quirk, or "just how they drive."
It is a form of coercive and threatening behaviour. It is an abuse tactic.
Please be careful and safe out there.
The first time Neron realised something was wrong, it wasn't because you said anything.
It was because you went quiet.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet the two of you often shared, where he rode his Harley with you tucked behind him and your helmet occasionally bumped against the back of his, your arms warm around his waist as the California sun settled over Santo Padre.
No.
This was different.
You stiffened.
Your fingers tightened around the leather of his kutte until your knuckles hurt.
He felt it immediately.
His eyes flicked to the mirror.
"You good, Sweets?"
Your answer came too quickly.
"Mhm."
A lie.
He knew your voice well enough now.
"You sure?"
"...Yeah."
He let it go.
For the moment.
You'd stopped at a red light on the outskirts of town.
A battered pickup pulled into the lane beside you.
The driver couldn't have been older than twenty-two, stereo shaking the truck apart. His friends laughed from the passenger seats while he revved the engine for no reason at all.
Green.
The truck shot forward.
The driver swerved between lanes, cut off another car by inches, then accelerated hard enough that his tires squealed.
One of his passengers leaned halfway out the window, hollering.
Idiots.
Neron barely spared them another glance.
But you...
You'd gone completely rigid.
Your breathing changed.
Short.
Shallow.
You buried your face between his shoulder blades until the truck disappeared into the distance.
Later, parked outside your apartment, he waited until you'd taken your helmet off.
"You wanna tell me what happened?"
You blinked.
"What?"
"Truck."
You looked away.
"...Nothing."
"Sweets."
"It just..." You shrugged. "I don't like people driving like that."
"Most people don't."
"No."
You smiled weakly.
"I really don't."
His instincts prickled.
Not because of what you said.
Because of how carefully you chose the words.
Over the next few weeks he noticed more.
Whenever someone tailgated you, either your car or his bike, you tensed.
Whenever a driver changed lanes aggressively, your breathing hitched.
Whenever someone sped through an intersection, your fingers dug into him.
He began adjusting without mentioning it.
Leaving extra following distance.
Taking quieter roads.
Avoiding rush hour.
Never accelerating harder than necessary.
Always signaling.
Always smooth.
Always predictable.
He'd ridden motorcycles for decades.
Control was second nature.
Still...
He found himself becoming even more deliberate because he noticed you relaxed whenever he was.
One Saturday afternoon the two of you borrowed EZ's truck to pick up a bookshelf you'd found online.
Neron drove.
You sat beside him with coffee balanced between your knees.
The radio played softly.
Everything felt easy.
Comfortable.
Until...
A sports car blasted around the corner.
The driver overtook three vehicles on a blind bend.
The horn screamed.
Brakes shrieked.
The car narrowly missed another truck before disappearing.
Your coffee spilled across the lid.
You flinched so violently your shoulder hit the door.
Neron immediately eased the truck onto the shoulder.
He shifted into park.
Turned toward you.
"Sweets."
You weren't crying.
Not yet.
But you looked like every muscle in your body had locked.
"You okay?"
"...Yeah."
"No." His voice stayed gentle. "No, you're not."
"I'm fine."
"You ain't."
Silence.
He waited.
Finally...
You whispered—
"...Can we just sit for a minute?"
His heart squeezed.
"As long as you need."
Neither of you spoke for several minutes.
Wind rustled through the dry grass outside.
Cars passed.
Eventually your breathing steadied.
"I'm sorry."
"There you go apologizing."
"I ruined the trip."
"You didn't ruin a damn thing."
You stared out the windshield.
"My ex..."
Neron went still.
"...What about him?"
Your fingers twisted together.
"He used to..." You swallowed. "...Drive like that."
His jaw tightened.
"What do you mean?"
You laughed once.
It wasn't amused.
"If we argued..." His stomach dropped. "...He'd speed."
He didn't interrupt.
"He knew I hated it." You looked down at your hands. "So he'd floor it."
Your voice became strangely flat.
Like you were reading someone else's story.
"He'd weave through traffic... run lights... brake really hard... take corners too fast... if I cried..." A pause. "He'd laugh."
Neron felt something cold settle beneath his ribs.
"...He what?"
"He said I was dramatic." You kept talking. "He'd ask if I trusted him. If I said yes..."
You smiled bitterly.
"...He'd go even faster."
Neron's hands tightened around the steering wheel.
Leather creaked.
"He'd tell me..." You looked out the window. "...'If you keep talking, I'm gonna crash this car.'"
Silence.
"He never meant it." You shrugged. "I don't think. But I didn't know that."
Your voice cracked.
"I was twenty. You believe someone you love isn't going to purposely scare you."
Neron was so still he almost looked carved from stone.
Inside...
Rage.
Pure.
White-hot.
Not loud.
Not explosive.
The dangerous kind.
The controlled kind.
The kind every Mayan recognized immediately.
He spoke carefully.
"So every time..." He gestured toward the road. "...some idiot drives like that..."
You nodded.
"My body remembers before my brain does."
He closed his eyes.
Just briefly.
When he opened them again—
His expression had changed.
