Ellie's POV

The drive back to our apartment was silent, but my mind screamed. Every curve of the road felt like Gunner’s eyes on me. The journal’s words were burned onto my brain, a secret tattoo.

I walked into the apartment, the air stale with Mark’s quiet presence. He was in his usual spot, slumped in the armchair with a thick academic tome open on his lap. His glasses were perched low on his nose.

“You’re back late,” he said, not looking up.

“I… found something,” I started, my voice trembling. I dropped my bag and walked over, sitting on the edge of the sofa facing him. “At my brother’s house. A journal.”

Mark’s eyes flicked up from the page, a flicker of mild interest. “A journal? From your brother?”

“No.” I swallowed. “From Gunner.”

That got his attention. He closed the book, placing it aside with a slow, deliberate motion that felt like a judge settling into his bench. “Gunner? That biker? Why were you reading his journal?”

“It was in a box. I just opened it.” I felt childish explaining it. “It was… full of things. Fantasies. Explicit ones.”

Mark’s lips twisted into a faint, condescending smile. “Fantasies? About who?”

“I don’t know,” I said, but my voice betrayed me. It wavered. “Some of them… the settings… they felt familiar.

Like maybe…”

He leaned forward, his scholarly gaze sharpening. “Like maybe they were about you?” He laughed. A single, dry chuckle that cut through the room. “Ellie, come on. Gunner? That guy?”

“Yes,” I insisted, heat rising in my cheeks. “He was there today. He said things that… matched what was written.”

Mark shook his head, a patronizing gesture I’d never seen from him before. “Listen, Ellie. Gunner is a type.

He’s a player. He likes a certain type of girl. Big. Bold. Loud. Girls with… big everything. You’re…” He gestured at me vaguely. “You’re lovely. But you’re… normal. You’re a sweet, normal girl. He wouldn’t waste his fantasies on you. You’re not his fantasy type.”

The words landed like punches. Normal. Sweet. They felt like synonyms for plain. For unworthy.

“That’s not true,” I said, my voice rising. “You don’t know what he wrote. It was… intense. Specific.”

“Specific?” Mark’s smile turned colder. “Specific about you? Did he describe your hair? Your eyes? Your… body?” He said ‘body’ like it was a clinical term, not something that could be desired.

“Not directly, but—”

“Then it wasn’t about you.” He cut me off, finality in his tone. “You’re reading into it because he flirted with you a few times. It’s a classic ego trap. Don’t fall for it. Besides, your brother would never let him near you.

You’re a good girl. Gunner deals with other kinds.”

Good girl. The label my brother used. The cage I’d lived in. Now Mark was locking the door.

“What’s wrong with you?” I snapped, standing up. “You’re usually so understanding. You listen. Today you’re just… dismissing me. Mocking me.”

He looked at me, a strange weariness in his eyes. Then he sighed, his posture softening. “Ellie, I’m sorry. I’m just teasing you. Don’t be so serious.” He got up, walked over to me, and put his hands on my shoulders.

“You’re getting worked up over nothing.”

He leaned in and kissed me. It was a soft, placating kiss, meant to soothe. But as he pulled away, my eyes dropped to his neck, to the open collar of his button-down shirt.

There, just above the collar line, was a mark. A small, purplish-red bruise. Perfectly round. Fresh.

I didn’t make that.

My heart stopped. The argument, the dismissal, the strange coldness—it all snapped into a terrible, clear picture.

I pulled back from his hands, my own going cold. “What’s that?” I asked, my voice quiet and flat.

His hand flew to his neck instinctively, covering the spot. His expression shifted from placating to panicked, then quickly to defensive. “What? Nothing. It’s just… a rash. From the heat.”

“It’s a hickey,” I said. The word felt foreign and ugly in my mouth. “A fresh one.”

“Ellie, don’t be ridiculous.” He tried to laugh, but it sounded hollow. “You’re imagining things. You’re stressed from the packing, from that journal nonsense.”

“I’m not imagining the bruise on your neck,” I said, stepping back. The distance between us felt vast suddenly, filled with betrayal. “Who was it?”

Mark’s face tightened. The scholarly calm shattered, replaced by a guilty, frustrated glare. “It’s not what you think. It was just a… a thing. A moment. It doesn’t matter.”

