I shifted to one side, ribs objecting, and let my hand drift over the pillowcase, tracing the seam. The motion pulled at thestitches on my cheek, and I winced, then grinned. If there was a world record for dumbass grins while concussed, I’d have it in the bag.
For a minute, I just lay there breathing him in. The sheets were clean, but not hospital sterile—there was a trace of sweat, of something wild and metallic beneath the soap.
I wondered if Jo ever brought anyone back here. If he did, would he let them curl up in his bed, would he watch over them like he had me or was this some kind of charity case, a one-time rescue for the prodigal fuck-up?
The thought soured me.
I rolled onto my back, ignoring the alarm from my side, and stared at the ceiling again. I tried to remember the last time I’d woken up in a place that felt safe. Not since I was a kid, maybe, back before the McKenzie house turned into a war zone of expectations and disappointment. Even on my best days, I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to tell me I didn’t deserve nice things.
Maybe I didn’t.
But for now, Jo wasn’t here to throw me out, and the blanket was warm, and the sky outside was just starting to turn the color of a cigarette ash. So I let myself have it. I let myself curl tighter, rubbing my cheek against the soft spot where the pillow dipped, and told myself it was okay to want things, at least for a minute.
I traced my fingers along the quilt, counting the stitches, and wondered what Jo would say if he saw me now. Would he laugh? Would he tell me to toughen up, or would he just watch, silent and impassive, the way he did when he was trying to fix something that couldn’t be fixed?
The memory of his hand on my throat, gentle but firm, sent a shiver down my spine. I wanted it again. I wanted to know what it felt like to be handled, to be held down, not because someonewanted to hurt me, but because they cared enough to keep me from flying apart.
God, I was pathetic.
But I didn’t move. I let myself drift, half-awake, half-dreaming, and thought about what it would be like to wake up to this every day. To coffee brewing and the smell of cedar and the promise that someone, somewhere, wanted to see me make it through the morning.
The pain was still there, sharp and insistent, but it was easier to bear with Jo’s scent in my lungs. If this was all I got, I’d take it.
Eventually, the ache in my back overruled the ache in my brain, and I forced myself to roll over and see what kind of prison cell Jo thought was good enough for a runaway McKenzie. The blanket followed me, twisting up around my legs, and I had to kick it loose just to get a good look at the place.
First impression: the room was aggressively neat, the kind of order that took either a military upbringing or a compulsion bordering on psychosis. The dresser was plain pine, not a speck of dust, handles polished to a dull shine. On top, three things: a glass of water, full, no ring left behind, a heavy silver watch, and a folded handkerchief, white and sharp as a blade.
The bookshelf above the dresser was a shock. I expected engine manuals or maybe an old porno magazine stashed behind some motivational posters, but instead there were rows of dog-eared paperbacks—fiction, from the look of the spines.
I squinted and read the titles: some Kerouac, some old sci-fi, even a battered copy of Call of the Wild. They were arranged by author, but inside the alphabetical rigor, some of the books were marked with colored tabs and post-its, as if Jo went back and reread favorite lines.
On the nightstand, stacked with the same rigid geometry, were four more books—two with bookmarks sticking out, one open facedown as if he’d been caught mid-sentence.
I reached for the top one, curiosity winning over the pain, and thumbed the page. There were tiny notes in the margins, a tidy, blocky print I recognized from the times Jo left instructions for me back at the shop.
I ran my thumb along the edge of the paper, then set it down exactly how I found it.
Next to the books, a glass paperweight shaped like a piston. It caught the morning light, casting rainbows onto the wall, and I found myself hypnotized by the slow drift of bubbles trapped inside.
A soft grunt escaped me as I sat up, muscles in revolt. The bed was low, the frame hand-built and sanded smooth. I planted my feet on the floor, let the chill drive the last of the drowsiness out of my head, and surveyed the rest.
There, on the far wall: a lineup of framed motorcycle schematics, crisp as blueprints, each one labeled with Jo’s handwriting—“’67 Triumph Bonneville,” “Harley Panhead, 1964,” and “’02 Ducati Monster,” which made me grin.
Below the frames, a workbench with a velvet-lined tray holding three watches, a pair of heavy cufflinks, and a single, neatly coiled bracelet of black leather. Even the lamp on the bench was arranged so its shadow fell cleanly along the wood.
Hanging on a hook by the door was Jo’s jacket. Not just any jacket, but the one I’d seen him wear since I was old enough to realize I liked watching him walk away. It was worn to the perfect suppleness, the collar creased, sleeves burnished at the elbows. It hung, alone, not competing for space, as if even the outerwear in this room knew its place in the pecking order.
I stood, bare feet on cold hardwood, and crossed to the jacket. My ribs protested with every step, but I ignored them. I reached out, almost reverent, and pinched the lapel between my thumb and forefinger. The leather was cool and slick, and as Ileaned in, the smell—Jo’s smell, distilled to its purest form—hit me square in the chest.
My hands shook. Not from pain or withdrawal, but from the way every atom in this room radiated Jo’s will. It should have creeped me out, the precision of it, but instead I felt a steadying pulse—like if I stood here long enough, some of his order might bleed over into my bones.
That thought made me laugh. Me, the human tire fire, finding comfort in someone else’s alphabetized chaos.
I let go of the jacket, walked back to the dresser, and peeked inside the top drawer. I half-expected to find it locked, but it slid open smooth. Inside, a row of t-shirts, all black, all folded to the exact same dimensions. I lifted the edge of one, revealing another row beneath, white undershirts, then another of socks, rolled tight as baseballs.
I shut the drawer, careful not to make a sound. For a second, I just stood there, letting the discipline of the place press against my skin. I pictured Jo here every morning, getting dressed in silence, the ritual of putting on a shirt and boots and jacket like armor before facing the world.
There was something deeply private about it, the secret rhythm of a man who didn’t need anyone, but who built a fortress anyway.
