I had no idea how to give a motorcycle a soul. How could I translate them from vague rider-speak into engineeringproblems? Perhaps if I sorted them by keywords or made a spreadsheet tracking the frequency of word use.
I did love spreadsheets.
I frowned, pulling out a highlighter and starting to mark similar words, then my eyes drifted to my phone, resting on the edge of the couch. Milo and Xavier would know exactly what these riders meant. They lived and breathed motorcycles. What if they could translate the vague complaints on these forms into something actionable? Something I could fix.
The thought made my stomach flip. We’d been seeing each other for nearly a month now, but “seeing” was probably the wrong word. Fucking. We’d been fucking for nearly a month. Intensely. Repeatedly. In very many different positions, all quite pleasing.
I still knew almost nothing about their personal lives, and I was keeping it that way on purpose. If this was just sex, I didn’t want the kinds of details that make you go from really liking a person to being in love with them. So I didn’t know what they did for work, where they’d grown up, if they had siblings or pets or food allergies. Our relationship, if you could call it that, was a strange balancing act. Despite my intimate physical knowledge of both men, the only details I had about them were small things, mentioned in passing.It was for the best, though, because once I started asking questions, it was really hard to stop. The hunger for knowledge and clarity took over, like a fugue state that left everyone exhausted and slightly freaked out. And with Milo and Xavier, it was surprisingly easy to stop myself from asking anything. All I had to do was distract myself with sex stuff.
They were always willing.
I picked up my phone and frowned down at it. Was it weird to text them about work? Would they think it was strange that I was asking for something other than sex? What if they weren’t interested in my engineering problems? What if this shattered whatever delicate arrangement we’d built?
I picked up my phone, set it down, picked it up again. This was silly. I was an adult. They were adults. We all did sex stuff together. I could ask for their professional insight without it being weird.
There were four new text messages from my mom, and I couldn’t ignore those for too long, or she’d call the police and ask them to do a wellness check. But I couldn’t reply now, because I was too focused on my objective.I typed out a message to Milo and Xavier, deleted it, tried again.
June: Hey, wondering if you guys might want to drop by today? I’ve got something I want to show you...
Before I could overthink it further, I hit send.
My heart hammered as I set the phone down, trying to focus on the throttle response curves on my laptop screen. The numbers blurred together as my brain fixated on the sent message, wondering if they would respond, what they would say, if I’d crossed some invisible line.
Three minutes later, my phone buzzed.
Milo: Yeah, June-bug. Another pretty new bra?
Shit. I hadn’t meant to send a sexy text, but now that I looked back at it I could see they might think I wanted to show them my boobs. What did I do? There was always my backup text method, for when I didn’t know what to say to someone’s text: picking a random cute emoji.
June: ??
Milo: X’s shift ends at 10. We can swing by after. That work?
June: Oh. 10PM? That’s so late.
Milo: 10AM, sweetheart.
June: Oh! Okay.
What kind of work ended at 10AM on a Saturday? I had so many questions about their jobs, all filed away in the part of my brain I didn’t allow myself to access when they were in the room. Did they work together? Separately?
I set my phone aside, a strange uneasiness settling in my stomach. Xavier sometimes used vocabulary that suggested education, and they were both smart and had nice motorcycles. So I’d assumed they were like me—educated professionals with stable careers—when I had zero evidence to support that assumption.
I groaned, pressing my palms against my eyes. This was exactly why I’d never been good at relationships. I got so caught up in my own head, my own assumptions, that I missed obvious gaps in my knowledge. Autistic blind spots, my therapist called them. I created detailed models of people based on minimal data, then got blindsided when reality didn’t match my projections.
My phone buzzed again.
Milo: Want us to bring anything?
June: Just yourselves.
I pulled my laptop closer, diving back into the schematics with renewed focus, trying to identify every possible issue before they arrived, and see if I could relate it back to anything on the feedback forms. At least when it came to engineering problems, I knew exactly what I was doing.
I lost myself in the engine mapping code, time dissolving into lines of logic and efficiency calculations. This was my safe place—numbers, equations, problems with definable parameters and solvable outcomes. People were messy and unpredictable; code was clean and responsive. If something didn’t work, I could track down the error, isolate it, fix it. Three more adjustments to the throttle response curve, a tweak to the acceleration algorithm, notes about potential hardware modifications. Then I heard it—the distinctive growl of motorcycles pulling into my driveway, and my heart jumped into my throat.
The knock came moments later—three sharp raps that I recognized as Xavier’s. Milo’s knock was always more rhythmic, almost musical. I’d cataloged every data point I had, storing away little details about them like a scientist collecting specimens.
I opened the door to find them both standing there, helmets tucked under their arms, looking impossibly good in their riding gear. Xavier’s dark hair was slightly mussed, his eyes taking me in with that intensity that always made my skin prickle. Milo stood slightly behind him, dimples appearing as he smiled, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