“A thing?” I repeated, my voice climbing. “A moment? With who? Someone at the library? Someone big and bold and loud? Someone more Gunner’s type than I am?”

His silence was confirmation. It screamed louder than any admission.

The journal’s heat, Gunner’s predatory smile, Mark’s dismissive cruelty—they collided in my gut, twisting into a sharp, sickening knot. My safe, stable boyfriend, the man who loved books and quiet nights, had a fresh mark from another woman’s mouth on his skin. And he had just told me I was too normal to be the subject of a dangerous man’s fantasies.

I looked at him—at his lean frame, his glasses, his shirt that hid the evidence of his hypocrisy—and I saw a stranger. A liar.

“You were with someone else,” I stated, the shock giving way to a cold, clear anger. “I simply can't fathom it. You're messing around with a woman! ”

“It wasn’t like that!” he protested, but the words were weak. “It was just… a flirtation. It didn’t mean anything.”

“It meant something to me,” I said, turning away from him. I walked to the window, looking out at the city lights that suddenly felt so empty. “It meant you think I’m ordinary. It meant you think I’m not worthy of a fantasy.”

I thought of Gunner’s words. I’d fuck her right here, on her brother’s porch, with the sun watching.

Raw. Specific. Unapologetic.

Mark’s touch felt like a lie. Gunner’s gaze felt like a truth I was terrified to admit.

“Ellie, please,” Mark said from behind me, his voice pleading now. “Let’s just forget this. It’s a stupid mark.

Your brother’s friend is a stupid journal. None of it matters. We’re good. We’re stable.”

Stable. The word sounded like a prison.

Ellie's POV

“A librarian,” Mark said, the word hanging in the air like a rotten fruit. He wouldn’t look at me. His eyes were fixed on the carpet, the pattern of which he suddenly seemed to find fascinating. “She works at the university library. Carol. She’s… older.”

The details spilled out in a flat, monotone confession, like he was reading a boring footnote. Married. Ten years older than him. It had been happening for months. A “flirtation” that escalated in the back stacks, among the dust and silence of forgotten philosophy texts. He described her as “sharp,” “alluring,” “mature.”

His clinical terms painted a picture of a woman who knew what she wanted, a woman who wasn’t “sweet” or

“normal.”

Each word was a nail hammered into my heart.

I stood there, listening, my body turning cold. The heat from Gunner’s journal, the electric charge of his words, evaporated. All that remained was this icy, crawling disgust. My boyfriend—my safe, stable, bookish boyfriend—had been sneaking around with a married librarian in her late thirties. While I packed boxes.

While I worried about my brother’s warnings. While I wrestled with the shameful thrill of a biker’s dirty fantasies.

“You’re… disgusting,” I whispered. The anger was gone, replaced by a hollow, sick feeling. “You lied to me.

You made me feel small, and you were doing this.”

“Ellie, it wasn’t about you,” he pleaded, finally looking up. His eyes were desperate. “It was just… excitement.

Something different. It didn’t mean I don’t love you.”

“Love me?” The laugh that came out of me was brittle and broken. “You don’t even see me. You see a ‘good girl’ you can keep in a box while you go out and play with someone ‘alluring.’” I grabbed my bag from the floor, the one with Gunner’s journal still inside. It felt heavy, a tangible secret against my hip. “I’m leaving.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Where will you go?” He stood up, reaching for me.

I dodged his hand. “Anywhere that isn’t here with you.”

I turned and walked out of the apartment, not looking back. The door clicked shut behind me, a final, soft sound that felt louder than any scream. The hallway was empty. The elevator took forever. My mind was a blank, white noise.

I stepped out into the cool evening air of the city street. I didn’t have a plan. I just walked, my feet carrying me away from the building, from Mark, from the life that had suddenly cracked open and shown its ugly, rotten core. The bag strap dug into my shoulder. Gunner’s journal. The proof that someone, a dangerous someone, had looked at me and seen something worth fantasizing about in raw, explicit detail. It was a twisted comfort now.

The sound of footsteps behind me broke through my numbness. Running footsteps.

“Ellie! Stop!”

Mark’s voice. He’d followed me.

I didn’t stop. I walked faster, my heart pounding a new, frantic rhythm. He caught up to me on the sidewalk a block away, grabbing my arm.

