Ash is standing there in jeans and a black henley, barefoot, looking like something out of a magazine spread about rugged men who could kill you with their bare hands but would rather fix your motorcycle. His hair is damp like he just showered. The henley clings to his chest and shoulders in a way that should be illegal.
He's watching me with those sharp hazel eyes, and I can't read his expression at all.
"You came," he says.
"Said I would."
"Wasn't sure you would."
"Why not?"
He shrugs, a small movement that does interesting things to his shoulders. "Robin probably told you to stay away."
"He did."
"But you came anyway."
"Yeah." I get off my bike, trying to project confidence I don't feel. My hands are steady, at least. Small mercies. "You said you'd show me the garage."
"I did say that." He steps back, gesturing me inside. "Come on."
I follow him through the house, and it's even more sparse than I expected. The living room has a couch and a TV, nothing else. No coffee table, no bookshelves, no random accumulationof stuff that happens when someone actually lives somewhere. The kitchen has basic appliances, a coffee maker, a single mug in the dish rack. No art on the walls, no photos, no personal touches of any kind.
It looks like a model home. Or a safe house. Somewhere someone stays temporarily before moving on to the next location.
"Still settling in," Ash says, catching me looking around. "Haven't had time to make it feel like a place yet."
"How long have you owned it?"
"Six years."
I stop walking. "Six years?"
"Bought it before I deployed. Never actually lived here." He opens a door that leads to the garage, and his voice shifts—becomes warmer, more animated. "This is the part I cared about."
The garage is a different world.
Three bays, all immaculate. Fluorescent lights humming overhead, illuminating everything in crisp, shadowless detail. The concrete floor is painted gray and spotlessly clean—not a single oil stain, not a dropped bolt, nothing out of place. The walls are lined with pegboards and tool chests, everything organized with military precision.
And it is military precision, I realize. The tools aren't just organized, they're arranged by function and frequency of use. Wrenches sorted by size, yes, but also positioned so the most commonly used ones are at eye level. Screwdrivers grouped by type, but also by head size within each type. Everything labeled, everything accessible, everything designed for maximum efficiency.
A hydraulic lift dominates the center of the space, professional-grade, currently lowered to floor level. Workbenches line one wall, surfaces clean and clear except for apartially disassembled engine that looks like a long-term project. I can see the systematic way he's laid out the parts—each piece in its designated spot, each bolt in a labeled container.
And the bikes.
Three of them, each more beautiful than the last.
The Kawasaki H2R I've already seen, that matte black monster that makes my Harley look like a toy. Up close it's even more impressive—the supercharger visible through the fairing, the aggressive stance, the raw power barely contained. Track-bred machine modified for street use, probably worth more than most people's houses.
A Ducati Panigale V4 in racing red, all aggressive angles and barely contained speed. The Italian superbike that wins championships. I've seen pictures, watched videos, never seen one in person. The way the light catches the bodywork makes it look like it's already moving.
And a Honda CB750—vintage, probably from the mid-seventies, lovingly restored to better than showroom condition. Classic lines, chrome gleaming, original tank badges preserved. A museum piece that somehow also looks rideable.
"Holy shit," I breathe.
"The Kawasaki's my daily driver," Ash says, running his hand along the fuel tank with unmistakable affection. The gesture is almost tender, intimate in a way I wouldn't have expected from him. "But the Ducati's for track days. When I can find a track worth driving to."
"And the Honda?"
