THE ONE WHO NOTICED

FIFTEEN

Six Weeks Later

**JAYDEN**

The clubhouse reeks of cigarettes, spilled beer, and motor oil.

Jayden sits at the head of the table in the chapel—the room where they hold church, where decisions get made, where the Iron Syndicate's future gets decided. His cut hangs heavy on his shoulders, the VP patch a constant reminder that he's not just filling in anymore. He *is* the authority here. At least until his president—his brother—recovers enough to take back the gavel.

If he ever does.

Chase sits to his right, arms crossed, jaw tight. The rest of the officers are scattered around the table. Tension hangs thick in the air.

"We can't let the Reapers think we're weak," one of the guys says. Tank. Road captain. Built like his name suggests. "They hit our supply line twice now. We hit back, or we look like we're rolling over."

"We're not rolling over," Jayden says. His voice is flat. Cold. "But we're not moving until we know exactly who's calling the shots on their end. I'm not sending our guys into a f*****g ambush because we're too impatient to gather intel."

Tank leans back, clearly wanting to argue but knowing better.

Chase glances at Jayden. There's something in his expression—concern, maybe. Or caution.

"We'll send a couple prospects to watch their clubhouse," Chase says, his tone measured. "See who's coming and going. Get a feel for their numbers. Then we make a move."

Jayden nods once. "Do it."

The meeting wraps up shortly after. The guys file out, heading to the bar or the garage or wherever the hell they go when church is over. Jayden stays seated, staring at the gavel in front of him.

He hates this thing.

Hates what it represents. Hates that his brother isn't here to hold it. Hates that he's the one making these calls now.

"You good?"

Chase's voice pulls him back. The door's closed. It's just the two of them now.

Jayden looks up. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

Chase raises an eyebrow. "Because you've been a f*****g asshole for six weeks straight."

Jayden's jaw tightens. "I'm handling shit."

"You're handling *too much* shit." Chase pulls out a chair, sits down across from him. "You're taking on everything yourself. Running point on the Reapers, dealing with the suppliers, managing the guys, checking in on Prez every other day. You're gonna burn out."

"I'm fine."

"You're not." Chase leans forward, elbows on the table. "And the guys are noticing. You're on edge. Snapping at everyone. You nearly took Rook's head off yesterday for leaving a wrench on the floor."

Jayden doesn't respond. Because Chase is right, and they both know it.

"Is this about the girl?"

Jayden's eyes snap up. His expression hardens. "Don't."

Chase holds up his hands. "I'm just asking, man. Lacey mentioned—"

"I said *don't*."

The silence stretches between them. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

Chase exhales, shaking his head. "Look, I get it. You're trying to keep your head in the game. But whatever's going on with you, it's affecting the club. And if it's affecting the club, it's my business."

Jayden stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "I'm handling it."

"Are you?"

He doesn't answer. Just grabs his cut off the back of the chair and heads for the door.

"Jayden."

He stops. Doesn't turn around.

Chase's voice softens. "You respected her space. That's more than most guys would do. But you can't keep doing this to yourself. You're allowed to feel it, man."

Jayden's hands curl into fists at his sides.

Then he walks out.

---

Later that night, Jayden's alone in his house.

He's barely been here in six weeks. Been staying at the clubhouse instead—sleeping on the couch in the common room, crashing in one of the spare rooms upstairs. Anywhere but here.

Because this is where she was. Where she stood in his bedroom and looked at his life for the first time. Where she sat on his couch and listened to him confess everything. Where she walked out the door and didn't look back.

Every corner of this place reminds him of her.

So he's been avoiding it. Throwing himself into club business. Living at the clubhouse. Only coming home when he absolutely has to—to grab clothes, to shower, to deal with s**t he can't handle in front of his brothers.

Tonight, Chase told him to go home. Get some actual sleep. Stop burning himself out.

So here he is.

Standing in the middle of his living room, surrounded by the ghost of her.

He hasn't contacted her. Not once.

He wants to. God, he wants to.

Every day, he picks up his phone. Stares at her name. Types out a message and deletes it. Over and over.

*Are you okay?*

*I miss you.*

*I'm sorry.*

But he doesn't send them. Because she asked for space, and he's giving it to her. Even if it's killing him.

He wonders if she's thinking about him. If she misses him. If she's moved on already.

The thought makes his chest tighten.

He sits on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, and lets himself feel it. Just for a minute. The ache. The emptiness. The fear that she's never coming back.

Then he shoves it down. Locks it away. Because he's the acting president of the Iron Syndicate, and he doesn't get to fall apart.

He has a club to run. Brothers to protect. Enemies to deal with.

But late at night, when he's forced to come back to this house that still feels like her, he lets himself wonder.

If she's okay.

