I cross the room and hook a finger under her chin, tilting her face up so I can see her eyes. “I stay too long, I start breaking all my own rules.”
“Is that a bad thing?” she whispers.
“For you?” I brush my thumb over her cheek. “Yeah. Because I’d start wanting things I told you I can’t give. And that’s not fair to either of us.”
She nods, blinking fast. Tears don’t fall, but they’re there, glittering bright right at the edge.
“Come ride with me,” I offer suddenly.
She blinks. “What?”
“In the spring,” I clarify. “When it’s warmer. When you’ve saved a little more and figured out what the hell you want to do with that car and this house and that job. Take a weekend. Or a week. Come down to Salemburg. Let me show you my world for a change.”
She stares at me like I’ve handed her something fragile and surprising. “Tony, that’s?—”
“An invitation,” I clarify. “Not an obligation. Not a contract. Just any time you want to see me, you have a place to go.”
Her throat works. “Where would I stay?”
“With me,” I answer easily. “Got space. Couch, bed, whatever you’re comfortable with. The club’s got a compound on the outside of town. I’ve got a room there. It’s not a cabin, but it’s home.”
She lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re inviting me to your biker clubhouse. Do you realize how insane that sounds?”
“You’ve slept in your car in the mountain winter,” I retort dryly. “I think your risk tolerance is already questionable.”
“Touché.” She smiles. “Can I…” She hesitates. “Can I really come any time?”
“Any time,” I confirm. “You text me, you call me, I make sure someone’s there to let you in if I’m on a run. You need to get out of that town for a bit? Those doors are open.”
Her eyes flood, but this time one tear escapes, sliding down her cheek before she can catch it. I thumb it away gently.
“Hey,” I murmur. “This isn’t goodbye like that.”
“What kind of goodbye is it then?” she whispers.
“The kind where you know I’m not disappearing,” I explain. “I’m just changing locations. This is until I see you again, because trouble, I want to see you again.”
She chokes out a laugh and a sob in the same breath. It guts me.
“Will you text me?” she asks, voice small. “Or call?”
“Yeah,” I say simply. “Not every hour. Not every day even. But yeah. I’ll text. I’ll call. You can text me too, you know. You don’t have to wait for me to start it.”
“I don’t want to be a bother,” she says.
“You won’t be.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I say, firm. “Because if you ever start to be, I’ll tell you. That’s part of this deal. No pretending. No slow fade because someone’s scared to hurt feelings.”
She exhales, relieved by the clarity instead of wounded by it. That’s one of the things I like most about her—she’s done with half-truths and polite non-answers. She wants the real thing, even if it stings.
I finish packing, zip the bag, and sling it over my shoulder. The cabin feels different instantly. Less like a suspended moment in time, more like a place again. Four walls. A roof. A temporary stop.
Outside, the air bites my face. The snow on the ground is still deep, but the top layer is slushy, sun hitting it with weak winter light. My breath fogs in front of me as I pull the cover off the bike. Holley stands on the porch, arms wrapped around herself, watching me.
“You’re really riding in this?” she calls.
