"She's beautiful."
Tyler stood in the garage doorway, backlit by the dying sun. The light caught in his hair, turned it to burnished bronze, and softened the sharp edges of his face. He looked steadier than he had in church—the tremor gone from his hands, his posture less defensive—but something fragile still lingered in his expression.
"She's a mess."
"She's potential." He took a step closer, then another, moving into the dim garage with thatcareful deliberation I was starting to recognize. "My dad had a Shovelhead when I was a kid. Sold it before I was old enough to ride."
"You don't ride."
"No." Something flickered in his expression—regret, maybe, or longing. "Never learned. The Bureau wasn't exactly accommodating of hobbies that might compromise cover identities."
I turned back to the bike, running my hand along the frame. The metal was cool beneath my fingers, familiar as my own skin. "That why you're here? Looking for riding lessons?"
"I'm here because the clubhouse feels like a pressure cooker right now, and I needed to breathe."
I understood that. The tension after Hawk's announcement had been suffocating, everyone processing the threat in their own way—Irish with dark humor, Blade with stoic silence, Ghost with a manic energy that made him bounce off walls. Axel and Kai had disappeared into their room, seeking comfort in each other's presence.
Tyler had no one. No partner to hold him together, no history in this family beyond three months of careful, cautious integration. He was alone in a way that would make anyone restless.
"Garage isn't exactly a social space."
"I know." He moved closer still, close enough that I caught the scent of soap and something warmer underneath. "I wasn't looking for social. I was looking for... solid. Grounded. Something that doesn't feel like it's about to explode."
He was looking at me when he said it.
I let that pass without comment and reached for a wrench.
"You know anything about engines?"
His eyebrows rose slightly. "I know which end the gas goes in."
"That's a start." I gestured at the workbench along the far wall, cluttered with tools and parts and the organized chaos of a long-term project. "Hand me that socket wrench. Three-eighths."
He moved to comply, and something in the air shifted—still charged with the day's tension, but focused now. Directed. He scanned the bench, found the wrench without asking which one, and brought it back. Our fingers brushed in the exchange, brief and incidental.
"Show me." Tyler's voice had dropped, gone quiet. "What you're working on. Explain it to me."
I showed him the engine I was rebuilding, pointing out the cylinders and explaining how the combustion cycle worked. I showed him the transmission I'd sourced from a guy in Nevada, the gears worn smooth with use but still solid. I walked him through the exhaust I was fabricating from scratch, the way the pipes had to be bent just right to clear the frame without restricting flow.
He listened. Asked questions that proved he was actually tracking—about compression ratios, about the difference between stock and aftermarket parts, about why I'd chosen certain modifications over others. His mind was quick, adaptive, the kind of intelligence that absorbed new information without struggle.
The sun finished setting. The garage dimmed to shadows broken only by the work light over the bench, casting everything in sharp relief.
When Tyler finally straightened, stretched, and said he should probably head back before someone sent a search party, I realized we'd been talking for nearly two hours.
"Tank." He paused at the door, half-turned, his profile outlined by the distant glow of the clubhouse lights. "Thanks. For this. For..." He trailed off, searching for words. "For not asking about Cross."
"Wasn't my business."
"No. But you wanted to." The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, but close. "I saw it. The way you were watching during church."
"I watch everyone during church."
"Not like that." His voice had dropped, gone soft in a way that made something shift in my chest. "Not the way you watch me."
He left before I could respond.
I stood alone in the dark garage, surrounded by the familiar shapes of machines and tools, Tyler's words hanging in the air like smoke.
