He wasn’t here to read. The shop still looked like hell. Broken window boarded up. Police tape fluttering in the morning breeze like some half-hearted apology. Diesel scowled at the sight, then settled into the chair with a grunt, arms crossed, boots planted.

  Tom hadn’t needed to explain. One look at the grainy, shaky, and useless security footage, and Diesel had known exactly what kind of cowards they were dealing with—hooded, fast, and reckless. Random or not, it didn’t matter. Someone had targeted this place, and that made it his problem now.

  He didn’t owe much in this life, but he owed Beast. And Beast had made it clear that Sophie was under Sentinels’ protection now.

  Diesel had worked worse details. Surveillance, escort jobs, back-alley retrievals. But sitting outside a flower shop like some kind of grizzled mall cop? It felt too ... quiet.

  Around seven, the sun finally rose, lighting up the street in slow, golden strokes. Shops began to open. People walked dogs or jogged past him without making eye contact.

  A couple cast him wary glances. He couldn’t blame them. With his size, his leather cut, and the scowl that rarely left his face, he wasn’t exactly approachable. Which was just how he liked it.

  The shop door creaked open. Sophie stepped outside, carrying two cups of coffee. Diesel tensed before he could stop himself. He watched her involuntarily as she crossed the sidewalk toward him. Light sweater. Ponytail. That soft, natural look that didn't need effort to be beautiful. She was the kind of woman he’d always tried to keep at arm’s length.

  “Morning,” she said, offering a tentative smile and holding out one of the cups. “Figured you might want something that didn’t taste like burnt tires.”

  Diesel didn’t move. His first instinct was to brush her off. Polite but distant. That was the play. He didn’t do “friendly.” And he sure as hell didn’t do coffee with civilians.

  “I’m good,” he said, nodding to the thermos beside his boot.

  Sophie hesitated. Her fingers tightened on the cup for a second before she nodded and took a small step back. “Right. Sure. Well, if you change your mind, I’m inside.”

  She offered him another half-smile and turned to go.

  Diesel tightened his jaw as he watched her walk away. Sophie was too damn kind and he didn’t deserve kindness. Not from someone like her.

  The truth was, Sophie had been lodged under his skin from the second he saw her standing outside her wrecked shop with that tight, broken look on her face, like she was holding herself together with string and willpower alone.

  She hadn’t cried in front of him, but he’d seen the tension in her shoulders. The haunted edge in her eyes. She reminded him of someone. Something tightened in him painfully.

  Emily. His little sister had looked like that too, the day their father died. Scared, brave, stubborn as hell. She’d had a smile just like Sophie’s—soft, cautious, always a little unsure if it was welcome.

  Emily had brought him coffee too, every time he’d come home bruised from another job or scrape. He hadn’t protected Emily. Not when it counted.

  He’d been away on club business the night she’d called him. She’d left a message. Her voice was shaking, telling him something felt wrong, that she thought someone was following her.

  He hadn’t listened to it until the next morning. By then, she was already gone. “Carjacked,” the police had said. Wrong place, wrong time. But Diesel had known better. He’d felt it. The guilt was still there—a dull, permanent burn in his gut. A rot that festered no matter how many favors he ran for the club, no matter how many assholes he put in the ground. He hadn’t saved her.

  But he sure as hell wasn’t letting anything happen to Sophie. She might have been a stranger yesterday, but now she was under his watch and he didn’t fail people he protected.

  Especially not anymore.

  The shop bell jingled faintly as Sophie went back inside. Diesel stared at the unopened coffee cup in her hands, then exhaled hard and dragged a palm down his face.

  Damn it. It would’ve been easier if she’d been rude. Or cold. Or indifferent. Instead, she was sweet—soft voice, worried eyes, bringing him coffee like she thought he might be tired.

  Tired didn’t matter. Feelings didn’t matter. He just had to keep watch. Find the punks who did this. Handle it and walk away.

  ****

  By noon, he’d already had to talk himself down three separate times.

  First, when a couple of teenagers wandered by, snickering as they pointed at the boarded-up window like it was part of some urban scavenger hunt. Diesel tightened his jaw. He even lifted one boot off the pavement like he might stand, like he might do something about it. In the end, he forced himself to stay put. Not his job to scare kids. Not today.

  Second, when some asshole in a pressed button-down tried to squeeze his Tesla into the narrow space beside Diesel’s Harley. The guy had eyed the bike like it was an eyesore, something greasy and outdated. Diesel had stood that time, deliberately slow, all six-foot-five inches of him rising like a thundercloud. The Tesla peeled away a second later.

  But it was the third time, the hardest, that had Diesel gritting his teeth until his molars hurt.

  Sophie stepped out of the shop again, her soft tread barely audible over the faint hum of traffic. She carried a plate this time. A dozen small muffins, golden-brown and still warm, if the curl of steam was anything to go by. He caught the scent before she even reached him—cinnamon, butter, something sweet and spiced that hit him harder than it should have. Like comfort. Like care.

