“Is that—”
“Yeah,” he says, still not lookingat me.
And then I see the bike clearly. Not the Ducati he rides like it’s an extension of his body.
The other one. The one that exists in my head like a sharp flash of headlights and gunfire and his blood on my hands.
My stomach tightens. I step closer, boots echoing once against the concrete.
The tire is new.Fresh.
The paint is darker than I remember—clean enough that the bike doesn’t even look like it’s ever kissed asphalt.
“The one from the bakery,” I say. “The night you hijacked my car.”
His jaw shifts, the smallest tell. “You wouldn’tleaveyour car.”
“I didn’t have time,” I shoot back, because if I let that memory breathe too long, it turns into something else. “You pushed me.”
“You refused.”
I can still feel it—his arm shoving me across the console like my life was just another obstacle to move.
The smell of gunpowder. The sound of bullets snapping past glass.
The fact that he was bleeding and still drove like the world owed him survival.
I circle the bike slowly. The new tire looks too perfect. Too deliberate.
I reach out and drag my fingers over the tank. Smooth.
Newly painted.
He goes still. Just a pause, but it hits anyway because it’s the first real crack I’ve seen from him in days.
I keep my tone light on purpose. “Why’d you fix it?”
“It still runs.”
That’s all he gives me. No explanation, no sentiment, no softness to grab and hold. Just a fact like facts don’t bleed.
I glance at him. He’s watching me now. Not the bike.
Me.
“You don’t strike me as the type to restore things,” I say.
“I don’t.”
“Then why keep this one?”
His gaze drags over my face like he’s measuring whether I’m trying to cut him open.
“It didn’t fail,” he responds.
I lift an eyebrow, because he can pretend all he wants, but I was there.
“The tire got shot out,” I say. “That’s not the bike being dramatic. That’s someone trying to kill you.”
