Lucas looks between us, disbelief turning to anger. “You think you can just show up and intimidate me?”
Miles tilts his head. “Am I intimidating you?”
“You think you are.”
“No,” Miles challenges calmly. “I’m asking you a question. It’s a yes or no answer. You brought up intimidation. So the question is am I intimidating you? A man who can admit he’s the lesser man has potential, Dr. Reeves. Is that what this is?”
He holds Lucas’s gaze, unblinking. The silence stretches, heavy and electric.
Finally, Lucas scoffs and steps back. “This isn’t over,” he mutters, turning away. “You hear me? This isn’t over.”
Miles watches him go, expression unreadable. When Lucas disappears back toward the building, Miles turns to me.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod, breath shaky. “I think so.”
He gestures toward the bike. “You want a ride?”
I hesitate for half a second because I shouldn’t do this. It’s reckless and irresponsible. Something inside me, though, can’t deny that I want to ride, yes. Going with my gut, I swing the helmet on and climb on behind him like I’ve done it a thousand times.
As the engine roars to life, I realize something with a jolt of clarity that sends a shiver down my spine.
I don’t know who this man really is.
But I’m very glad he showed up when he did.
Three
Miles
The helmet clicks into place in her hands like it belongs there. She hesitated for half a breath before putting it on, fingers brushing the edge like she’s testing a truth she hasn’t decided to believe yet. Then she committed to taking the chance.
The parking lot is quiet now—too quiet. The kind of silence that follows confrontation, when the air hasn’t figured out how to move again.
I swing onto the bike and wait. She steps closer, close enough that I feel the heat of her body through leather and denim. When she climbs on behind me, her hands settle at my waist without being told. Not desperate. Not shy. Just sure.
That does something to me.
With the engine coming to life, I pull out smooth, easy, like this is just another night and not the moment everything tilted on its axis. I don’t push the speed. I don’t show off. I ride like I want her to breathe to feel the experience.
We roll away from the hospital lights and into the dark, the road opening up in front of us like an invitation. The hum of the engine settles into my bones, familiar as a pulse. Her helmet taps lightly against mine when I slow at a light.
“You okay back there?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, voice steady in my ear. “This is nice.”
I almost smile. We hit the highway and the town falls away fast. Trees blur. The wind cuts clean and sharp, scrubbing the edges off my thoughts. This is why I ride. Not the danger. Not the image. The quiet.
“Riding clears your head,” I tell her after a few miles. “Allows a man be alone with his thoughts without drowning in them.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Do you ever find answers out here?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “But I find the right questions.”
Her grip tightens just a little.
We don’t talk much. We don’t need to. The road does the talking for us—long, gentle curves and open stretches that feel like exhaling after holding your breath too long. I take us on a loop that skirts the edge of town, nothing fancy, nothing reckless.
