~ Harley ~
I don’t invite him.
That’s important.
I walk out of the club first. He follows five steps behind. Not crowding. Not claiming. Just there. Like gravity with boots.
I expect him to say something in the parking lot.
He doesn’t.
I expect him to reach for me.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he opens the passenger door of a black SUV like it’s nothing. The way men in tailored shirts who run entire cities do this every day.
“I can drive myself,” I say.
“I know,” Quinn replies.
He waits.
That’s it.
No pressure.
Just patience sharpened into something lethal.
I get in.
The interior smells like leather and old money. The door shuts with a heavy, final sound that makes my pulse jump.
He drives.
No music. No small talk.
Streetlights slide across his face in stripes. Calm. Controlled.
