Page 80 of Priest

“You promise?”

“I promise,” he says immediately. “On everything.”

I roll my eyes, but the tension in my chest loosens just a little.

“Fine,” I say. “But if you turn this into a spectacle…”

“I won’t,” he says, already smiling. “I’ll just build things.”

And somehow, the future doesn’t feel like a battlefield.

Just unfinished.

26

Blue

By the time they show up, the nursery looks exactly like it did when I showed it to Priest: unfinished and waiting.

Boxes are stacked too neatly to pretend they’ll assemble themselves. Paint cans sit along the wall like a to-do list I’ve been ignoring on purpose. I’ve spent enough time inside other people’s emergencies that my own future keeps getting pushed down the calendar, and every time I walk past this room, I tell myself I’ll get to it.

Eventually.

Apparently, eventually now comes with, bikers.

Priest stands just inside the doorway, hands loose at his sides, eyes flicking from the room to me like he’s checking in without asking. Ink and Nomad hang back behind him, present without crowding, which I appreciate more than I’m ready to say out loud.

“You sure?” Priest asks quietly.

I nod, even though my chest feels tight. “Yeah. Just remember the rules.”

His answer comes immediate. “Always.”

No hesitation. No sigh. No argument. That matters more than it should.

Nomad steps into the room like the space is already talking to him. His boots are quiet against the floor, and he pulls a small cart of paint supplies in behind him, neat enough to make me realize this isn’t a favor he improvised on the way over. He studies the wall, then the light, then the open space with an intensity that feels almost private.

He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t announce itself politely. Long blond hair pulled back messy, arms covered in ink, mouth curved like he’s always one bad idea away from enjoying himself. There’s something loose about him, restless even standing still, but it’s held in check now, aimed at the blank wall in front of him.

“What’re you thinkin’?” he asks.

“Woodsy,” I say. “Calm. Nothing loud. Maybe animals tucked in somewhere.”

“A quiet tree line,” he says, head tilting as if he can already see it. “A deer low near the corner. Smaller ones hidden closer to the baseboard so the kid can find them later.”

I blink. “You paint?”

“Sometimes,” he replies, like that explains the cart, the brushes, and the way his eyes have already mapped the room twice. “Helps with focus.”

Ink snorts softly from where he’s opening the first furniture box. “That’s underselling it.”

Nomad glances at him, one brow lifting. “You want to build the crib or narrate my humility?”

Ink’s mouth twitches. “I can multitask.”

“Dangerous claim for a man holding instructions upside down.”

Ink looks down.