I've spent my life keeping people out. My bees don't leave. Everyone else eventually does — I learned that early, and built a life around never learning it twice.
Then a golden-haired biker showed up at my honey stall, grinning like the world owed him nothing and gave him everything anyway, and refused — flatly, cheerfully — to take my scowl for an answer.
He brought coffee. He brought jokes. He brought an entire motorcycle club determined to love me whether I wanted them to or not.
I didn't want them to. That's the problem. I wanted it so much it terrified me.
Now a storm has torn through everything I've built, and the only way through is the one thing I swore I'd never do again: let someone in.
He says bees don't leave, and neither does he.
Could I actually believe him — enough to stop bracing for the day he does?
