“You rebuilt it,” I say, gesturing to the Harley.
“Had to. Couldn’t stand seeing it rot.”
I smile faintly. “You sound like him.”
His jaw locks. “Don’t.”
The word hits like a slap. I flinch, then cover it with a nod. “Sorry.”
He exhales, running a hand over his face. When he looks up again, some of the tension’s gone. “You don’t need to apologize, Aria.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t either.”
He looks at me like he’s remembering every reason he shouldn’t want me. The air between us hums, full of heat and history. “Still drink coffee like jet fuel?” he asks finally.
“Only on days ending in Y.” His mouth almost curves. Almost. The silence that follows feels heavier than words. I clear my throat. “The deed transfer’s in the folder. I’ll have the city attorney sign off by next week.”
“Appreciate it,” he says, voice low.
I turn toward the door, needing distance before I forget what I came for. “Aria.”
I stop.
He hesitates, like the words hurt on the way out. “Thanks… for showing up.”
It’s nothing. It’s everything. I nod once. “Always.”
The snow’s blinding when I step back outside, but at least it hides the tears threatening to fall.
I make it to my car before I let out the breath I’ve been holding since I walked in. My hands shake when I start the engine. The heater coughs warm air that smells faintly of oil and him.
“You did good,” I whisper. “Kept it professional.” Except my voice cracks onprofessional.
The snow thickens, blanketing the windshield. My phone buzzes in the cup holder.
Draft: Appreciate you stopping by. We’ve got some issues with the south-lot title. Might need you tomorrow if Steel’s tied up.
My pulse skips attied up.Old reflex. Old sin.
Before I can respond, another message lights the screen.
Unknown Number: You shouldn’t have come back, counselor.
Cold rushes down my spine.
Another buzz.
Unknown Number: Saints bring fire wherever they go. Don’t get burned twice.
My fingers tighten on the phone until my knuckles ache. I glance toward the garage. There’s no movement, no sound. Just the faint glow of light under the door, steady, safe, and so damn dangerous.
I delete the messages, but the chill doesn’t leave. I’ve faced judges who wanted me buried and clients who lied through their teeth, but one anonymous text from a phantom number still makes my stomach drop.
The Saints never let anyone go. And maybe I never really wanted them to.
