I kick the stand up, roll out of the alley, and the engine purrs. Wind hits my face as I take the first left. At the red light, I drum my fingers on the tank, in rhythm with that fucking song Rava wouldn’t stop humming in my kitchen last night.
"Dance with somebody." Goddamn Mando Diao.
Swear to god, I didn’t even like that song at first. I’ve known it for years, never actually liked it. But the second I found out it was Rava’s favorite??
Boom. Suddenly it fucking slaps. Like my brain just went,"Hey, maybe you didn’t really listen to it the first time."And now it hits different.
Maybe it’s because I’m obsessed with anything that makes him feel something. I don’t even care. If he tells me his favorite sound is static, I’ll probably loop a fucking radio station with no signal just to see what he hears in it.
The light is still red when another bike pulls up beside me. Clean machine, sleek lines, matte black.
Someone who knows what the hell they’re doing. I can feel eyes on me. Then comes the click. The visor lifts.
A girl.
She looks young. She winks. I stare forward. "Nice Ducati," she says with a casual voice. I nod. "Thanks."
She tilts her head, amused. "Wanna race?"
For just a second, I think about it. The wind. The roar. The burn. I used to ride like that was all I had left.
Like nothing mattered. Like my life was mine to throw away, and I wanted it to go down in flames. But now I have a man in my bed. Not just a man.Thatman. Smart-mouth, glasses, too-good-for-this-world and sitting in my shirt with my cat on his lap.
So I shake my head. "Maybe another time. Ride safe," I say. Then the light changes and I take off. Balanced. And that’s the part that scares me most. Because I’veneverbeen balanced before.
Every turn is clean. Every movement natural.
He changed something in me.
I can feel it every time I don’t lean into the chaos. Every time I pull back. Every time I saynot nowinstead of fuck it. That wasn’t me. But it’s becoming me. Because I have something to lose now. And it’s home, curled up in my bed, probably rereading the same page three times because Lulu won’t stop pawing at his book.
And I love that. I love knowing he’s there, safe. In my space.
I pull into the hospital lot. Park slow. Engine dies with a final purr. Helmet off. I look up at the building. Mom is up there.
I push the door open with my elbow, helmet still in my hand. I step in quiet. Don’t want to wake her, if she’s sleeping. But she isn’t.
She turns her head toward me the second I enter. Her eyes light up. "Giovanni," she says, smiling. I drop the helmet gently on the little side table, walk toward her slow, letting the quiet stretch a few seconds longer.
"You look better," I say with a weird calm voice. Not the one I use with cops or bartenders or even Lorenzo. She laughs, small. "I feel better today." And yeah, she looks better too.
Color back in her cheeks. Hair brushed. A book open beside her. Less wires. Less fragility. I exhale through my nose. It’s such a fucking relief seeing her like this.
We weren’t that close, not really, but what happened scaredthe shitout of me. Shook me in a way I didn’t expect.
Made me realize how much I actually care.
Deep down, no matter how messy things are, I do care. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her. Yeah, she wasn’t the best mom. She wasn’t around when I needed her most. But she didn’t hurt me either. And sometimes, that’s enough to keep the hate from sticking. Sometimes, it’s enough to still give a fuck. I sit down beside her, lean my elbows on my knees. "How’s the food?" I ask.
"Still tastes like cardboard."
I smile. "How’s the nurse who smells like garlic?"
She grins. "He was off today.Thank god."
I laugh. She watches me. Then, after a moment, she tilts her head. Her eyes narrow slightly. That mom-squint that means she’s scanning me like a laser. "…what’s that on your cheekbone?" I blink. Shit.
Reflexively, I touch it, don’t even feel the bruise anymore, but I know it’s still there. Dull purple, edge of yellow. "That?" I shrug. "Ah…Charles."
