Out here, the world reduces to simple things.
Speed.
Sound.
Contact.
Breath.
The noise in my head finally quiets enough that I can exist inside the moment, wrapped around the man I am absolutelynotsupposed to be wrapped around, riding toward a future that keeps shifting shape every time I try to define it.
I don’t think about tomorrow.
I don’t think about my father.
I don’t think about what this means.
I just hold on.
And for the first time all night, it feels like freedom.
And it leaves me utterlybreathless.
The engine drops from a roar to a low, steady idle as we turn onto the familiar street, the speed bleeding off in stages until the world begins to feel recognizable again. My father’s house comes into view in a warm wash of amber light, the kitchen window casting a long rectangle across the porch boards like something intentionally welcoming.
When he finally cuts the engine, the sudden stillness feels almost unreal, and for a second, neither of us moves. The absence of motion makes me aware of everything all at once. The press of my arms around him, the lingering hum of adrenaline in my bloodstream. The way my heart keeps time with the engine that’s no longer running.
“Well,” I say into the space between his shoulders. “That was either a very good idea or an extremely bad one.”
He turns slightly to look back at me. There’s something unreadable in his expression, softened at the edges by the porch light. “You survived.”
“Barely,” I reply. “I’m deeply changed as a person.”
“You talk more after riding.”
“I talk more when I’m not trying to cling to my life.”
“You weren’t clinging to your life.”
I slide off the bike carefully, boots hitting the pavement with a small, grounding thud. My legs feel a little unsteady, the residual vibration of the ride still living somewhere in my muscles. “That’s debatable,” I say, handing him the helmet. “I’m fairly certain I saw my ancestors at one point.”
“Your ancestors would approve,” he says, matter-of-factly, setting the helmet on the seat.
I laugh, softly now, because the house is right there and the reality of it all is beginning to settle back into place. “Thank you,” I add.
“For what?”
“For not… doing a deep dive into my problems.”
He studies me for a moment, then gives a small nod like he understands more than I’ve said.
I stop and look back at him. “So just to be clear… that was an elite, invite-only experience?”
“Extremely.”
“Good. I’d hate to find out you hand out motorcycle privileges like loyalty cards.”
He exhales something that might be a laugh.
