“Had to,” I answer, voice low. “Couldn’t stand seeing it rot.”
She smiles faintly. “You sound like him.”
That one hits too deep. My jaw locks. “Don’t.”
She flinches, then covers it with a nod. “Sorry.”
I drag a hand over my face, breathing through the sting of it. The anger isn’t hers, it’s mine. The grief never learned manners. “You don’t need to apologize, Aria.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t either.” That line lands like a hook in my chest. She’s too damn good at finding soft spots I thought I’d buried.
Her eyes are shining under the lamplight. There’s warmth there, and something else, something I remember too well.
I swallow hard. “Still drink coffee like jet fuel?”
“Only on days ending in Y.”
My mouth almost curves, but I fight it back. She could always make me forget how to keep a straight face. The silence that follows hums with everything we’re not saying.
She clears her throat. “The deed transfer’s in the folder. I’ll have the city attorney sign off by next week.”
“Appreciate it.” My voice comes out lower than I intend.
She turns toward the door, boots crunching softly on the concrete. For a second, I think she’s really going to leave. That she’ll disappear into the storm like she did that night in July.
“Aria.” She stops. I hesitate, the words scraping raw on the way out. “Thanks… for showing up.”
It’s simple. But it feels like too much.
Her voice is softer than the snow outside. “Always.”
And then she’s gone. The cold floods in for a second before the door seals shut again. I stare at the empty space she left behind, the faint heat where she’d been standing.
The Harley gleams under the light, engine half-open, the room still smelling like her perfume and motor oil.
I drop onto the stool, rubbing the grease from my palms, and stare at the ring hanging from my neck.
“Always,” I repeat under my breath, voice cracking just enough to hurt.
The wind howls so loud it shakes the glass. I stand, staring at the bay doors long after they close behind her.
I tell myself to let her go. She doesn’t belong in this storm or this life anymore. She made that choice the night she left me standing in the July heat, dirt still fresh on my father’s grave.
But when the next gust rattles the siding, I catch a glimpse of movement through the window. Her Jeep hasn’t moved.
She’s still sitting there, engine idling, snow already piling up on the hood. “Dammit, Aria.” I grab my coat and shove through the door. The wind slaps the breath out of me, stinging my face, my chest. The snow’s knee-deep already, turning everything into blinding white.
She looks up when I reach her window, eyes wide, hand frozen halfway to the gearshift.
I rap my knuckles on the glass. “You waiting for an engraved invitation?”
She rolls the window down just enough for the cold to rush in. “I was just…”
“Freezing to death?” I lean closer, voice rough from the wind. “You won’t make it two miles in this mess. Come back inside.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” she says, chin tilting up. “You made it pretty clear.”
“Forget what I made clear.” My voice softens before I can stop it. “It’s dangerous out here. You can argue with me inside where it’s warm.”
