I should call.
Instead, I pull up a different app. The one I check every morning. The one that shows me a little blue dot on a map of Denver.
She's home.
I close my eyes. Her face swims up from the darkness. The way she looked at me in that hospital room, broken and bruised and still so fucking beautiful it hurt to breathe.
Leave, she said.Don't come back.
I left.
But if I'm going to die tonight?—
I open my eyes. Shove the phone in my pocket. Kick the Ducati back to life.
The ride is a blur. Streetlights smear into streaks of gold. My vision tunnels. I run two red lights, maybe three. A car horn blares somewhere behind me.
I don't care.
I just need to see her face. One more time. That's all.
Her building is a four-story walk-up in a quiet neighborhood.
I park the bike at the curb. Nearly fall getting off. Catch myself on the handlebar, leaving a bloody handprint on the chrome.
The front door is locked. Security panel. I lean against the wall, trying to think through the fog in my head.
Then the door opens.
A kid in a pizza delivery uniform steps out, box balanced on one hand, phone in the other. He doesn't even look at me as he passes.
I catch the door before it closes.
Inside. Stairs.
Four flights.
I've climbed mountains. Fought men twice my size and walked away standing.
Four flights of stairs nearly kills me.
By the third, I'm counting each step like a prayer. By the fourth, I'm not sure I'm going to make it.
But I do.
Her door is at the end of the hall. 4B. I've memorized the number. Dreamed about it. Imagined knocking a thousand times.
I never did.
Until now.
I lean against the doorframe. Raise my fist. Knock.
The sound is weak. Pathetic. I try again, harder.
Footsteps inside. Light, careful. She's checking the peephole. Of course she is. She's smart.
"Who is it?"