Soft.
Heartbroken.
He reached across the console.
Opened his hand.
You slipped yours into it automatically.
"I'm sorry."
You frowned.
"You didn't do anything."
"I know."
His thumb brushed your knuckles.
"I'm sorry somebody who was supposed to protect you..." His voice grew rough. "...used your fear against you."
The tears came immediately.
You hadn't expected that.
Not sympathy.
Not understanding.
Certainly not...
That sentence.
"I always felt stupid." Your voice wobbled. "It wasn't like he hit me."
Neron looked at you.
A long moment passed.
Then he said quietly—
"Sweets."
You met his eyes.
"You know what fear does to people?"
You shrugged.
"It teaches them."
"..."
"He taught you that getting in a car with someone who says they love you wasn't safe." His jaw flexed. "That's a hell of a thing to do to somebody."
You cried then.
Not dramatically.
Just...
Quietly.
Like something you'd carried for years had finally become too heavy.
He unbuckled.
Shifted closer.
Opened his arms.
You climbed into them without hesitation.
The center console dug awkwardly into both of you.
Neither cared.
His hand rested against the back of your head.
"I got you."
You nodded into his shoulder.
"I know."
After that day...
He changed things.
Not because you asked.
Because he loved you.
He always told you before changing lanes.
"Coming over."
He warned you before braking.
"Stopping."
If traffic got chaotic—
He'd glance over.
"You alright?"
If another driver became aggressive—
He simply slowed down.
Moved over.
Let them go.
You noticed.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know."
One evening you asked the question that had been bothering you.
"Don't they annoy you?"
"What?"
"The idiots."
He chuckled.
"They do."
"So why not..."
You mimed speeding away.
He looked genuinely confused.
"...Why would I?"
"To prove something?"
He actually laughed.
"To who?"
"Them?"
He shook his head.
"I ain't got nothing to prove." Then he reached over and squeezed your thigh affectionately. "My job's getting you home."
Several months later...
The clubhouse barbecue was winding down when the subject came up.
Angel had gotten another speeding ticket.
Again.
"You drive like you got a death wish," Bishop muttered.
Angel rolled his eyes.
"I got places to be."
"Yeah?" EZ laughed. "The cemetery?"
Everyone chuckled.
Everyone except Neron.
He was quietly cleaning up paper plates.
Angel noticed.
"What?"
Neron looked up.
"Slow down."
Angel blinked.
"...What?"
"Drive slower."
The room went oddly quiet.
Angel frowned.
"You serious?"
"Mhm."
"You never cared before."
"I do now."
You were sitting beside Letty on the porch when you heard it.
Angel looked between you and Neron.
Realization dawned.
"Oh."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"...Got it."
No jokes.
No teasing.
Just understanding.
Later that night...
You asked.
"What was that about?"
Neron shrugged.
"I don't like hearing about people driving stupid."
You smiled.
"Because of me?"
He looked at you like the answer should have been obvious.
"Yeah."
"It really bothered you."
"Sweets." He sounded almost offended. "Everything that scares you bothers me."
The confession came months later.
Not in a grand moment.
Not during a crisis.
Just...
Driving home.
Sunset painted the highway gold.
Your hand rested lazily on his thigh.
Music hummed through the speakers in his truck.
You looked out the window.
Then quietly said—
"I don't get scared anymore."
He glanced over.
"What?"
"When you're driving." You smiled. "I fall asleep."
He laughed softly.
"You do."
"I didn't even realise until today." You looked at him. "I used to grip the door handle every single car ride."
He felt his throat tighten.
"But with you..." You intertwined your fingers with his free hand. "...I don't even think about it."
He pulled into your driveway.
Put the truck in park.
Neither of you moved.
"You know..." He said quietly. "I wish I'd met you before him."
You looked over.
"So nobody ever would've taught you to be afraid."
Your eyes stung.
"You've spent two years teaching me I don't have to be."
He reached up, cupping your cheek with a hand worn rough by years of work, his thumb brushing beneath your eye before a tear could fall.
"You never deserved that."
"I know."
It was the first time you'd ever said those words without hesitation.
Not I think so.
Not Maybe.
Not I'm trying to believe it.
Just—
I know.
A slow, proud smile spread across his face, the kind that softened every hard line carved there by years of prison, violence, and regret.
"Good."
You leaned across the console and kissed him.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.
"You know what I love most?"
You smiled.
"What?"
"You don't brace yourself anymore."
You hadn't even realized it until he said it.
When he accelerated, you smiled instead of flinching.
When he reached for the gearshift, you didn't tense.
When he rested a hand over yours at a red light, your instinct wasn't fear—it was to lace your fingers through his.
Without fanfare, without promises spoken aloud, Neron had done something your ex never could. He had shown you, over thousands of ordinary miles and countless quiet drives, that love wasn't measured by how much fear someone could make you endure. It was measured by how safe they made you feel.
And by the time you fell asleep against the passenger window on the drive home from yet another late-night ride, your hand still loosely wrapped around his, Neron realized that there wasn't a destination in the world more important than bringing you home safely—every single time.
