Amelia smiles, and it almost stays.
Then her voice goes soft. “And you?”
“What about me?”
“Do I fill space with you?”
The question goes right through me.
I turn my head and look at her profile, the tired eyes, the mouth I still remember under mine.
“If you want.”
“That isn’t a very biker answer.”
“Fine. Yes, fill every damn room with me until I trip over your shoes and the kid’s dinosaurs and complain about it for the rest of my life.”
She laughs.
Better.
Then I add, quieter, “But only if you want.”
She hears the difference.
That matters.
Another hundred miles pass.
Then another.
Morning finds us in a cheap motel parking lot where August eats powdered donuts on the curb while I check the trailer straps on Widowmaker. Amelia watches me from near the SUV, hair wet from a quick shower, crown visible, eyes still heavy with road sleep.
I catch her staring.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
She walks over slowly, donut sugar on one thumb because August shared and she can’t say no to him any better than I can. She stops beside Widowmaker and touches the seat strap.
“You hate that she’s being towed.”
“Profoundly.”
“I know.”
“Doesn’t feel natural.”
“Thank you for doing it anyway.”
I grunt.
She steps closer. “I mean it.”
“I know.”