If she's happy.

If she ever thinks about him the way he thinks about her.

____________________

KASIN**

"So you're telling me you've never seen *The Godfather*?"

Ember's looking at me like I just admitted I don't believe in gravity.

I laugh, shaking my head as I highlight another line in my textbook. "Never. Is that a crime?"

"Yes. Absolutely. We're fixing this immediately." She leans back in her chair, arms crossed, mock-serious. "Friday night. My place. Popcorn, wine, and a proper education in classic cinema."

"I have a quiz Monday—"

"Which you're already over-prepared for." She gestures at my color-coded notes spread across the library table. "Kasin, you're gonna ace this class. You know that, right?"

I do know that. And six weeks ago, I wouldn't have believed it.

Six weeks ago, I was still working at the liquor store, still going through the motions, still figuring out who the hell I was supposed to be.

Now? I'm here. Business school. Actually *in* school, taking classes, doing the work. And I'm good at it. Really good.

It's weird how much can change in a month and a half.

"Fine," I say, grinning. "Friday. But I'm bringing the wine."

"Deal."

Ember goes back to her laptop, typing something with the kind of chaotic energy that's just... her. She's all wild curly hair and bold opinions and zero filter. We met the second week of classes when she sat down next to me and immediately started complaining about the professor's monotone voice. By the end of that lecture, we were friends.

She's the kind of person who makes you feel like you've known her forever, even when you've only known her a few weeks.

Kind of like Lacey.

Speaking of—my phone buzzes on the table.

Lacey:drinks tonight? i need to vent about men

I smile.

Me:when do you NOT need to vent about men?

Lacey:rude but fair. 8pm?

Me:I'll be there

I slip my phone back into my bag and catch Ember watching me with a knowing look.

"Let me guess. Lacey?"

"How'd you know?"

"You smiled. You always smile when it's her." She tilts her head, studying me. "You two are cute. Like, ride-or-die cute."

"She's my best friend," I say simply. And it's true. Lacey's been there through everything. The before, the during, the after. She never pushed, never judged. Just showed up.

We've been hanging out more lately. Dinners, movies, random late-night drives when neither of us can sleep. It's been good. Really good.

Everything's been good.

I close my textbook, leaning back in my chair. The library's quiet this time of day—just a few other students scattered around, heads down, working. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, and for a moment, I just... breathe.

This is my life now.

School. Friends. Plans. Goals.

I'm not just surviving anymore. I'm actually *living*.

And I did this. Me. On my own.

The old version of me—the one from two months ago—wouldn't recognize this. That girl was stuck. Stagnant. Going through the motions but not really *there*. Depressed in a way that felt like drowning in slow motion.

I'm not that girl anymore.

I'm stronger now. More confident. I know what I want—or at least, I'm figuring it out. I'm not afraid to take up space. Not afraid to speak up in class or make plans or put myself out there.

I'm becoming someone I actually like.

But.

There's always a *but*.

I still think about him.

Every. Single. Day.

It's not the same as it was at first—that raw, aching hurt that made it hard to breathe. That's faded. Mostly.

Now it's just... there. A dull ache in the background. A Jayden-shaped space that nothing else quite fills.

I'll be in class, taking notes, and suddenly I'll remember the way he looked at me. Like I was the only person in the room. The only person that mattered.

Or I'll be laughing with Ember or Lacey, and for a split second, I'll wish he was there to see it. To see me like this. Happy. Whole.

I don't regret leaving. I don't regret choosing myself.

But I miss him.

God, I miss him.

And I don't know what to do about it.

I don't know if I'm supposed to reach out. If enough time has passed. If I'm "ready" yet—whatever that even means.

I don't know if he's moved on. If he's thought about me at all. If he hates me for walking away.

I don't know anything.

And that's the hardest part.

"You okay?"

Ember's voice pulls me back. She's watching me again, concern flickering in her eyes.

I nod. Force a smile. "Yeah. Just... thinking."

"About?"

I hesitate. I haven't told her about Jayden. Haven't told anyone except Lacey. It's not that I don't trust Ember—I do. But talking about him makes it real. Makes the ache sharper.

"Just life stuff," I say vaguely.

She doesn't push. Just nods and goes back to her laptop.

I gather my things, shoving my textbook and notes into my bag. "I'm gonna head out. See you Friday?"

"Friday," she confirms, grinning. "And Kasin? You're doing great. Like, really great. I hope you know that."

Something warm spreads through my chest. "Thanks, Em."

I leave the library and step out into the late afternoon sun. The campus is busy—students walking in groups, laughing, talking, living their lives.

I take a breath. Let it out slowly.

I'm doing great.

But I can't help but wonder if he is too.

Or if he's thinking about me the way I'm thinking about him.