Page 141 of Redline Baby

Kit holds up the finished page. I take it from him and study it with the same seriousness I would give a piece of engineering.

“That’s a very confident squirrel.”

“He’s got a peanut. He’s very fulfilled.”

“Clearly.”

I kiss his forehead. He beams at me as if that is the only review that ever mattered. Then he is off the couch, coloring book abandoned, marching directly toward Dex and Sol to insert himself into the pressure-versus-compound argument he announced thirty seconds ago that he was staying out of.

Of course. We get drinks, nonalcoholic because we rode here, and before long we are eating, laughing, and settled into the room. Ni tells a story about a customer who tried to negotiate a trade-in using a lawn mower as collateral. King stops by long enough to clap me on the shoulder and ask how the Norton is coming.

“Close.”

He nods as though that satisfies some private accounting he has been keeping since the first night he met me. They have accepted me completely. Not as a guest anymore. Not as Ni’s reserved friend who never left his shop before midnight. I have a regular stool now. A standing order. A place in this room that doesn’t require an introduction.

I couldn’t be happier.

Around two, Kit looks at me. I know before he says anything that he’s ready. He says goodbye to Allie with a kiss on the cheek, to Dex with a punch to the shoulder that turns into a half-hug at the last second, to Sol with a high-five, and to Ni with a wave.

“Same time next week, old man.”

Ni flips him off affectionately. Kit laughs. Then he finds my hand.

We leave.

Outside, the parking lot is cold. The motorcycles sit beneath the partial cover of the overhang, city noise low and distant beyond them. Our breath fogs faintly in the air.

His neon-green Yamaha looks beautiful beside mine.

We decided to keep one imperfect piece when the cosmetic work was finished: the mismatched fairing panel, cleaned up and fitted properly but never disguised. Under the security light, the difference catches at an angle that makes the scar look like it belongs there.

“You good?” I ask.

“Better than good.”

There’s nothing performed in the answer. No volume dialed up to fill silence. No grin stretched too wide to convince me. Kit looks back toward the building.

“I like leaving here now.” I wait. “I used to hate it.” His eyes come back to mine. “Leaving used to mean going back to nothing.” Then he smiles. “Now it just means going home.”

I touch his cheek.

“Forever, baby.” His expression softens. “This is our home.”

We put on our helmets. Kit swings onto the repaired Yamaha, and seeing him there still does something to me. He fits the motorcycle naturally, as though some lost piece has finally been returned to its proper place.

I start my bike. Kit starts his. We pull onto the road. The city is quiet at this hour. Streetlights wash the intersections in gold, changing ahead of us one after another. I ride without hurry. In my mirrors, Kit’s headlight remains steady behind me.

His spacing is clean. His lines are smooth. No rushing. No demand for the road to give him anything except a way home. Maybe for the first time in his life, he understands what that means. We are going home. Not to a temporary stop between one crisis and the next. Not to somewhere he will survive until circumstances change again. Not to an apartment he refuses to fully unpack because leaving is inevitable.

Home.

Pretty, Milkshake, and Duffy on the dresser. His clothes mixed with mine. Coffee mugs in the sink. His name on tomorrow’s work board downstairs. Therapy next week. Redline after that. Arguments about phone batteries. Canyon rides. Maintenance spankings he will protest.

All the ordinary things that continue. Home waiting exactly where we left it. The road opens ahead. Empty. Lit only by the streetlamps and the reach of our headlights.

We ride.