chapter 3
1573 Words
Sundays were sacred.
Not because of God, though she did believe in something—just not the kind of salvation served in stiff pews and whispered guilt. Sage’s worship looked more like bare feet on warm floors, coffee in hand before sunrise, and old records humming low in the background.
It was just after 6 a.m., and the world was still. No roaring engines. No yelling from the back of The Pit Stop. No greasy fryers hissing at the diner. Just her, the morning fog curling over the lake behind her rental, and the smell of cinnamon from the muffins in her oven.
She pulled a blanket around her shoulders and padded onto the back porch, settling into her favorite chair. Her latest book lay open on the table—an old murder mystery with a woman detective who didn’t take crap from anyone. Sage liked her. She felt seen.
Her phone buzzed once.
Silas: You sleep in today?
She smiled softly.
Sage: Define “in.”
He didn’t respond right away, which meant he was probably at the garage or cleaning blood off something again. She didn’t ask. He wouldn’t tell her anyway.
That was the thing about Silas Creed.
You didn’t get all of him—you got the pieces he let you carry.
And most women ran when they realized how heavy those pieces were.
But Sage? She was still here. Still picking up quiet moments between the noise.
She opened her book again, but her eyes drifted. Her thoughts didn’t stay on plot twists and suspects. They circled back to the way Silas had looked at her two nights ago—like maybe she wasn’t just a pretty face who poured drinks and held her own with club boys.
Like maybe she was something he didn’t know how to live without.
But what did that even mean, in his world? What did it mean to belong to someone who belonged to the chaos?
Her stomach twisted, not from fear—she wasn’t afraid of Silas. Not really.
She was afraid of what came with him.
Gunmetal loyalty. Late-night calls. Blood on denim. Silence after sirens.
And yet…
She looked out at the still water. It didn’t rush. It didn’t roar. It just existed—deep and patient.
Kind of like her.
Later that morning, she drove to the shooting range. The guys at the counter knew her by name—Sage didn’t play into damsel roles. She wore boots, not heels. Had a concealed carry license and wasn’t afraid to use it.
Twenty rounds in and her breathing evened out. She liked the rhythm.
Aim. Squeeze. Exhale.
Everything else faded away.
Afterward, she stopped at the local farmer’s market. Bought wild honey and fresh basil. Let two kids pet the rescue mutt tied to her truck while their mother asked her about kayaking spots.
Real life things. Normal things.
That’s what she craved—something grounded. Something not constantly on edge.
And yet every time her mind wandered, it drifted back to Silas.
To the way his voice dropped when he was serious.
To how he smelled like grease, leather, and cold steel.
To how protective he got when another guy so much as glanced her way at The Pit Stop.
He wasn’t hers—not really.
But God, sometimes it felt like she already belonged to him.
---
Back home by dusk, she slipped into an old hoodie and pulled her hair into a messy knot. The muffins were gone—she’d dropped them off at the fire station earlier. The firefighters loved her baking. Said she should open a bakery.
But she didn’t want a bakery. Not yet.
She wanted peace.
And maybe—just maybe—a kind of love that could survive the storm.
As the sun dipped behind the hills, her phone buzzed again.
Silas: Garage is quiet. Got time to waste?
She stared at the screen. Thought about everything she’d built for herself—this life she kept separate, safe, slow.
Then she typed back.
Sage: Only if i bringing coffee. And if I get to pick the music.
A beat.
Silas: Deal. Be here in 20.
She smiled. Sundays were hers.
But sometimes…
She didn’t mind sharing them—with the right kind of storm.
---
The garage was quiet in a way that felt unnatural. No roaring bikes. No Brick hollering at a prospect to sweep again. Just the low thrum of bluesy rock spilling from an old radio in the corner and the smell of motor oil clinging to the air like memory.
Silas had the big bay door rolled halfway up, letting in the cooling night air. He stood beside a stripped-down Harley, wiping down the chrome like it had wronged him personally.
Sage pulled her truck into the gravel and hopped out, two coffees in hand—his black, hers with enough cream to make it soft on the tongue. She wore joggers and a soft-looking hoodie, not trying to impress anyone, least of all him.
He looked up when she approached and gave her a short nod—the kind that said more than a dozen words ever could.
“You actually came,” he muttered, setting the rag aside. His voice was gravel and midnight.
“You said coffee. I’m easy like that,” she teased, handing him the cup.
He smirked, that rare corner-lip thing he only did when he wasn’t trying. “You’re not easy, Angel. That’s half the reason you’re trouble.”
She rolled her eyes but felt the flutter anyway. “Don’t call me that.”
“Too late. You walked into The Pit Stop with that mouth and those curves, and Sanders called it out before I could blink.”
“Well, Sanders also thought a raccoon was a ghost once, so I don’t trust his judgment.”
That got a real laugh out of Silas—a deep, chesty sound she barely ever got to hear. She liked how it warmed the room.
They settled into the quiet. She perched on an overturned crate, sipping her drink and watching him work. There was something hypnotic about the way his hands moved—confident, precise, like the bike was an extension of his body.
“Does it ever get loud in your head?” she asked softly.
He didn’t look up, but he paused.
“All the time,” he said, after a beat. “Only place it doesn’t is here. Or on the road.”
She nodded. “Mine quiets in the water. Or when I bake.”
He gave her a side glance. “You still makin’ those cinnamon muffins? Mason swears they’re laced with drugs.”
“I prefer to think of it as love. But if that’s what gets him to do dishes at the diner, I’m not correcting him.”
They both smiled, and the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that felt like shared understanding.
“You ever think about getting out?” she asked suddenly. Not accusing—just curious.
Silas leaned back against the workbench, arms crossed. His biceps stretched the sleeves of his black tee, grease on his hands, sweat at his temple. A walking contradiction of danger and restraint.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But this life’s in my blood. My old man started this club. I was binned on a dirt bike before I could spell my name. Hell, I learned to throw a punch before I learned to read a Bible.”
Sage tilted her head. “You ever wish you’d been born to something quieter?”
He looked at her for a long moment. Blue eyes stormy.
“Only when you’re around.”
Her breath caught. He didn’t say things like that. Not often. Not easily.
“You’re full of s**t,” she whispered, but her voice cracked just a little.
He pushed off the bench and crossed the space between them. Slowly. Like she was a doe and he was the predator who didn’t want to scare her—but still wanted the kill.
“I’m not.” His voice was low. “I just don’t know how to say things pretty. I wasn’t raised for soft.”
“No,” she said, looking up at him. “But you want it.”
His jaw flexed.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “Maybe I do.”
They stood like that—close but not touching. The tension tight as a pulled bowstring. Her heartbeat was in her ears, loud enough to drown out the radio. He smelled like soap, leather, and the kind of danger that made girls write bad poetry in the dark.
“I’m not your old lady,” she said quietly. “And I don’t want to be a badge on someone’s vest.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to be,” he replied. “I just... like having you near. Makes the noise stop for a while.”
And that was it.
No kiss. No dramatic declarations. Just two people staring down the edge of something bigger than either of them knew how to hold.
Later, when she left, he walked her to her truck. Opened her door. Watched her drive off.
And for the first time in a long time, Silas Creed felt the ache of wanting something he couldn’t fix with a wrench or a fist.
- Writer
