Chrome and Candles

“Harder than what? Than admitting we still have something? That this-” I gestured between us “-is real?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The truth was written in the flush of her cheeks, the quick rise and fall of her chest. In the way her fingers tightened around mine, holding on like I was a lifeline.

I pulled her into me, wrapping my arms around her waist. She came willingly, her head resting against my chest. I buried my face in her hair, breathing deep. Vanilla and citrus and home.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured against her temple. “For everything. For leaving. For hurting you. For being a damn fool.”

She nodded, her hair tickling my chin. “I know.”

We stayed like that for a long moment, just holding each other. A decade of silence pressed down on us, heavy and suffocating. But beneath it, something else stirred. Something warm and familiar and undeniable.

Rosalie pulled back first, swiping at her eyes. “We should get you patched up. Your ribs need wrapping.”

“Later.” I caught her face in my hands, tilted her chin up. “First, we talk. Really talk.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

I brushed a kiss over her forehead, then reached for my cut. The worn leather felt heavy in my hands, weighted down with memories and regrets. I fumbled in the inner pocket, searching for my smokes. My fingers brushed against something else. Something small and stiff and forgotten.

I pulled it out, my heart stuttering in my chest. A folded piece of paper, the edges worn soft with age. I recognized it instantly. Rosalie’s handwriting, neat and precise, the ink faded but still legible.

She gasped. “You kept it?”

“Always.” I unfolded the note, my throat constricted. The words were as familiar as my own heartbeat.

Rocco,

I know you think you're doing the right thing by pushing me away. That the club is too dangerous, that you're protecting me. But you're wrong. I don't need protecting. I need you. I'll always need you.

Whatever happens, whatever you decide, know that I love you. I'll never stop.

Forever yours,

Rosa

I looked up, met her gaze. Her eyes were wide, shocked. “You kept it,” she whispered. “All these years.”

“Of course I did.” I set the note on the table between us. “It was all I had left of you.”

She reached out, traced a finger over her signature. “I meant every word. Then and now.”

“Rosa-” My voice broke on her name.

She stopped me with a finger to my lips. “Don’t. Not yet.” She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders. “First, we fix those ribs. Then... then we talk about what comes next.”

I nodded, my heart pounding against my ribs like a caged thing. She picked up the bandage, her touch gentle as she wrapped it around my torso. The pain was a distant thing, eclipsed by the warmth of her hands on my skin, the promise in her eyes.

We had a lot to figure out. A lot to forgive. But for the first time in ten years, I felt like I was finally where I belonged.

In her arms. In her heart. In the small, lamplit space above the auto shop, where the ghosts of the past could finally be laid to rest.

I jolted awake. My heart hammered. I didn’t know where I was. Then I felt Rosalie’s warmth, heard her breathing. The garage apartment. The smell of antiseptic, dust, her. The ache in my ribs, the sting of stitches. Last night flooded back.

The crash. Rosalie dragging me upstairs. The president’s call. Our argument. That shattering kiss.

I looked down at her. She slept with her head on my shoulder, dark hair fanned over my chest. Her face was soft in the dim light. Dawn painted the room pink and gold.

Ten years. Ten years running from my past. Burying myself in the club, the life, the darkness. To avoid the truth.

I still loved Rosalie Biancheri. I never stopped.

The realization hit me hard. I shifted, trying not to wake her. She stirred, fisting my shirt. “Rocco?” she mumbled.

“Shhh,” I murmured against her hair. “Go back to sleep.”

She relaxed. I held her, mind racing. The club. The call. The Snakes moving in. My brothers needed me.

But the club’s call felt distant. Muted. Unimportant.

Rosalie was my true north. My home.

Sunrise grew stronger. When it was fully up, I knew.

I shifted her gently off my shoulder. She protested but didn’t wake. I slipped out of bed. The pain was manageable.

I found my cut draped over a chair. The leather felt heavy. I carried it to the sink. Opened the cabinet, found matches.

I struck one. The flame flared. I held it to my cut. Leather caught, flames consuming the patches. I dropped it in the sink. It curled, blackened, turned to ash. Burning cowhide smell filled the room.

I turned. Rosalie was awake, propped up. Her eyes were wide on the smoldering cut.

“Rocco?” Her voice was soft. “What are you doing?”

I crossed to the bed, sat beside her. Took her hand. “Choosing,” I said. “Choosing you.”

Her eyes searched mine. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered. “I’d never ask you to give up the club.”

“I know.” I kissed her knuckles. “I’m doing it for me. For us.”

I scooped her into my lap. She came willingly, arms around my neck, face buried in my shoulder.

We held each other as the sun climbed. Burnt leather faded, replaced by her scent. Our breathing was slow, steady.

After a while, she pulled back. “What now?” she asked quietly.

“Now,” I murmured, brushing hair behind her ear, “we start over. Together.”

She smiled. Bright, warm, full of promise. “Together.”

I kissed her. Soft. Slow. A promise of more.

Sun streamed through the window, painting the apartment in hope. For the first time in ten years, I was where I belonged.

In Rosalie’s arms. In her heart. In the light.