Page 8 of Rook
“You’ll do great,” he’d said, hands shoved deep in his pockets so she wouldn’t see them shake. “College is… it’s good for you.”
Her eyes had searched his face, desperate, hopeful, begging for something he didn’t know how to give.
Begging him to ask her to stay.
He didn’t.
He couldn’t.
He was eighteen and stupid and terrified of ruining the only good thing he’d ever had. Terrified she’d stay and regret it. Terrified he wasn’t enough.
So he stood there like a coward while she hugged him tight, her face pressed into his chest, her breath shaking against him.
“Goodbye, Noah,” she’d whispered.
He hadn’t said it back.
He couldn’t.
She pulled away slowly, like it hurt, like she was waiting for him to stop her.
He didn’t.
He watched her get into the car. Watched her close the door. Watched her buckle her seatbelt with trembling hands.
And when the car pulled away, he stood frozen on the curb, heart pounding, throat burning, watching the girl he loved drive out of his life.
He didn’t move until the taillights disappeared.
He didn’t breathe right for months.
The memory hit him so hard he almost missed the next turn.
He jerked the bike back into line, breath ripping out of him in a harsh exhale. His chest felt too tight, like something inside him was trying to claw its way out.
He hadn’t let himself think about that day in years.
Didn’t let himself remember the way she’d looked back at him through the rear window. The way her face crumpled when he didn’t chase her. Or the way he’d stood there afterward, fists clenched, nails digging into his palms, hating himself for every word he didn’t say.
But tonight, seeing her soaked and shaking and hurting, every buried memory clawed its way to the surface.
He wasn’t that boy anymore. He wasn’t soft or safe, and he sure as hell wasn’t someone she should want.
He was Rook now.
Vice President of the Bloodline Saints.
A man with scars he didn’t talk about. A man who knew how to break bones and bury secrets. A man who didn’t get second chances.
But the second she said “Noah,” he wasn’t Rook at all.
He was the boy she left behind.
The clubhouse came into view, lights glowing warm against the dark. Music thumped faintly from inside, low bass, laughter, the clatter of pool balls. Normal sounds. Familiar sounds. Sounds that usually grounded him.
Tonight they grated.
He pulled into the lot, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment, helmet still on, rain dripping from the edges. The sudden silence after the engine cut out was too loud, too sharp, pressing against the inside of his skull.
