Just enough.
When I turn toward her neighborhood, I feel her straighten, awareness snapping back into place. The ride slows. Reality creeps in.
Her house comes into view, porch light glowing soft and steady like it did before. I pull into the driveway and cut the engine. The sudden quiet feels loud.
She swings off the bike and pulls off the helmet, hair mussed, cheeks flushed from the wind. She looks at me like she’s still half on the road.
“Thank you,” she says.
I nod. “Anytime.”
She glances toward the street, then back at me. “I need my car.”
“You’ll have it,” I reply.
She frowns slightly. “How?”
I don’t elaborate. “By morning it will be here.”
Something in my tone must convince her, because she doesn’t press. She just nods and shifts her weight, suddenly unsure of what comes next.
The space between us is charged now. Not frantic. Not rushed.
Waiting. “You didn’t have to step in back there,” she says quietly.
“Yes,” I reply. “I did.”
She studies my face like she’s trying to read the fine print. “You don’t even know me.”
I shrug. “Doesn’t matter what I do or don’t know in details. I know enough.”
The porch light casts soft shadows across her features. She looks tired. Strong. A woman who carries more than she should without complaint.
“You want to come in?” she asks.
The words are simple. The invitation is not. I hold her gaze for a long second. Long enough to feel the pull. Long enough to imagine what it would be like to follow her inside, to let the night take a different shape.
Then I shake my head. “No.”
Surprise flickers across her face. Not hurt, just unexpected.
“Why not?” she asks.
“Because you’ve had a long night,” I state. “Because that man might double back to see if you were lying, I will be leaving my mark.”
Her jaw tightens. “You think he would?”
“I think men like that don’t like being embarrassed,” I reply. “Especially in front of witnesses.”
She exhales slowly. “So what you’re my security detail now?”
“For tonight,” I say.
I swing off the bike and push it closer to the side of the house, still within street sight, but in a personal position. I set the kickstand down and pocket the keys.
“I’m leaving it here,” I tell her.
Her brows knit together. “You’re not staying.”
