His fingers tighten around the door handle. The movement is small, but it hits me like a warning. He’s nervous. Always nervous.
“I was wondering, um,” He hesitates, eyes flicking away. “Um, is that your bike outside?”
I blink. “My bike?”
“The black one,” he says.
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “The Harley? Yeah. That’s mine.” His face brightens at the confirmation.
Eli steps fully into the office. “It’s beautiful.”
I lean back in my chair. “You’re talking about the bike, right?” I add lightly.
His ears go red. “Yes.”
The sight pulls something warm through my chest, unexpected and sharp.
I grin. “Good answer.”
He rolls his eyes, but a small smile tugs at his mouth. “What year?”
I raise a brow. “You know bikes?”
“Not much,” he adds quickly, too quickly, like the words slip out before he can stop them. “But enough to recognize a Fat Boy.”
His shoulders tense, like he’s bracing for impact. It makes my jaw tighten.
I stand. “Come on.”
His eyes widen. “What?”
“You want to see it?”
He glances down, then back up, caught between caution and something brighter. Excitement wins.
“Really?”
I grab my keys. “Really.”
A few minutes later, we’re standing beside the bike. The mid-morning sun catches the black paint and chrome, turningit almost liquid. Eli circles it slowly, reverently, like he’s approaching something sacred.
His fingers hover over the handlebars, but he doesn’t touch them. Like he’s afraid he’ll break it just by existing near it.
“You can touch it,” I say quietly.
His hand jerks back immediately. His eyes drop to the ground like he’s been corrected without words.
“Sorry,” he mumbles fast. “I didn’t mean to…”
The apology is too quick, too practiced. It hits me like a bruise.
“Eli.”
He looks up, cautious. Guarded.
“You don’t need permission,” I say, softer than I mean it to come out.
He swallows as though the words hurt. Like they don’t fit inside him yet.