“Let go of me,” I snarled, trying to wrench free.

“You can’t just run off! We need to talk about this!” His grip was tight, his face flushed with a mix of guilt and frustration.

“We talked,” I spat. “You told me you fucked a married woman in the library. We’re done talking.” I yanked my arm again, and this time, I broke free. I stumbled backward a step.

A deep, guttural engine roar cut through the argument.

It came from the end of the street. A motorcycle, black and sleek, rolled into view. The rider was a silhouette against the streetlights, but the build, the posture—I knew instantly.

Gunner.

He slowed the bike as he approached us, the engine purring now, a low, predatory sound. He stopped a few feet away, kicking the stand down. He didn’t get off. He just sat there, one hand on the throttle, his eyes— those sharp, assessing blue eyes—locked on the scene: me, tears probably streaking my face, my bag clutched like a shield; Mark, red-faced and reaching for me again.

“Looks like you’re having a party,” Gunner said, his voice a lazy drawl that carried over the engine’s rumble.

Mark glared at him. “This is private. Leave.”

Gunner’s smile was slow and cold. “I’m just passing through. But it seems like the lady might want a different escort.” His gaze shifted to me. “Ellie. You look like you need a ride.”

The offer hung there. A ride. On his bike. Away from here.

Mark stepped forward, his scholarly frame suddenly trying to look imposing. “She’s not going anywhere with you. She’s my girlfriend. We’re having a discussion.”

“Discussion?” Gunner chuckled, a dark sound. “Seems more like a chase.” He finally swung off the bike, his movements fluid and powerful. He stood, taller and broader than Mark, a solid wall of muscle and intent.

“She’s running. You’re grabbing. That’s not a discussion.”

“It’s none of your business,” Mark snapped, his voice rising.

“It became my business when I saw you manhandling her,” Gunner said, his tone dropping, losing all its lazy humor. It was pure, focused threat now.

He took a step toward Mark.

Mark, foolishly, stood his ground. “You stay away from her, Gunner. I know about you. I know what you do.

You’re a player. You’re trash.”

Gunner didn’t reply. He just moved.

It was fast. A blur of motion. Gunner’s fist connected with Mark’s jaw with a crack that was more sound than

I’d ever heard in my life. Mark’s head snapped back. He stumbled, his glasses flying off, skittering across the pavement. He hit the ground, hard, on his ass, a stunned, pained groan escaping him.

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. “Gunner, stop!”

Gunner stood over Mark, his fist still clenched. He looked at me, his expression unreadable. “He was grabbing you.”

“I…” I couldn’t form a sentence. The violence was shocking, brutal, but it was also… protective. It was a line drawn. Mark on one side, Gunner on the other. And I was standing in the middle, holding the bag that contained Gunner’s most private thoughts.

Mark clutched his jaw, staring up at Gunner with a mixture of pain and fury. He scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly. “You… you fucking animal!” he shouted, his voice slurred. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “You want her? Is that it? You think you can just take her?”

Gunner didn’t move. He just watched Mark, a predator waiting for the next stupid move.

Mark’s anger, fueled by humiliation and the physical shock of the punch, found a new target. He turned his furious eyes on me, then back to Gunner. “You write about her, don’t you? In that sick journal she found?

You have… fantasies about her?”

The question, thrown out into the night air, was a grenade.

My breath stopped. The world narrowed to the space between the three of us. The journal in my bag felt like it was glowing, burning through the fabric.

Gunner’s eyes flicked to me, just for a second. A silent question. Did you read it?

Then he looked back at Mark, his face hardening into a mask of pure, unapologetic defiance. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t soften the words. He didn’t try to hide it.

“Yeah,” he said, the word simple, blunt, and loaded with meaning. “I do. What’s it to you?”

The confession landed with the weight of a physical blow.

Mark stared, his mouth open in shock. Then a bitter, ugly laugh burst out of him. “You see? Ellie, you see?

He’s a fucking pervert! He writes nasty shit about you in a book! And you’re standing here, letting him punch me?”

But I wasn’t listening to Mark anymore.

I was looking at Gunner.

