“It’s the only one you’re getting.”His voice is calm, not defensive, not irritated, just final.
His gaze wavers, and for a second, he looks worn down—as if every decision has taken a piece of him.
“And if one day all the noise catches up to you?”I press.“Then what?”
A muscle ticks in his cheek.“Then I hope it hits me on my own time,” he says.“Not yours.”
It’s blunt.Hard.Protective in a way he probably didn’t mean to show.
I swallow.“Your handler, Nolan, he wants me to evaluate you.Decide whether they need to pull you out.”
Jagger doesn’t flinch.“Yeah.I figured.He said as much.”
“If your own people have doubts, why stay?”I ask softly.
His eyes stay on the lake.“Because someone has to walk into the places other people run from.”
He says it like it’s a choice he already made and will keep making until it kills him.
“What are you going to tell Nolan?”he asks.
I hold his gaze.“Nothing he doesn’t already know.”
He finally meets my eyes.There's no mask there.No cover.Just a man who knows his own people think he should quit.
"You did what you needed to back there.You didn't freeze.You didn't run.I need that in a partner."
He pauses.For a fraction of a second, something cracks—uncertainty, maybe, or the weight of admitting out loud what he needs.Then his jaw tightens, and he pushes through it.
His voice drops lower.“Hate to admit it, but I needyou, Tiger.”
A slow burn coils low in my stomach—uninvited, unwelcome, impossible to ignore.
I should shut this down.Put distance between us before it becomes something I can’t take back.
The burn spreads—into my chest, my throat—and I have to steady my breathing, fight the urge to look away.
Because looking away would give him ground.
Jagger
The moment we hit open road, she punches it.No warning, no glance back—just raw acceleration and the Street Bob snarling like it’s trying to tear free of the asphalt.
I twist the throttle hard, and the Ducati responds instantly—pure Italian engineering, all power and precision.The engine screams as I shift up through the gears, the world blurring into streaks of green and gray and burning sunlight.
She's ahead by half a bike length, her black chrome gleaming as she carves through the heat shimmer rising off the road.
We hit the straightaway near the industrial district, and I push harder, leaning forward, feeling the Monster come alive beneath me like a barely tamed animal.The wind tears at my jacket, tries to rip the helmet off my head.The asphalt rushes past in a continuous gray blur, broken only by the white dashes of lane markers.
She weaves through the sparse midday traffic like she was born doing this—smooth, aggressive, absolutely fearless.A sedan ahead, she slips past on the left.A delivery truck blocking the right lane, she cuts inside without hesitation.I match her move for move, adrenaline flooding my system, my focus narrowing to nothing but her and the road.
The exit ramp comes up fast—too fast—and she takes it hard, leaning so low I swear her knee's about to scrape pavement.I'm right behind her, feeling the G-force pull as I carve through the turn, the Ducati's tires gripping like they're glued to the asphalt.
She edges ahead again as we straighten out.Just barely.Maybe a foot.
The city streets are tighter now, more dangerous.Stop lights on every block, pedestrians stepping off curbs without looking, delivery trucks double-parked in the right lanes.But she doesn't slow down.If anything, she pushes harder.
And so do I.
