THREE
COLD FRONT
STEEL
The late winter storm came early. By morning, Mt. Pleasant is smothered in white, snow thick as smoke, swirling sideways in the wind. The kind of storm that eats sound and time.
Saint Motors looks smaller under the weight of it. I left the clubhouse an hour ago, telling the guys I needed to check the generator, but the truth is, I just needed quiet. The kind that hurts.
Inside the shop, the air’s sharp with metal and oil. A single work lamp spills yellow light across the Harley’s chrome. My breath fogs the air, and the old barrel heater rattles in protest. Music hums low from an old speaker, some forgotten blues track that fits too damn well.
The engine’s open on the lift, half disassembled again. My way of needing something to do in the dark winter months, instead of letting my mind wander to what should be and isn’t. It’s a deadly turn my head takes each time I think about Aria and the way she left.
My hands are as black as my soul, covered with grease and ghosts. Sweat clings to my neck despite the cold. I work shirtless,heat from the barrel stove burning my skin while snow piles outside the bay door. The rhythm keeps me sane. Turn, tighten, check.
My father’s ghost lingers in the clatter of tolls and the smell of oil. I can still hear him in my head.Don’t let love make you weak, boy.
It was summer when we buried my old man. Hot enough to make leather stick to skin. She left that night, right after the last shovel hit dirt. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t look back.
The socket wrench slips. My knuckles slam into steel, blood blooming bright against the gray. I shake it off, grab a rag, and keep working.
The wind howls harder, pressing against the bay door like it wants in.
Headlights slice through the storm, cutting across the frosted windows. My heart jumps before my brain catches up. I reach for the Glock on the bench, instinct before logic.
I straighten slowly, every muscle coiled tight. The bay windows glow faint, white light reflecting off the snow. I step closer to the window, squinting through the frost. The Jeep rolls to a stop out front, engine idling. For a second, I think I’m imagining things. But when the door opens and she steps out, it’s no manifestation.
Aria. She’s back, in the flesh and not my mind.
Her hair’s damp from the snow, clinging to her face. Snowflakes glint on her lashes. She’s clutching a folder against her chest like a shield. She looks too delicate for the weather, too real for the ache in my chest. The coat she’s wearing doesn’t belong in a storm like this.
My throat tightens. She shouldn’t be here.
I curse under my breath, shove the Glock back under the bench, and start wrenching on the bike, like I don’t have a care in the world.
The door creaks as she pushes it open, warm air spilling into the cold. Aria hesitates just long enough for the snow to cling to her coat before stepping inside.
The heat hits her, and I swear I can smell her before I see her properly. She smells of rain, perfume, and the faint memory of whiskey and July heat.
I keep my eyes on the Harley, pretending to focus. “Didn’t expect you this early.”
Her voice cuts through the hum of the heater, soft but steady. “Figured I’d get the paperwork out of your way.”
I wipe my hands on a rag, watching her from the corner of my eye. She hasn’t changed much. Still that same mix of fire and restraint, like she’s one deep breath from running again. “Draft send you?”
“I volunteered.” That earns her a look I can’t hide. I don’t know if it’s surprise or irritation, or the memory of how easily she used to undo me.
“You didn’t have to,” I say quietly.
“I know.” The air thickens, silence stretching like tension on a trigger. Snow beats against the windows, the storm building louder.
I force myself to ask something normal. “You keeping busy?”
She nods, setting the folder down on the bench. “Trying. Law doesn’t stop for grief.”
“Neither does the club.” The words slip out before I can catch them. She tilts her head, like she hears the exhaustion under the armor.
Her gaze drifts to the Harley. “You rebuilt it.”