His admission wasn’t a sly hint. It wasn’t a teasing provocation like in the garage. It was a direct, open statement. Yeah. I do. He owned it. He stood there, having just knocked my boyfriend to the ground, and admitted to fantasizing about me.

The journal’s words weren’t just fantasies. They were his fantasies. About me. And he’d just declared it, publicly, violently, without a shred of shame.

The sexual tension from before, the dangerous electricity, returned in a wave, but now it was mixed with this new, brutal reality. He’d fought for me. He’d claimed his desire for me. In the middle of a street, with my cheating boyfriend bleeding on the pavement.

I felt dizzy. The world tilted.

Mark saw my expression, the shock that wasn’t directed at Gunner’s violence, but at his honesty. “You’re… you’re considering him?” Mark’s voice was a disbelieving screech. “After what he just did? After what he just said?”

Gunner watched me, waiting. His blue eyes held mine, and in them, I saw no apology. No regret. Only a fierce, possessive certainty.

And I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I just stood there, the bag with his dirty journal heavy in my hand, staring at the man who had just changed everything with a punch and a single, devastating word.

Ellie'S POV

My brother’s house was dark when I pulled up, but I knew he’d be awake. Liam always kept a light on in the kitchen, a beacon for anyone needing shelter. I parked my car and just sat there for a moment, my hands trembling on the steering wheel. The street felt surreal, quiet. Gunner’s bike was gone. Mark was gone. Only the echo of Gunner’s words remained. Yeah. I do.

I grabbed my bag, the journal still inside, and walked to the front door. I didn’t knock. I just opened it and stepped into the warm, familiar clutter of Liam’s living room.

He was at the kitchen table, a beer in hand, his broad shoulders hunched over a motorcycle parts catalog. He looked up, his sharp eyes immediately scanning me. He saw the tear streaks, the wild look in my eyes, the way I clutched my bag like a life raft.

“Ellie?” He stood up, his chair scraping back. “What’s wrong?”

I dropped the bag on the floor. “Mark,” I said, my voice cracking. “He… he was cheating on me. With a librarian. A married one.”

Liam’s face hardened. He came around the table, his presence a solid, comforting wall. “Tell me everything.”

I did. I spilled it all in a shaky, fractured narrative. The hickey. The confession. The chase onto the street. I left out Gunner. I left out the journal. I left out the punch and the devastating admission. I just said Mark had grabbed me, that we’d argued, that I’d left.

Liam listened, his expression growing darker with every word. When I finished, he didn’t hug me. He didn’t offer soft comforts. He just nodded, a slow, grim motion.

“I knew it,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I fucking knew he wasn’t right for you.”

I blinked. “You knew?”

“A few months back,” he said, walking to the fridge to grab another beer. He popped the cap off, his movements controlled but tense. “I saw him downtown. He was talking to a woman—not you—outside a coffee shop. She was laughing, touching his arm. He was leaning in, smiling like it was his birthday. I thought maybe it was just an acquaintance. I didn’t want to start shit if it was nothing.” He took a long sip. “But I watched. The way he looked at her… it wasn’t nothing. It was the way a man looks at a woman he wants.”

The confirmation was another blow. My brother had seen it. He’d suspected. And he’d let me stay with Mark because he thought I was happy.

“No one is worthy of you, Ellie,” Liam said, turning to face me. His gaze was fierce, protective. “Not him. Not any of the guys you’ve brought around. They’re all soft. They don’t see what you are. They don’t know how to handle a woman who’s got fire in her.”

His words were a mirror to Gunner’s. Something… hotter. The comparison made my skin prickle.

“So, you’re done,” Liam stated, not a question. “You’re done with him. Tonight. You call him, you tell him it’s over, and you never see him again.”

“I already left,” I whispered. “It’s over.”

“Good.” He walked closer, putting his hands on my shoulders, his grip firm. “Now, I’ll deal with that bastard properly. You don’t need to worry about him anymore.”

A cold dread washed over me. “Liam, no. Don’t. It’s over. Just let it be.”

“Let it be?” He scoffed. “He chased you down the street. He grabbed you. He made you cry. He doesn’t get to

‘let it be.’ I’ll make sure he understands what happens when he treats my sister like that.”

