I stepped closer. My body moved before I'd decided to, closing the distance between us until I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint scar above his left eyebrow.
"You felt something this morning. On the bike. You called it freedom. Said it was the first time you'd felt like that in years." I held his gaze. "You really want to give that up? Go back to running, hiding, pretending to be someone else?"
Tyler's expression flickered. "That's not?—"
"Same time tomorrow. We start you on the Sportster. Basic controls, balance, low-speed maneuvering. It'll be frustrating and boring and you'll want to quit after the first hour."
"Tank—"
"Same time tomorrow. That's what we agreed."
He stared at me. The light continued to fade around us, turning the sky to shades of amber and rose, and somewhere in the clubhouse behind us, someone laughed.
"Why?" The question again, the same one from this morning.
"Because you should know how to ride."
I turned and walked back toward the clubhouse before he could respond. I didn't look back—didn't need to. I could feel him watching me, feel the weight of his attention like something physical pressing against my shoulders.
The road where Cross had ridden was empty now, just asphalt disappearing into the growing dark. But the threat remained, hovering at the edge of everything, waiting.
Tomorrow, I'd teach Tyler how to work a clutch. The day after, we'd practice starts and stops. Eventually, he'd be good enough to ride on his own.
The why of it—why it mattered, why I'ddefended him, why I couldn't seem to stop putting myself between him and harm—that could wait.
Same time tomorrow.
That was what we'd agreed.
3
STALL
TANK
The Sportster sat in the middle of the lot like a patient animal, chrome dulled by years of prospect hands and training mishaps. She wasn't pretty—dented tank, scratched pipes, a seat worn smooth by a hundred different asses learning the same hard lessons—but she ran true, and that was what mattered.
Tyler stood beside her, helmet tucked under his arm, studying the bike with the kind of focused attention I was starting to recognize as his default state. Morning light slanted across the lot, turning everything gold and casting long shadows from the row of Harleys lined up near the clubhouse steps.
"It's not going to attack you."
"I know." He didn't sound convinced. "It's just—yesterday I was a passenger. Today I'm supposed to control this thing."
"You're not going to control it. Not yet." I moved closer, ran my hand along the Sportster's tank, feeling the familiar contours beneath my palm. "Today you're going to learn how to fail."
He looked up at that, one eyebrow raised, a question forming in his expression.
"Riding is mostly about recovery. Knowing what to do when things go wrong. So today, things are going to go wrong. A lot. You're going to stall out, lose your balance, jerk the throttle too hard. And every time it happens, you're going to learn something."
"That sounds painful."
"Only to your pride." I gestured at the bike. "Get on. I'll walk you through the controls."
He mounted with more confidence than yesterday, settling into the seat with a slight adjustment of his hips, finding his center of gravity. His posture was still too rigid—shoulders tight, spine locked—but that would ease with time. Everything eased with time.
I moved to stand beside the bike, close enough to intervene if something went wrong, close enough to see the individual beads of sweat already forming at his hairline despite the cool morning air.
"Left hand is the clutch." I pointed to each control as I spoke, watching his eyes track my movements. "Right hand is the throttle and front brake. Right foot is the rear brake. Left foot is the shifter. For now, forget everything except the clutch and throttle. That's all that matters."
