Page 24 of Angel
Angel’s arm tightens around me slightly as he drifts toward sleep. I press my hand over his. And for the first time in weeks, when I close my eyes… I’m not counting anything. I’m just resting. And that feels like the first real breath I’ve taken in a long time.
Chapter Eight
Angel
I've faced worse rooms than a therapist’s office. Warehouses lit by flickering bulbs where the air smells like oil and gunpowder. Clubhouses thick with tension and bad decisions. Courtrooms where the air smells like money and lies and men pretending, they ain’t afraid.
Places where you walk in already knowing someone’s gonna bleed. Still, this one gets under my skin. Maybe because there’s nowhere to hide. No noise to drown things out, there is no enemy to point at and call the problem.
Just chairs. A couch.A rug that probably cost more than my first bike. A window letting in soft, polite light, like the world is trying to convince you everything’s manageable. It ain’t. But we’re here anyway.
The few nights before the appointment, I don’t sleep much. Not because she’s gone this time. She’s here, curled into my side like she used to. Trusting me with the soft parts again. I stare at the ceiling and let the quiet settle. The kind that asks questions you’ve been dodging for years.
What kind of man am I if I can’t fix this?
What good is being strong if the person you love is still breaking?
I’ve built my whole damn life on control. On knowing the route. The exits and any threats. Standing in front of the people I love and taking the hit, so they don’t have to. But this… this is a fight where every instinct I have is wrong.
I roll onto my side and watch Stevie sleep. The faint crease between her brows is still there, like her body hasn’t quite learned how to rest yet. There are shadows under her eyes I don’t remember seeing before all this started. I hate that I helped put them there. Not by hurting her, but by staying quiet and thinking steady meant silent.
The guys notice when something’s off. They always do. It’s mid-morning at Havoc Security. Paperwork spreads across my desk like a challenge I don’t feel like taking. Screens flicker with security feeds. Radios crackle softly.
Joker leans against the doorframe, coffee in hand, studying me like I’m a problem he’s not sure how to solve yet.
“You gonna tell me what’s eatin’ you,” he says, "or are we just gonna pretend you don’t look like hell?”
I snort. “You always this charming?”
“Only when I’m worried.”
That gets my attention. Joker doesn't throw that word around. I lean back in my chair and scrub a hand over my face.
“Stevie and I are startin’ counseling.”
He doesn’t react right away, just a slow nod.
“Good.”
That’s it. Just… good. I didn’t realize how much I was bracing for judgment until it didn't come.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit quietly. “Talkin’ about feelings with some stranger. Feels like handin’ over my patch.”
Joker steps inside and closes the door behind him.
“You think leadin’ a club is about never showin’ weakness?”
“No,” I say automatically.
“It’s about knowin’ when to ask for help,” he finishes. “Same rules apply at home.”
I stare at the security monitor without really seeing it.
“I keep thinkin’ if I just stay steady enough, she’ll come back to herself.”
“And what if she needs you unsteady with her?” he asks.
That one sticks. He claps my shoulder once before heading out.
