“How was work?”he asks, plating my food just so.
“Fine,” I say, stabbing at noodles, tasting nothing.
“Any more trouble down there?”
“Nope.Quiet as church.”
He smiles, relieved, and starts talking about his day, clients, deadlines, the drive to the city.I nod, pretending to listen, pretending not to see Humbug every time I close my eyes.
I don’t tell Blake that Humbug had come around the back of Sno-Globes that night, checking on me after he stormed out.Don’t tell him we stood in the alley under the broken light, like two people who survived the same storm.Don’t tell him I still felt that kiss like a bruise I can’t hide.That I hate the biker took his hands off me.
I tell myself it was adrenaline.Curiosity.Closure.
Then another week passes full of my excuses and half-truths until my phone buzzes after midnight and blows all that to hell.
Unknown number.
You awake?Familiar voice.
No.
A pause.Then...
Liar.
How’d you get my number?
Sugar tits at the bar.
That’s not her name, but I don’t correct him.I hang up instead.That should be the end.
It’s not.
Yeah, it starts small, like everything else.A text the next night.Two the night after.Then calls, short, quiet, never lasting long.Sometimes it’s just breathing, the kind that fills my ear and curls under my skin like smoke.
Humbug’s voice is low and lazy, the kind of drawl that belonged in a dark booth, not over a phone line.“You still hum when you’re nervous?”he asks.
I don’t even realize I’m doing it.“No.”
“Liar,” he says again, softer.
After that, the calls come more often.He talks about the club, about fixing bikes, about the snow that won’t quit.He mentions his ex-wife, Trina, like it’s a ghost story he doesn’t believe in anymore.“She’s still breathin’, I guess,” he says.“Just not in my direction.”
Sometimes, neither of us say much at all.Just silence, the kind that feels like confession.
I start staying up later.Pretend insomnia.I crawl into bed beside Blake after he falls asleep, slide my phone under the pillow, and wait for the vibration that means Humbug’s awake too.
“You’re restless lately,” Blake says in the morning over coffee.“You work too much.”
“Maybe,” I say, stirring cream into my cup like it matters.
He smiles and kisses my temple.“You’ll bounce back.You always do.”
I nod.“Yeah.Always.”I can’t tell him that I’m falling asleep with another man’s voice still warm in my ear.
The first time I see Humbug again, it’s not planned.Tuesday afternoon.Sno-Globes is half-empty, the lull between tourists and locals.I’m wiping down the bar when the door opens, and the temperature drops a million degrees.
Biker stands there in a black hoodie under his cut, snow melting into his hair.He looks different, tired, older, like a storm cloud followed him in.
