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Ghost complained, Boxer ignored instructions, and Reaper refused painkillers and rest. Shadow pretended injuries stopped hurting if he scowled at them hard enough, and Riot . . . Riot always stood nearby while I worked.

The apartment felt different now, the changes happened quietly. My clothes occupied half the wardrobe, my shampoo sat beside his in the shower, and mostly, my textbooks had spread across the living room and kitchen.

The clubhouse had started feeling familiar too, not comfortable, but familiar. Music echoed through the building at all hours. Brothers wandered in and out carrying weapons as casually as other people carried umbrellas. Someone was almost always bleeding and most nights I ended up patching at least one of them together.

I was finishing a dressing change on Boxer’s shoulder when laughter erupted near the bar.

My attention shifted automatically.

Riot sat with Ghost and Reaper, a beer in one hand while Ghost animatedly retold some story I’d clearly arrived halfway through. For a moment, Riot laughed, a real one and not the small smirks he usually gave people.

The sound carried across the room and warmth filled my chest, a small smile appearing on my face at the sound.

The night before my first exam, I fell asleep studying. One minute I was reading, the next I was waking up in bed. The bedside lamp had been switched off and a soft blanket covered me. My notes were stacked neatly on the nightstand instead of scattered across the sofa where I’d left them.

For several seconds I simply stared at the ceiling, listening. The apartment was quiet, the clock beside the bed glowed softly in the darkness.

Three-thirty-seven.

I rolled over, the other side of the mattress was empty, and the sheets were cool. I wasn’t surprised, Riot never stayed. It wasn’t a rule we’d discussed and neither of us had ever mentioned it, but every night eventually ended the same way. He’d pull on his jeans, find his cigarettes, press a kiss against my forehead or the top of my head if he thought I was asleep. Then he’d head back to the clubhouse.

I reached for my phone.

One unread message waited.

Riot: Good luck tomorrow, Nurse.

I stared at it, there were no emojis, no unnecessary words. Just four simple words. Entirely practical. Entirely Riot.

Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows.

I set the phone back down and reached for the coffee sitting on the bedside table, it was still warm. He must have made it before leaving. For a long moment, I sat there holding the mug between both hands while darkness filled the apartment around me.

Then I flipped on the lamp and opened my notes again. My exam started in five hours and for some reason, despite everything else crowding my mind, all I could think about was the fact that he’d remembered.

18

MARIA

The first time I cooked in Riot’s kitchen, it felt strange, nothing was where I normally kept it in mine. By the third week, I knew exactly which cupboard held the plates and where he kept the decent frying pan.

I found myself standing barefoot at the stove on a Tuesday evening, stirring pasta sauce while pharmacology notes sat open beside me and music drifted faintly from the living room.

Riot was sprawled across the sofa pretending to watch television. Pretending, because every few minutes, I’d catch him looking at me.

Five minutes later I turned around and found him stealing grated cheese from the chopping board. “Seriously?”

“What?”

I pointed.

He looked down at the evidence in his hand, then shrugged, like he wasn’t a grown man caught red-handed.

Asshole.

Somehow, we ended up eating dinner at the coffee table because half the dining table was buried beneath revision notes.

Riot glanced at the mountain of textbooks.