He pulls me up, and for a second we’re too close—breathing the same air, pressed into the memory of last night when there was no space between us at all. His eyes drop to my mouth. My pulse kicks.
Then he steps back, slings my bag over his shoulder, and starts walking.
I follow him through the terminal, past the coffee shops and newsstands and families heading off on normal vacations to normal places where nobody gets kidnapped or tracked or caught up in motorcycle club drama.
“Car or bike?” he asks when we reach the parking garage.
My mind immediately shouts,car. Safer, more distance, less intimate.
“Bike,” I hear myself say, the word out before I can stop it.
Bones’s smile is small but genuine. “Good choice.”
I want to take it back. But whatever. It’s just transportation.
His Harley is parked in the far corner—completely blacked out, more shadow than motorcycle. He hands me the helmet I wore yesterday. The one I’d clutched with shaking, bloody hands when he pulled me out of that warehouse.
The one I barely managed to get on before he drove us to the clubhouse, my body pressed against his back, his hand reaching behind him every few minutes to squeeze my knee and make sure I was still there. Still breathing. Still alive.
I put it on. He swings a leg over the bike, and I climb on behind him like I’ve done a hundred times before. My arms wrap around his waist automatically, and he tenses—just slightly—at the contact.
“We’ll stop in a few hours,” he says over his shoulder. “Get food. Stretch. Whatever you need.”
“OK.”
“Swan?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you called. Even if you didn’t actually press the button.”
Before I can respond, he starts the bike. The engine roars to life, and we’re heading out of the parking garage, onto the highway, on our way to New York and whatever the hell comes next.
The sun is just starting to rise, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. The cool December air bites through my jacket, and I press closer to Bones’s back, stealing his warmth. His hand drops briefly to squeeze my knee—just once, just for a second—and then he’s focused on the road again.
The engine rumbles beneath us. The wind whips cold against my face. We’re probably going too fast, but I don’t tell him to slow down.
My chest loosens slightly. First time I’ve been able to breathe properly since yesterday.
Maybe it’s just being in motion. Or away from the airport. Or knowing I’m heading back to my normal life.
That’s probably it.
Because it can’t be . . . him.
It can’t.
Last night was a mistake. A crazy, adrenaline-soaked, world-detonating mistake. The kind of boundary-crossing disaster that blows up in slow motion, no matter how good it felt, no matter what his hands did to me—or what I did right back.
I’m not doing that again. I’m not. I’m going home. I’m getting back to ballet. I’m regaining control. That’s the plan. That’s the sensible thing.
We hit I-285 and the city shrinks in the rearview, Atlanta’s skyline dissolving into pale sun and skeletal trees. Bones just rides, the same way he does everything—with total, bullheaded focus, like if he keeps moving, the world might not catch up.
I grip his jacket tighter, and we don’t talk. Can’t, really, over the sound of the engine and the wind. But that’s OK. We’ve never needed words.
He knows I’m running.
I know he’s chasing.
