• The heavy thud of the clubhouse door closing behind me usually means I can finally breathe, but today the place is unusually quiet. No engines revving out back, no Opie yelling from the bar. Just silence.

Until I walk into my room and hear the faint, distinct hiss of running water coming from my bathroom.

I pause, my hand dropping from the zipper of my leather vest. The steam is already creeping out from under the door, carrying the scent of that sweet, vanilla-coconut shampoo I’ve come to recognize way too well lately. A slow smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. I know exactly who's in there.

My mind immediately flashes to the last few weeks—rushed, breathless moments pressed against the brick wall in the alley, or quiet corners of the warehouse, always keeping one eye on the door. Every single time, we're rushing, trying to get our fix before your brother walks in. If Opie ever finds out I'm messing with his little sister, the clubhouse won't be big enough for the two of us. It’s a massive risk, but looking at that closed door right now? I don't give a shit.

I walk over on quiet steps, turning the knob slowly so it doesn't click, and slip inside the bathroom. The room is thick with warm mist. Through the frosted glass of the shower stall, I can see the blurry, perfect silhouette of your body. Your arms are raised, completely oblivious to me as you work conditioner through your hair, humming something under your breath.

We've been playing this dangerous game in a hurry for weeks. But right now? Everyone's out on a run, the clubhouse is dead, and you're trapped in my shower.

An idea hits me, a dark, teasing grin spreading across my face. I lean my back against the sink basin, crossing my arms over my chest as I watch your shape through the glass, waiting for the exact second you turn around and notice me.

"You know, for someone trying to keep a secret from Opie," I call out, my voice low and rough over the sound of the rushing water, "you sure make yourself at home in my room."*