The candle had burned down to nothing.
And I jumped. No hesitation, no mirror check, no makeup. Just jeans and a white t-shirt pulled from the closet with hands that shook a little. I didn’t care how I looked. I just needed to breathe. I needed to get out of that room before it swallowed me whole.
I ran through the door, my heart slamming against my ribs, down the stairs two at a time like I could outrun the past. And he was there.
Standing at the front door, like he belonged there. Like he had always belonged there.
He looked at me and smiled. Not that crooked smirk he gave other people, but the soft one. The one he only gave me. In one hand, his bike helmet. In the other, a single rose.
Pink.
Not red.
He knew. Of course he did. He always knew.
Red roses were my mother’s favorite. They were for funerals and anniversaries. But pink… pink had been mine,once.Soft andbright and full of life. Until she died. Then everything turned black. Not just my clothes. Not just my room.Me. The inside of me.
But somehow, with him, the color started to come back. Not all at once. Just in little moments. Like this one.
I used to think pink meant weak. Pretty. Safe. But now I know better. Pink was the color of coming back to life. Of trying again. Of wanting something after everything has been taken. Pink was for surviving.
And the words I used to carve when the pain got too loud, none of them mattered now. Except for one. Just one letter. A small “D” hidden where no one would see it. D for Dorian. He hadn’t seen it yet. But it was there. Quiet and real.
He made me want to speak again. To scream. To stop hiding behind silence. Because silence is where things rot. And love, real love, wants to be loud.
So yeah, I was too pink when I was with him.Too soft. Too open. He made the black edges fade with one look. He made the weight lift with one touch. He was the light I never thought I would see again. And I was the dark he held without fear. Because even the sun needs the night. And I was his night, just so he could be my day.
I ran to him like I had nowhere else to go. Because I didn’t. I took the rose from his hand and looked up at him.
“You knew,” I whispered.
He grinned. “Because you never shut the fuck up about it.”
I laughed. It caught in my throat, because it was too much. Too full.
“Okay, biker boy,” I said, rolling my eyes, even though they were already wet. “You win.”
“Just this time,” I added, smelling the rose like it could save me.
We walked to the Harley he had parked out front, shining black. Vivian and my father were gone for club business in Salem. Which meant today was ours. No masks. No pretending.
I stood next to the bike and stared at it. I had no idea what to do with it.
He didn’t say a word. Just lifted me gently, like I weighed nothing, and placed me on the seat. Then he slid the helmet on, carefully, and clipped it under my chin. He tapped the top.
“For good luck.”
I smiled. My head felt tight, and my heart even tighter. But I didn’t care.
He started the engine, and it roared to life beneath us.
The pink rose slipped from my hand and landed on the ground behind us.
I didn’t look back.
I just wrapped my arms around him and held on as if I let go, I might disappear again.
SEVENTEEN
