The wind catches his shirt, makes it flutter against my fingers.
I press closer, the night and the road rushing past us.
His one hand stays on the throttle. The other leaves the handlebar and comes back to his chest, finding my hand and pulling it there, like holding me against him is the only way he can keep the road steady.
I rest my head against his back and close my eyes.
For so long, I told myself the world is an ugly place. A place where I keep my feet planted because dreaming too far means losing people when I fall. With him, the world is less ugly. It’s still dangerous. I’m still afraid of losing him. But he makes me lean into the risk instead of away from it, like we both know how big it is and choose it anyway.
I hold myself down my whole life, afraid to reach too high, afraid of the drop that always follows. He makes it feel like I am already in the air. Like I am not falling. Like I am flying instead.
I live in his silence, and it’s enough. My words mean so little when he fights for just one. He makes me feel like I am worth the entire story.
I know this is wrong. I know what this is.
But it feels even more wrong to pretend it is not there.
I’m falling forhim.For myadoptive brother.
The thought hits harder than the wind.
I close my eyes and whisper a prayer I don’t believe in, hoping he will never break my heart because I know I wouldn’t survive it.
His hand returns to the handlebar as the curve comes. He leans into the road. I feel the shift in his body before I feel it in the bike.
My hands stay on his chest. I hold him tighter, as if I let go, something in me will come loose with it.
The road straightens. His hand finds mine again, pressing it back where it was, holding both of us.
My heart beats faster than the speed of the bike. But my head goes quiet.
The hospital lights rise ahead of us. He pulls in and parks, swinging off first, then turning to help me down.
I lift my helmet, my hair falling loose around my face.
“Judas,” I whisper. “If something happens, will you come after me?”
He nods, then signs.Little sister.
I nod back.
He holds out his hand. When I take it, he pulls me forward, and we walk toward the hospital entrance together.
He stops just outside. He turns to face me. One hand hangs at his thigh, holding his helmet. The other cups my cheek, his thumb brushing my skin.
My heart stutters at the thought that this might be harder for him than it is for me. I don’t hate Judge Harrington. I haven’t been here long enough to love him either. But Judas has. Long enough to carry both at the same time.
We walk inside.
As we approach the waiting room, Catherine is not here.
Someone else is.
Simona stands by the window, her hair twisted into a messy bun. Her black coat hangs open, its shape reflected in the glass as we approach.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. She only tilts her head so I can see her red face, wet with tears.
