She opened her eyes and swung her legs out of bed.
The hotel carpet was soft under her bare feet. The bedside clock glowed just after seven. Light seeped around the edges of the curtains; pale and tentative, as if the sun was still deciding whether it wanted any part of this day.
Her phone sat on the nightstand where she had left it.
She picked it up and thumbed the screen awake.
Two messages from Hank waited.
You awake, honey? The first one read. Techs are doing spot checks before the main rounds. Brian and I had a word with a couple of them. You did good.
The second: Remember your promise. Door locked, no balcony, no boardwalk. I need to know where you are.
Her throat went tight. She glanced at the door; the deadbolt was turned; the security bar engaged. She had done that last night without thinking, his words still in her ears.
She typed back, I’m awake. Door’s locked. I’m being very boring.
He answered fast; he always did with her.
Boring is underrated, he wrote. Boring keeps you breathing. TV should have coverage on the local sports channel; you’ll see more from up there than I can from the queue.
Despite the knot in her chest, she smiled.
Bossy, she replied. How are you?
There was a longer pause. She pictured him in the pits with his phone in one hand, helmets and bikes and people all pulling at his attention, and still making space for this.
Head’s on straight, he sent. Julie passed initial checks; no surprises. Dragons are up soon. I’ll keep you posted as much as I can.
She stared at the words for a beat.
Thank you for believing me, she wrote.
Always, he answered. Now turn the TV on and pretend I am very calm and very professional down here.
Liar, she sent, the letters a little wobbly under her thumb.
She set the phone down and crossed to the TV. The remote lay on the dresser; she grabbed it and clicked through channels until Copper Moon’s logo appeared in the corner of the screen, a little stylized crescent tucked beside the network name.
The feed showed highlights from yesterday: bikes flicking through the long curve by the dunes; slow-motion shots of sand spraying; riders’ bodies low and fluid. A pair of commentators sat in a booth with the ocean behind them; bright polos; teeth a little too white; voices a little too cheerful.
She muted them for a moment and went to the balcony door.
Habit tugged at her, as strong as the tide. That balcony had become her studio; her favorite place in Copper Moon; all that space and motion framed in glass.
Her hand closed around the handle.
She could feel the cool metal against her palm; the subtle give when she pulled, just enough to crack the door; the rush of air that would follow; the roar of engines coming in clean instead of muffled.
Hank’s voice threaded through the temptation.
Hotel room, door locked. No balcony, no boardwalk.
She let the handle go.
Her fingers left little crescents on the wood where she had squeezed too hard. She stepped back and tugged the curtains closer together until the view outside was just a faint glow.
“Fine,” she said under her breath. “You win.”
