The Biker's Rules
Instead, I bury my nose in her hair and breathe her in — vanilla and flowers and Mel — and I let out a quiet, defeated sigh.
I am so fucked.
I flick on the TV and start scrolling, not really seeing anything, until I land on Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Also known as Philosopher’s Stone, depending on which corner of the planet you grew up in — don’t ask me why that matters right now, but my brain needs trivia.
Sleep is a joke at this point.
The room is saturated with everything Mel — her scent, her breathing, the echo of what we just shared.
The images are burned into my head — the way her body responded, the way she cried out my name like it mattered. Like I mattered. Her soft conf