“Where the hell you been, Miles?” he asks, voice sharp but not angry. “Know you road out with Raff, but thought you’d be back by now. We got trouble brewing. Need you home.”
Home.
The word lands wrong.
I glance toward the bedroom where Danae’s still sleeping. I know behind the door she’s comfortable with her hair spread across the pillow, face peaceful in a way she doesn’t share with the world.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “I’ll pack up and hit the road tomorrow.”
The call ends. The house goes quiet again.
For the first time since I got here, the silence feels heavy.
Telling her is worse than I expect. We’re standing in the kitchen, coffee between us, sunlight catching in her eyes. I don’t sit. If I sit, I won’t say it. “I gotta head back,” I tell her frankly.
She freezes. Just for a second. But I see it. The disappointment. I feel it too. “Oh,” she says. “Okay.”
That word. Too calm. Too careful. Protected. Guarded. Something that hasn’t been experienced between us before.
The goodbye sneaks up on us. There’s no dramatic moment, no argument. Just packing bags, hands brushing, pauses that stretch too long.
I’ve ridden out of towns without looking back more times than I can count. Left women sleeping. Left roads behind me without a second thought to traveling them again. For a man who loves the open road, leaving has always felt natural.
This doesn’t.
It feels like I’m pulling something out of myself and leaving it behind. That’s when I know without a doubt. I’m in deep. I have it bad.
We stand on the porch. My bike waits out front, bag strapped down, everything waiting. Danae hugs herself, like she’s trying to stay steady.
I step closer.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “Look at me.”
She does.
“This—” I gesture between us, useless with words all of a sudden. “This matters.” Her breath catches, but I keep going. “You matter,” I add. “And I don’t want this to just be something that happened while I was passing through.”
Her eyes widen, stunned, like I’ve tipped the ground under her feet. “I don’t know what it looks like yet,” I continue, voice low, honest. “Distance. Time. Life. But I want to find a way. I want this to be more.”
She opens her mouth. I don’t let her answer.
I kiss her instead.
Slow. Certain. A promise pressed into her lips so she doesn’t have to carry the weight of a response yet. So she can just feel it instead of figuring it out.
When I pull back, her forehead rests against mine.
“We’ll figure it out,” I murmur. Then I force myself to step away.
The bike roars to life beneath me. I don’t look back when I pull out, not because I don’t want to, but because I know if I do, I might not leave at all.
And for the first time in my life, the road feels like it’s taking me away from something instead of toward it.
Twelve
Danae
Two Weeks Later
