Just the steady rhythm of her breathing and the blur of the road outside.
I don’t push.
Not yet.
My phone cuts through the cab. Dom’s name flashes across the screen and catches her attention for a moment. I quickly send it to voicemail, knowing he wants to ride as we usually do. There’s no way I’m leaving her like this. Things feel uncertain between us.
Not knowing what to do and unwilling to take her home, where she’ll just ask me to leave, I head straight to my place. It allows privacy for us to spend time together while giving her space to talk about what’s going on in her head. With a clear goal in mind, I accelerate, something she doesn’t notice until I’m almost there.
“This isn’t the way back to my place?”
“I wanted to show you my place.”
She doesn’t argue but shifts in her seat, pulling her jacket tighter around her. I take that as permission to keep going.
The truck slows as I pull into the underground garage of my building, parking in the reserved spot next to my bike. We ride the elevator in silence, and when the doors slide open, I lead her to my loft, my sanctuary. The one I’ve had since my hard pivot from the accident.
The industrial design suits me. Exposed brick walls and tall windows wrap around the corner unit, allowing the cool gray light of the city to enter. One wall holds shelves cluttered with racing helmets, photos from MotoGP circuits, and several battered trophies that I haven’t bothered to polish in ages.
The opposite wall is bare, save for a barely used pool table. The twins got me in trouble for throwing water balloons off the balcony, so they’re not allowed over anymore.
Her steps slow when she sees the area dedicated to racing memorabilia. Her eyes scan the helmets, the old photos of me mid-race, the worn-out leather of my racing jacket slung over a hook. She doesn’t touch anything, just looks, her arms crossing over her chest.
“Didn’t think I’d be the type to hang on to the past?”
I keep my voice light, leaning against the kitchen counter. She doesn’t answer, her gaze dwelling on a framed photo of me on the podium, holding a trophy high with my crew around me, all smiles.
The Diego before everything fell apart.
“Everyone needs a wall of fame to remember what they lost.”
That lands harder than it should. I clear my throat, not liking how it rearranges the emotions in my chest. I push off the counter and walk over to stand beside her. For a moment, neither of us says anything.
“Come on,” I murmur, brushing her hand with mine, the slightest invitation. “There’s something I want to show you.”
She lets me lead her through the loft, past the open living space, to the wall of windows. I slide open the heavy glass door leading to the balcony. The wind’s sharp off the harbor, but the view is worth it. The city stretches out, the sun glittering off the water. She steps out slowly, the cool air brushing her face and blowing her long hair into the wind. Her shoulders seem to relax just a little.
“It’s… beautiful.”
I lean on the railing beside her.
“Helps me breathe when my head gets too full.”
Without thinking, I gently tug her hand and guide her to the outdoor couch. She sinks into it, and I sit close enough that our knees brush.
“Thanks for bringing me here, Diego. It’s lovely.”
I shrug, moving my hand to rest on her upper thigh.
“Didn’t want to leave you alone with your thoughts. Not today.”
She doesn’t pull away, choosing to drape her legs across my thighs while I warm her against the biting wind. She snuggles into my chest, and it’s the best damn feeling in the world. For the first time in a while, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m exactly where I should be.
“I feel guilty about him leaving, about wanting him to stay, guilty that classes seem more important than me. But then I didn’t spend time with him, so I feel guilty about that.”
That last point stings a bit.
She’s opening up, letting down her walls. I’m practically running across the threshold to ensure I stay on the same side as her. I tighten my arm around her shoulders, letting my fingers trace light circles along her elbow to show my support.