The violence in his tone was clear. It was the same violence I’d just witnessed from Gunner, but from Liam, it felt different. It was familial. It was righteous. And it terrified me because I knew Liam wouldn’t stop. He’d find Mark. He’d hurt him. And if he found out Gunner was involved… if he found out about the journal…

If my brother found out, he would definitely kill Gunner.

The thought was a ice-cold spike in my chest. I had to keep Gunner out of this. I had to bury that journal, bury the truth, bury the way my heart had stuttered when Gunner said Yeah. I do.

“Please, Liam,” I pleaded, my voice desperate. “Just… let me handle it. I’m okay. I just need to get my stuff from the apartment. I need to move out.”

He studied me, his eyes narrowing. “You’re staying here. Until you find a new place. And tomorrow, I’ll have someone help you move your things. You shouldn’t go back there alone.”

“Who?” The question was out before I could stop it.

“Gunner,” Liam said, his tone casual, like it was the most natural solution. “He’s got a truck. He’s strong.

He’ll get your stuff out in an hour. And he won’t let Mark near you if that prick shows up.”

My breath caught. Gunner. Coming to help me move. Tomorrow. Being in my apartment. Being near me, after everything that had just happened.

“I… I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I stammered. “Gunner’s… you always said he’s trouble. You warned me about him.”

Liam’s expression softened, but it was a pitying softness. “Ellie, Gunner is trouble for girls who don’t know what they’re getting into. For you, he’s just a friend. A loyal one. He’d never try anything with you. He knows you’re my sister. He respects that.”

The lie was so absolute, so confident, it made my stomach twist. Liam believed it. He believed Gunner saw me as a sister, as off-limits. He didn’t know about the journal. He didn’t know about the fantasies. He didn’t know about the punch, about the confession.

He didn’t know that Gunner’s respect had nothing to do with boundaries and everything to do with a different, more dangerous kind of claim.

“Okay,” I said, my voice small. I had no choice. Refusing would raise suspicion. “Tomorrow.”

“Good.” Liam squeezed my shoulders once more, then let go. “Go get some sleep. You look wrecked.”

I went to the guest room, the one I’d used as a kid. The bed was the same. The walls were the same. But I felt entirely different. I dropped my bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands.

The journal was inside the bag. A secret. A bomb.

I couldn’t leave it there. I had to look at it again. I had to see the words, now that I knew they were meant for me. Now that Gunner had admitted it.

I pulled it out. The leather was warm, almost alive. I opened it, flipping past the sketches and notes until I found the last page I’d seen. The entry from yesterday.

I’d fuck her right here, on her brother’s porch, with the sun watching, so she’d never forget who owns the heat inside her.

I read it again. Then I read the one before it.

I want to pin her against my bike, not to hurt her, but to show her how strong I am. I want her to feel my hands on her hips, gripping her, holding her steady while I take her from behind, hard and fast, until she’s screaming into the wind. I want her to know that her safe, quiet world is a lie, and that the real world is this: my body, her body, and the fucking raw truth of what we both want.

My skin flushed. My chest tightened. These weren’t just fantasies. They were declarations. They were a blueprint. And Gunner had just shown me, in the street, that he was willing to act on them. He’d fought for me. He’d claimed me in front of my cheating boyfriend.

And tomorrow, he would be in my apartment. Alone with me. Helping me move.

The thought sent a shiver through me, a mix of fear and a deep, forbidden thrill. He’d be there, in my space, touching my things, looking at my bed, my clothes, my private life. He’d see the remnants of Mark, of the relationship that had just crumbled. He’d see the emptiness.

And he’d see me.

I closed the journal, hiding it under the pillow. I lay down, but sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Gunner’s blue eyes locked on mine after he punched Mark. I heard his voice. Yeah. I do.

I saw his hands, those strong, tattooed hands, gripping the toolbox in my brother’s garage. I imagined those hands on my hips, pinning me against his bike, just like he’d written.

The heat he’d described, the “heat inside her,” was now a real, pulsing thing inside me. It was confused. It was scared. It was desperately, dangerously curious.

Tomorrow, he would come. And I would be alone with him. And my brother, my protector, would be nowhere near, believing his best friend was just helping his little sister move a few boxes.

But I knew. I knew what Gunner wanted. I’d read it. He’d said it.

And now, lying in my brother’s house, hiding his dirty journal under my pillow, I had to decide what I wanted.