Page 121 of Rogue Riders Duet

“You won’t need it,” I cut in, nodding back toward the bikes. “Downhill helmets won’t do shit with motocross. You can use one of ours.”

He hesitates with a slight frown but then follows me to the bikes. I snag Dad’s helmet off his handlebars and hold it out to Mini Crews, but he hesitates again.

“Come on,” I mutter, stepping closer. “It’s just a helmet.”

He doesn’t move fast enough, so I slide it down over his head myself. His breath picks up, faster now, and his hands tremble slightly as he reaches for the straps. I watch quietly as he fumbles.

“Hold still.” My fingers tighten the straps, adjusting them under his jaw, and he tips his head up toward me.

His breath brushes my cheek, and those big brown eyes lock onto mine. His lashes are too long, annoyingly pretty, and I keep my hold on the straps even though I’m already done, caught by the light specks in his eyes.

Were they always there?

Then he hiccups, and the sound is so unexpected that I can’t stop the smirk curling at the edge of my mouth.

He’s oddly cute like Luc’s rat.

I really hope he’s not doping.

He pulls down the goggles, and I take it as my cue to let go of him. Pulling on my helmet, I swing a leg over Dad’s bike, the engine grumbling beneath me like it’s waiting for an excuse to run. I gesture for Mini Crews to do the same with mine.

He approaches it hesitantly, eyes flicking over the frame. “Is that yours?”

“How’d you know?”

He gestures to the twenty-one painted on the side, before he throws a leg over clean, settles into the seat, and grips the handlebars.

Right. The number, leftover from a time when I was proud to slap my mark on everything, when I thought being seen mattered.

Now it just feels loud.

“Throttle’s here.” I tap the right handle. “Brake’s on the front lever, back brake’s the foot peg. Clutch on the left.”

“I know how bikes work, Mason.”

Cocky indeed.

“Yeah, but you mess up the clutch here, it’s your ass.”

He shoots me a look through the clear goggles but nods in understanding, fingers adjusting on the grips, and foot tapping at the rear brake to feel it out. I rev my engine, the growl filling the air, and after a beat, he follows.

We ride slowly, side by side through the woods, following the dirt path that winds toward the track. He’s cautious at first, stiff in the seat, a little jerky with the throttle, but by the time we hit the edge of the course, he’s already moving more smoothly, adjusting his weight on the corners like he’s been doing this for longer than ten minutes.

“Stay loose in the shoulders,” I call over the noise of the engines. “Let the bike move under you. Don’t fight it. Just like on the trail.”

He jerks his head in a nod, and we take off.

On the first lap, I keep it easy, leading him through the lines, pointing out where to lean into the berms and where the jumps roll up.

On the second lap, I push a little harder, and he keeps right on my tail. By the third, he’s laughing loud, full-bellied, unrestrained joy, and it catches me off guard.

I’ve never heard him laugh like that before, never even seen him smile like he means it. He’s usually all sharp edges, tucked into himself, quiet and broody, like the weight of the world is welded to his back.

But now? He’s weightless.

And his joy is filling up my chest too.

That laugh rings out again as he hits a small jump, lands a little crooked, but recovers clean, and shit, I can’t help but laugh too. It’s contagious and fun.