Ride And Obey MC

Twenty

Danielle POV

I completely forgot. Sam told me he’d be calling in today, that he wanted to have lunch with me. I don’t know how it slipped my mind, but it did, and now he’s here, sitting across from me while my chest tightens with guilt and nerves. I can’t seem to relax, not with Knox still out there somewhere, probably watching from across the room.

Sam’s eyes are on me, searching, weighing, and I already know what’s coming.

“I don’t get it,” he says, his voice quiet but full of tension. “You never want to go out at night. Hell, you barely want to leave the apartment at all. So I try to make it easy. I come here, in the middle of the day, hoping we can spend time together outside the house, and you act like it doesn’t matter. What am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing,” I whisper, avoiding his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

Greg walks past and throws me a look. “Take your break, Danielle.”

“I already had it,” I say, voice barely above a murmur.

He doesn’t stop walking. He just shakes his head and says over his shoulder, “Yeah, well, we’re not counting it. Sit and have lunch with Sam.”

I know he heard enough to put things together, even if he doesn’t say it out loud. The truth is, this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go. Knox wasn’t meant to show up here. Sam wasn’t supposed to see him. And now Greg is going to think I’m sneaking around when he doesn’t know half the story.

No one knows Sam was the one who suggested the open relationship.

No one knows how cold and complicated it’s all become behind the walls of our apartment.

I sit across from Sam, trying to look composed, but I can’t shake the nausea building in my gut. I order a salad, even though I already ate with Knox. The idea of food now just makes me feel heavier.

“I’m trying, you get that, right?” Sam says, watching me closely.

“I know,” I say, rubbing my face. “I’m trying too, Sam.”

“Are you?” His tone is soft, but the words cut sharper than he probably intends. “Because nothing’s changing, Danielle. You keep saying you’re trying, but how hard are you really trying?”

I have no answer for that. Not one that won’t make everything worse.

“I know recovering was hard. I accepted that. I gave you time. I supported you while you tried to remember your life, your body, everything. But it’s been five years. I feel like you’re only with me because you think you’re supposed to be. Because we were together before the accident and you feel like you owe me something.”

“I remember us,” I say softly. “I remember the day we moved into the apartment. I remember other things too.”

He nods, but the pain in his eyes deepens. “Just not the parts that mattered. The parts where you loved me.”

He goes quiet, and I know he’s giving me space to respond. But the problem is, I’ve thought about this too much already. That’s half the issue.

When I woke up in that hospital, I didn’t know him. He showed me pictures, memories, reminders of a life I couldn’t feel. And all I felt was dread. I was told that kind of fear was normal, that the confusion would go away as the memories came back.

Some of them did. I remembered pieces. I remembered the apartment, our routines, the way he used to make breakfast. But I never remembered how it felt to love him. That never returned.

Six months before the attack is still a void. I don’t know why. But even now, I feel it in my bones. That warning, that cold pit in my stomach that never really goes away when he’s close.

Everyone told me I’d fall back in love, that the pieces would fit. But they haven’t.

“Danielle,” he says gently.

“I’m trying,” I whisper again, because that’s all I have left to say.

“So am I,” he replies, voice calm but weighed down. “But nothing’s changed in five years. That’s why I brought up the open relationship. I thought maybe it would shake something loose. I thought maybe it would help.”

His voice stays low, but I see Greg glance over, his brow tight with concern. He heard that. I know he did. I keep my gaze down and push at my napkin, trying to act like nothing happened.

“I still love you,” Sam says. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m still trying. I didn’t want the open relationship for me. I wanted it for us. Because nothing else has worked.”

He says that, but I remember how he mocked me for even thinking about going out. He acted like it was a joke, like I wouldn’t go through with it. Like I was too scared to even try. Which makes me think it was never really about me at all.

It was always about him.

I don’t know what to say. I keep staring at the table like it’s going to give me an answer, but it doesn’t. My fingers fidget with the napkin, twisting it tighter, knotting it into something tense and ugly, just like everything inside me.

Sam stays quiet, watching. He’s giving me space again. That’s the thing about him. He always gives me space. He waits, and waits, and I think maybe he’s hoping the version of me he loved will come crawling back out if he just stays patient long enough.

“I know I’m not who I used to be,” I say quietly. “And I know you didn’t sign up for this version of me. I don’t expect you to keep trying forever. But I’m trying, Sam. Even if it doesn’t look like it. Even if I get it wrong.”

He leans back, arms crossed over his chest, and I can tell he’s still frustrated. But he nods.

“I’m not asking for forever right now,” he says. “I just want to know you’re really in this. That you want us to work. I need to hear you say it, Danielle. Not out of guilt or some sense of loyalty. I want to know you still see something worth saving.”

I look up at him slowly. There’s a storm in my chest, all wind and wreckage and broken pieces of who I used to be. But beneath it, there’s still this small flicker that wants to believe something good can come from the ashes.

“I do,” I whisper. “I don’t know what it’s going to look like, but I do want to keep trying. I want to see if it’s still there.”

His shoulders drop, like he’s been holding his breath for too long and finally lets it go.

“Okay,” he says. “That’s all I needed. We’ll keep trying.”

We don’t reach for each other. There’s no dramatic kiss or some Hollywood reconciliation. Just two people sitting across from each other, quietly acknowledging that they’re still standing in the same ring. That they haven’t thrown in the towel just yet.

He reaches for his fork and stabs at the salad that arrived while we were talking. I pick up mine too, though my stomach still turns from the weight of everything.

Across the restaurant, I feel Greg’s eyes on me. I don’t dare look. I can’t, not right now. I just focus on the man in front of me, the one who’s trying in his own flawed way to hold onto what we once had. And for now, I’ll try too.

Even if I don’t know where it’s leading, even if I’m not sure which version of myself will show up tomorrow, for now, we keep trying.