Page 8 of The Biker and the Single Mom

"I know." I should have pulled away. Should have stepped back, put distance between us and this pull that felt too strong, too fast. "This is crazy. We barely know each other. It's too complicated⁠—"

"But—"

"But nothing," I whispered, even as my body swayed toward his. "I feel it too."

His free hand came up, cupping my face with surprising gentleness. His thumb stroked my cheekbone, and my eyes fluttered closed at the contact. When was the last time someone had touched me like this? Like I was precious instead of property?

"I shouldn't want you this much," he said quietly. "Not when you've been through hell. Not when you need safety, not⁠—"

"What if I need both?" I opened my eyes, meeting his dark gaze. "What if I need safety and this?"

His jaw clenched. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting across my lips. Another inch and we'd be kissing, crossing the line from protector and protected to something more complicated and infinitely more dangerous.

"Mommy?"

We sprang apart. Luna stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes, Mr. Hops dangling from one hand.

"I'm hungry."

Doc ran a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling like he'd been running. "Right. Food. Let's—let's get you something to eat, sweetheart."

Luna padded over to him, raising her arms to be picked up without hesitation. He lifted her easily, settling her on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Can we have the pancakes we made?" she asked.

"We ate those for breakfast, remember?"

"Oh yeah." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "What about pizza?"

"Pizza sounds perfect." He glanced at me over Luna's head, and the promise in his gaze made my pulse race. "Rory?"

"Pizza's great," I managed.

We walked back to his apartment through the evening light, Luna chattering about her new friends while Doc listened with the kind of patience Matt had never managed. I followed behind them, observing the way Luna had already claimed him—the way she'd wrapped around him like she'd known him for years instead of hours.

By seven-fifteen, Luna was asleep—pizza demolished, teeth brushed, tucked into Doc's bed with Mr. Hops.

Doc closed the bedroom door softly and turned to me in the hallway. The space between us hummed.

"Seven-thirty," he said, voice low. "Then we talk."

I checked my watch. 7:16.

Fourteen minutes until everything changed.

"About this," I said. "About what happens next. About⁠—"

"Everything." He nodded, jaw tight. "We talk about everything."

But the promise in his gaze said we'd be doing more than talking.

And despite every rational voice in my head screaming that this was too fast, too complicated, too risky—I wanted it.

I wanted him.

For the first time in six months of running, I wanted to stop and stay and see what might grow in the space between danger and safety.

Even if it terrified me.