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Part I – Cole
The roadhouse was old, older than sin and dust.
Half the windows were boarded shut, and the neon beer sign out front flickered like a dying star. But for now, it was safe.
Safe enough.
Cole dropped his helmet onto the scarred bar counter and leaned against it, shoulder throbbing under the fresh bandage.
Rain pattered against the tin roof — steady, soothing — the only sound besides the tired hum of a generator outside.
Deke was in the corner, talking logistics with a few brothers. They looked rough — mud-smeared, burned, exhausted — but alive. That was something.
He should've felt grateful. Instead, he felt empty.
Then he heard it — light footsteps behind him, hesitant but determined.
Elena.
She stopped a few feet away, hands shoved into the sleeves of an oversized Reapers hoodie. It drowned her frame, the hem brushing her thighs. She looked small, but there was a stubborn steadiness in her eyes.
"You should be resting," he said, voice gravelly.
"I tried," she replied. "It's hard to sleep when everything smells like smoke and diesel."
He almost smiled. "That's called home."
"I guess I'm still getting used to your definition of that."
He turned to face her fully. The dim light caught the bruise along her jaw — fading, but still there. He hated it more than he'd ever admit.
"You holding up?"
"I've been worse," she said quietly. Then, after a pause, "You haven't."
He frowned.
"You're hurt," she continued. "You should let Deke handle the rest."
"Deke's handling plenty. My job's making sure no one else ends up in a ditch."
Her voice softened. "Including yourself?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. She saw it in his silence — that same stubborn guilt that lived behind his eyes since the day she met him.
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Part II – Elena
She didn't know why she stayed.
Maybe because leaving meant running again, and she was tired of running.
Or maybe because, somewhere between the fire and the silence, she'd started to trust the man who refused to let her go back to the dark alone.
Cole Maddox — the man who spoke like gravel and moved like thunder.
The man who'd killed to save her.
The man who still couldn't save himself.
She crossed her arms and studied him. His hands — scarred, rough — gripped the edge of the bar. The leather of his cut looked heavier than usual, weighed down by too many ghosts.
"Do you ever stop carrying the world?" she asked softly.
He looked up, surprised. "What?"
"You act like you have to fix everything. Protect everyone. Maybe it's not all on you."
He exhaled, a low laugh that wasn't really a laugh. "That's the thing about leadership, sweetheart. You don't get to pick the weight."
Sweetheart.
The word hit her like a pulse.
She stepped closer. "Maybe not. But you don't have to carry it alone."
For a heartbeat, something flickered between them — not just tension, but recognition.
Two people broken in different ways, orbiting the same ache.
Cole's gaze dropped to her lips, then back up. He stepped away first.
"Get some sleep, Elena."
"I will," she said. "Eventually."
When she walked off, his jaw clenched, like he regretted letting her go.
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Part III – Cole
Later that night, the storm rolled in hard — wind howling through the cracks, lightning splitting the horizon.
Cole sat outside on the porch, cigarette glowing between his fingers, the rain hissing as it hit the ember.
He thought about the fire. The blast. The scream of metal and the smell of burnt fuel. He thought about losing her in that explosion — and how the thought scared him more than anything had in years.
Behind him, the screen door creaked open.
Elena stepped out, blanket around her shoulders, eyes reflecting the lightning.
"You don't sleep much, do you?" she asked.
"Not since I learned what nightmares can do."
She hesitated, then sat beside him — close enough for their shoulders to almost touch. The storm raged, wind tearing through the trees, but in that tiny space between them, it was quiet.
"Thank you," she said. "For not giving up back there."
He looked at her, really looked — rain in her hair, firelight in her eyes.
"Couldn't," he said simply. "You made me remember what fighting's for."
Her breath caught.
Thunder rolled. The rain came down harder, and before either of them could say another word, she reached over and took his hand — tentative but sure.
He didn't pull away.
The world outside was chaos, but for that moment, under the crack of thunder and the smell of wet asphalt, there was peace.
Something real.
Something worth saving.
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