I don’t knock. I don’t even turn off the bike. I just sit there in the growing dark, watching the thin strip of light under his door.
This time, he didn’t say sorry.
Dawn comes pale through the thin curtains. He’s still asleep—rare for him. I slip out of bed, pull on my jeans and his shirt from the floor, and step outside. xev bellringer ride
Afterward, I trace the scars on his knuckles—old ones, from his father’s house. He traces the road rash on my hip—new, from a fall I took practicing alone last fall.
“Then you’d better hold on tight.” I don’t knock
I’d never ridden it alone.
He sets the bottle down. Crosses the room. Lowers himself to his knees in front of me—not in supplication, not quite. More like he’s finally stopping the act of standing. This time, he didn’t say sorry
“Ready?” I ask.