“I’ll be nearby,” I share. “And if he comes back and sees the bike, it’ll reinforce your story.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes. “That’s… thoughtful,” she replies carefully.
“Practical,” I correct.
She smiles but it doesn’t fill her face. We stand there for a moment longer, neither of us quite ready to end it. The night hums around us—crickets, distant traffic, the quiet sounds of a house settling into sleep.
“Will I see you again?” she asks.
I meet her gaze, feel something steady lock into place in my chest. “If you want to.”
She nods. “I do.”
I step back before the answer can cost us both something we’re not ready to pay. “Get some rest.”
She watches me walk down the driveway, eyes following until I disappear into the dark. I don’t look back.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I want to too much.
The road waits for me, patient as ever. And for tonight, that’s where I belong.
I don’t leave right away. I walk the block twice, counting steps, memorizing angles, watching reflections in dark windows. The night feels ordinary again—too ordinary for what almost happened in that parking lot. I don’t like ordinary after tension. It hides things.
Her street is quiet. No cars slow down. No doors open. The porch light stays on.
Good.
I cut through the side yard and make the call I should’ve made earlier. Smoke answers on the second ring, voice rough with sleep.
“I need a favor,” I tell him.
He exhales. “You always do.”
“Hospital parking lot. Silver sedan. Keys in the gas tank cubby.”
A pause. Then a low whistle. “You pulling guardian angel duty now?”
“Just move the car,” I state. “Park it where it belongs.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” I add. “Be invisible.”
Smoke snorts. “My specialty.”
I hang up and wait. Twenty minutes later, headlights sweep once across the street and disappear. The sound of an engine fades. I don’t move until the night settles back into itself.
Only then do I circle the house. That’s when I make a decision on impulse.
The locks are basic. Residential. No alarm system that I can hear or see. Windows old, frames warped just enough to give me what I need without breaking anything. I choose the back, near the laundry room, where the shadows collect.
I’m inside in under thirty seconds.
The house smells like soap and something warm—coffee maybe, or the ghost of dinner. It feels lived-in in a way the clubhouse never does. Softer. Human.
I move quietly, every step measured.