  She smiled as she approached, tentative but real. “Apple muffins. I made too many,” she said, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

  Diesel raised a brow. “You’re bribing the guy standing guard with baked goods?”

  Her smile widened just a little, warmer this time, her eyes flicking up to meet his. “I figured caffeine wasn’t enough,” she told him, and in that moment, something loosened in his chest that had no damn business loosening.

  He stared at the muffins, then at her. Her hands were small, fingers pink from holding the warm plate. Her wrists were delicate, the kind that looked like they’d snap under pressure but held more strength than people probably gave her credit for. There were faint smudges of flour on her jeans, and a strand of hair had come loose from her ponytail, curling along her cheek. He hated how badly he wanted to tuck it behind her ear.

  He didn’t reach for the plate.

  “Look,” he said, voice dropping an octave as he fought to keep it steady, impersonal. “You don’t have to keep bringing me stuff. I’m not here to socialize.”

  The words came out sharper than he meant them, and he saw the small hitch in her expression, the flicker of confusion before she caught herself.

  “I wasn’t trying to—” she began, but he cut her off.

  “I’m here to keep you safe. That’s it,” he said.

  Silence stretched between them like wire, tight and uncomfortable.

  Sophie lowered her gaze, looking down at the plate for a second before nodding. She didn’t push, didn’t argue. Instead, she set the plate gently on the windowsill beside his chair, careful not to disturb anything, and turned back toward the shop.

  The bell above the door jingled softly as it closed behind her.

  Diesel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, then rubbed the back of his neck hard enough to sting.

  She smelled like flowers and sugar and something homemade. Something soft and familiar. The scent clung to the air even after she was gone, wrapping around him like an unwanted memory. It made his chest ache in a way he hadn’t let it ache in years.

  And that ache scared the hell out of him.

  She’s not yours to care about. He repeated it to himself like a mantra, but it didn’t help. Not when her kindness was so effortless. Not when her presence pulled at something buried deep in his ribs, something raw and unhealed. She reminded him too much of her. Of Emily.

  His sister had been the same way. Emily was gentle, curious, always reaching out even when life gave her reasons to retreat. And he hadn’t protected her. Not when it counted. He’d failed her.

  And now, standing outside another small-town shop with another sweet-hearted woman who deserved a better world than the one they lived in, Diesel felt that failure rise up like bile.

  Rule one: don’t get attached.

  Rule two: don’t make it personal.

  Rule three: never let the past repeat itself.

  He clenched his fists, staring down at the plate of muffins like they might explode if he got too close. They were still warm. He could see the slight sheen of melted sugar on their tops, smell the baked apples inside.

  Damn it. This wasn’t what he signed up for. He was here to handle things, not feel anything. Sophie was the kind of woman that made a man want to feel. That was the problem. She made him want to linger. To believe he could still have a life that wasn’t all steel and scars and regret. But Diesel had been around long enough to know better.

  That kind of life wasn’t for him. Still, as the minutes passed and the scent of cinnamon and sugar continued to drift through the air like a promise he had no business wanting, Diesel felt something shift. Not in the job and not in the danger, but in him. Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just guarding someone out of duty. He was doing it because he wanted to.

  He’d already started thinking about what might’ve happened if he hadn’t been here. Because when Sophie looked at him with those tired but kind eyes, he wanted to believe he could be something other than the sum of his mistakes.

  The worst part? He wasn’t sure he wanted to fight that feeling anymore.

  Chapter Three

  Sophie noticed the broken planter the second she stepped outside with the broom. The cracked ceramic lay in jagged halves near the front window, soil spilled across the walkway like a kicked-over grave.

  Her heart sank. She knelt down, sighing as she began brushing the dirt into a pile. It must have happened last night. Again. It was another message. Another little jab from whoever had decided she didn’t deserve peace.

  Her chest tightened. She hated that she was getting used to this, expecting something ruined every morning. Before she could gather the shards, a shadow fell over her.

  “Don’t touch that.”

  She looked up.

  Diesel stood there, arms crossed, that dark-eyed, no-nonsense expression carved into his face like usual. But something in his voice made her pause. It wasn’t harsh. Just ... careful.

  “I wasn’t going to cut myself,” she murmured, brushing her hair out of her face. “I’m not made of glass.”

  He crouched beside her without a word, big hands moving with surprising gentleness. He picked up each piece of the planter like it was a puzzle, as if he were already working out how to put it back together.

  “You’re stubborn,” he muttered.

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” He reached for the last piece, turning it over in his calloused palm. “Most people would’ve taken a few days off after what happened. You’re back here like nothing’s wrong.”

  Sophie straightened slowly. “If I wait around for someone else to fix things, I’ll be waiting forever.”

  Diesel looked up at her then, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The street was quiet, the morning sun warm against her back. His gaze lingered on her face, unreadable, as if he wanted to say something more but didn’t trust the words.

  Finally, he stood. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know,” he said. “But I want to.”

  Sophie swallowed. It was the first time he’d said anything like that to her, not out of obligation, not because Tom had asked him to keep watch. He wanted to. It wasn’t much, but it settled differently in her chest. Like warmth in a cold place.

