Claimed By The Biker Colusses

Nightmare

Lila

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.

Damien made spaghetti — nothing fancy, just sauce from a jar and some garlic bread he warmed in the oven. We sat at the big dining table that felt way too large for just two people. The chairs were heavy wood, the kind that made you sit up straight whether you wanted to or not. I twirled noodles around my fork and tried to eat enough so he wouldn’t worry.

He kept glancing at me across the table, like he was checking if I was about to break. I kept my eyes on my plate mostly, because every time I looked up, I remembered the way his hand had brushed mine on the couch. The way he’d said my name like it hurt.

“You don’t have to cook every meal,” I said after a while, just to fill the silence.

“I want to,” he replied. Simple. No big explanation. “It gives me something to do with my hands.”

I nodded. That made sense. My hands felt restless too — like they wanted to reach for something they weren’t allowed to have.

After dinner I helped load the dishwasher. Our elbows bumped once when we both reached for the same plate. We both froze for half a second, then laughed awkwardly, the sound too loud in the empty kitchen.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“No, my fault,” he said, stepping back. He wiped his hands on a towel and hung it neatly on the hook. “You should try to get some sleep tonight. Real sleep. I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

I went upstairs early. Brushed my teeth, changed into the same oversized T-shirt from last night because it still felt comforting, and crawled into bed. The sheets were cool. The house creaked a little in the wind outside. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, replaying the photo album, the tea, the way Damien’s eyes had looked when I called him by his first name.

Eventually I drifted off.

The dream came fast and ugly.

I was in the car with Mom. Rain pounding the windshield just like the day of the funeral. She was laughing at something on the radio, tapping the steering wheel. Then headlights swung around the corner too fast. Metal screamed. The car flipped. I felt the impact in my bones, heard her scream my name once before everything went black and wet and cold.

“Lila!”

I woke up gasping, heart slamming against my ribs. My face was wet with tears and sweat. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the hallway nightlight I’d left on. I sat up, clutching the blanket, trying to remember how to breathe.

It was just a dream. Just a dream. But it felt so real. The screech of tires still echoed in my ears.

I couldn’t stay in this bed alone.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I swung my legs over the side and padded down the long hallway on bare feet. The floor was cold. My T-shirt barely covered the tops of my thighs, but I didn’t care. I stopped outside the master bedroom door, hand hovering over the wood.

What was I doing? He was probably asleep. This was stupid. Childish.

But the fear was still clawing at my chest, and the only person who had ever made me feel safe was on the other side of that door.

I knocked softly. Once. Twice.

“Damien?” My voice came out small and shaky.

A light clicked on inside. Footsteps. The door opened, and there he was — hair messy from sleep, wearing only dark boxer briefs and nothing else. His chest rose and fell quickly, like my knock had startled him awake. The hallway light spilled across his skin, highlighting the lines of muscle and the faint trail of hair lower down.

“Lila? What’s wrong?” He stepped forward immediately, one hand reaching for my shoulder. His eyes scanned my face, worried. “Bad dream?”

I nodded, tears spilling over again even though I tried to hold them back. “The accident. I was there… with Mom. It felt real.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” The word slipped out soft and broken. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled me gently into the room and closed the door behind us. His arms came around me, warm and solid, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other rubbed slow circles on my back.

I buried my face against his bare chest. He smelled like sleep and soap and something uniquely him. His heartbeat was steady under my cheek, a little faster than normal. I clung to him like he was the only real thing left.

“It’s okay,” he murmured into my hair. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Breathe with me, alright? In… and out.”

I tried. My body was trembling, half from the nightmare, half from being this close to him with so little between us. His skin was warm against my cheek. My hands rested on his sides, feeling the shift of muscle every time he breathed.

He walked us backward until we reached the edge of his big bed. “Sit down. Or lie down. Whatever you need.”

I didn’t let go. Instead I climbed onto the bed with him, still wrapped in his arms. He pulled the covers over both of us and held me against his side, my head on his shoulder, one of his legs tangled lightly with mine to keep me close.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered. “Not tonight. Not ever if I can help it.”

We lay there in the dark for a long time. My tears slowed. The nightmare faded a little at the edges. But the closeness didn’t. His hand kept stroking my back, slow and soothing, dipping lower sometimes toward the curve of my waist before catching himself and moving back up.

I could feel the tension in his body — the way he was trying so hard to be careful. To be good.

“Damien?” I whispered after a while.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you. For letting me come in here.”

He was quiet for a moment. His fingers paused on my spine. “You never have to thank me for that. This is your home too. I’m here for you… however you need me.”

The words hung between us. However you need me. They felt heavier than they should.

I shifted a little closer, my leg sliding more fully against his. The hem of my T-shirt had ridden up, and I felt the rough texture of his boxer briefs against my bare thigh. Neither of us moved away.

His breathing changed — deeper, a little uneven. I could hear his heart picking up under my ear.

“Lila,” he said, voice low and strained. “You should try to sleep now.”

“I know.” But I didn’t close my eyes. I tilted my head up just enough to see his face in the faint light from the cracked bathroom door. His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark, fixed on the ceiling like he was praying for strength.

My hand moved before I could think. Just a small touch — my palm resting flat on his chest, feeling the steady thump. His skin was hot under my fingers.

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Baby girl… don’t.”

The nickname slipped out again, soft and dangerous. Not quite fatherly anymore.

I didn’t pull my hand away. “I’m sorry. I just… I feel safe with you. Really safe. Like nothing bad can happen when you’re holding me.”

He turned his head to look at me then. Our faces were inches apart on the pillow. I could see the conflict in his eyes — the guilt, the hunger, the desperate need to do the right thing.

“You are safe,” he said roughly. “But this… us like this… it’s complicated. You know that.”

“I know.” My voice was barely a whisper. “But right now I don’t want to think about complicated. I just want to feel okay again.”

His hand came up and cupped the side of my face, thumb brushing away the last traces of tears on my cheek. The touch was gentle, but his fingers trembled slightly.

“You’re killing me here,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead. Long. Lingering. Not quite innocent. His lips were warm, and when he pulled back, they brushed the tip of my nose for the briefest second.

“Sleep,” he said. “I’ll be right here. I promise.”

I closed my eyes, curled tighter against his side, and let his heartbeat lull me. The nightmare didn’t come back. But something new was stirring — warm, confusing, and impossible to push down.

Damien

Holding her was torture.

Soft, warm, trusting — her body pressed against mine under the covers like she belonged there. Her leg tangled with mine, bare skin against mine. Her hand on my chest like she was claiming a piece of me.

I kept telling myself to be strong. To be the adult. The guardian. The man who didn’t take advantage of a grieving nineteen-year-old.

But every time she shifted, every little sigh she made in her sleep, my body reacted. Blood rushed south. My arms tightened around her without permission. I wanted to roll her under me and kiss her until she forgot every bad thing that had ever happened.

Instead I stared at the ceiling and counted my breaths.

When she whispered my name and touched my chest, I almost broke. Almost tilted her chin up and showed her exactly how not-fatherly my feelings had become.

The forehead kiss was the safest thing I could manage. Even that felt like crossing a line.

Now she was asleep in my arms, breathing steady, face relaxed for the first time since the funeral. She looked so young. So beautiful it hurt.

I brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and whispered into the dark, too quiet for her to hear:

“What the hell am I going to do with you, Lila?”

The answer scared me.

Because deep down, I already knew I wasn’t going to let her go.