For a moment, the garage is filled with laughter and clinks of metal, and I almost believe this is normal: uncles showing nephews the wonders of four-stroke engines.
“Boys?” Her voice cuts through the noise like a tuning fork, pure and resonant.
They turn as one. “In here!”
Parker stands in the doorway, haloed by the last rays of sunlight. Her jeans and soft blouse catch the glow; her hair drapes around her shoulders like a silken veil. Sienna stands behind her, small overnight bags in hand.
Parker’s gaze sweeps their faces first, checking for scrapes, for smiles, for the echoes of childhood innocence. Then it travels the workshop: to me at the Ducati, to Silas absorbed in his Hayabusa, to Jace leaning against his R1M. Surprise flickers across her features—then something gentler, almost wistful.
“Noah helped with the computer!” he booms proudly. “Liam learned about carburetors from Silas, and Jimmy sat on Uncle Jace’s bike!”
“He was very careful,” Jace assures her, voice smooth.
Parker’s lips twitch into a tentative smile. Sienna steps forward. “Okay, mechanics—clean-up time. Sleepover at the main house.”
A chorus of cheers erupts as the boys bound out, trailing excitement and small suitcases behind them, followed by Sienna. Parker watches them go, arms tightening across her chest, as though reluctant to let this moment end.
Silence settles in their wake, heavy as oil-slick water. Parker stands alone, backlit and uncertain, the air crackling around her like static.
She drifts to Jace’s R1M. Her fingertips ghost over the matte black fairing, tracing the sculpted lines with reverence.
“She’s beautiful,” she murmurs. “You’ve always had an eye for machines.”
Jace straightens, every muscle taut. I catch his breath hitch as Parker’s hand lingers on his bike—so close, yet so loaded with unspoken history.
She steps back, eyes sweeping Silas at his workstation. Drawn by curiosity, she crouches beside him. “What are you working on?”
“Fuel mixture,” he replies, voice measured. “She’s running rich.”
“Can I help?”
Silas hesitates, then nods. “Pass me the 10 mm socket—should be in the red toolbox.”
Their fingers brush as she hands it over. I see the catch in Silas’s breath, the quickening of her pulse. Memories of a stolen kiss in a dim hallway flash through my mind.
Parker straightens again and glances my way. “Stage 3 tune, custom map. Always pushing boundaries, Cal.”
I shrug, chest tight. “Confident, not reckless.”
“Sure,” she teases, circling my Ducati. “But isn’t she a bit… much for you?”
“Much how?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
“Powerful. Aggressive. Some might call it compensation.”
“Then prove me wrong.”
Her challenge hangs between us like a charged coil. She swings her leg over the seat in one fluid motion, the leather creakingsoftly. Her posture is perfect—head down over the tank, hips tipped, fingers settling on the grips as if born to ride.
I forget to breathe.
“Fits like a glove,” she calls over her shoulder. “Even for someone my size.”
I force out, “Yeah. I see that.”
Her hips shift in the seat, the Ducati’s frame humming with silent promise beneath her. Heat pools in my chest, unstoppable.
I glance at Jace. He’s watching me with amused, knowing eyes. Silas has set aside his wrench, every sinew attuned to Parker’s lean back against my bike.