  She leaned the broom against the wall, brushing her palms on her jeans. “Do you always fix broken things?”

  His mouth quirked slightly at the corner. “Only the ones that matter.”

  Her heart did a funny, traitorous flutter.

  Before she could come up with something to say, he turned and walked to his bike. From one of the saddlebags, he pulled out a small tool roll and a tube of strong adhesive.

  Sophie watched, fascinated, as he returned and sat cross-legged on the pavement, laying out each tool with practiced precision. His movements were calm, careful. The same hands that could probably break someone’s jaw without flinching now held a cracked ceramic pot like it was something precious.

  She knelt beside him again. “Didn’t peg you for a gardener.”

  “I’m not,” he said without looking at her. “But I hate waste. Something breaks, you fix it.”

  Sophie hesitated, then rested her chin on her hand as she studied his profile. He had a rough beauty—scarred knuckles, a bent nose that had clearly been broken once, maybe twice. But up close, his lashes were dark and thick, and his concentration made his expression go soft, almost peaceful.

  “You’re not what I expected,” she said quietly.

  “Most people say that.”

  “I meant it as a compliment.”

  He glanced at her. His gaze lingered again.

  Dangerous, she thought. That’s what he was. Not just physically, though that was obvious, but in how easily he snuck under her defenses. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but somewhere between coffee and muffins and quiet nights on the sidewalk, she’d stopped seeing Diesel as just her temporary bodyguard. Now he was something else. Something closer.

  “You should be careful,” he said suddenly, voice low.

  Sophie blinked. “Of what?”

  “Whoever’s doing this, they’re not just bored. They’re trying to send a message.”

  Her stomach tightened. “To me?”

  “To the club. To Tom. Maybe both.” He picked up the next ceramic shard and pressed it into place with calm precision. “But you’re caught in the middle, sweetheart. That’s what worries me.”

  The way he said “sweetheart” hit her harder than she expected.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

  “I know,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t get worse before it gets better.”

  His voice was low, serious. Protective.

  She looked at him. “And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “This”—she gestured vaguely between them—“isn’t in your job description.”

  Diesel didn’t answer right away. He finished pressing the final shard into place and ran a steady hand along the edge of the pot. Then he sat back on his heels and looked at her.

  “I’ve failed before,” he said quietly. “Someone I should’ve protected. Someone who mattered.”

  Sophie felt her breath catch.

  He didn’t offer more. But the look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. It had carved something deep in him, whatever had happened. Left a mark that hadn’t faded, maybe never would.

  And now, here he was, guarding a small-town flower shop and fixing broken planters, like he could make up for whatever he’d lost.

  “I’m not her,” Sophie said softly, though she wasn’t sure if she meant to say it out loud.

  Diesel looked at her for a long moment. “I know.”

  But the words didn’t ease the tightness in his jaw, or the shadows behind his eyes. They sat in silence after that, the sounds of the street returning around them—birds, distant traffic, the soft creak of the shop door swinging in the breeze.

  Sophie reached out, brushing a bit of soil off his sleeve without thinking. He dropped his gaze to her hand.

  She froze. “Sorry—”

  But he didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. For a heartbeat, he stayed still, watching her like she was the most fragile and dangerous thing he’d ever seen.

  Then he cleared his throat and stood. “I’ll grab some water for this.”

  She nodded, her throat dry. “Right. Thanks.”

  As he walked toward the spigot at the side of the building, Sophie pressed her palms to her cheeks. They were burning.

  What was she doing? She barely knew this man. He was quiet, gruff, scarred by things he didn’t talk about. He wasn’t safe, not emotionally, anyway.

  But he had shown up when no one else did. He stayed. He noticed the broken things, and instead of discarding them, he tried to make them whole again. That scared her more than anything. Because it made her want things—soft things, dangerous things. Things she didn’t think she was allowed to want anymore.

  When Diesel returned, he knelt and poured a small amount of water into the newly fixed pot, brushing soil into place with his fingers. She watched him work, her heart thudding like a drum in her chest.

  “It’s not perfect,” he said finally.

  “It doesn’t have to be,” she replied.

  He looked up. And this time, he didn’t look away. For the first time since the break-in, she felt steady again. Not because the danger was gone, but because he was there.

  Even if he wouldn’t say it aloud, even if he was too wrapped up in guilt and rules and old wounds, Sophie could see it in the way he fixed the planter. In the way he looked at her. In the way his hand hovered just close enough to hers without ever touching it.

  He cared. Maybe too much. Maybe not enough, but it was there and so was she.

  ****

  The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across Main Street. Diesel hadn’t moved from his post outside the flower shop, though his mind had been far from the sidewalk.

  He could still feel the ghost of Sophie’s fingers brushing against his. Still see that curious glint in her eyes when she’d teased him about being gentle with the planter. And it shouldn’t have mattered. Not one damn bit. He was here to keep her safe, not get soft over her smile.

 

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