I was still in the lot at eight.
Tyler locked the shop, bag over his shoulder, and walked to my window like he had known I would fail the drive-away. He didn’t smile. He tapped the glass.
“Follow me.”
Six minutes. A walk-up over a closed store. Stairs that smelled like dust and someone else’s dinner. His place was small and clean. Soap. Sheets. The same green stuff from the shop on the bathroom counter. He dropped his keys, locked the door, and looked at me standing in his hall with a fresh tattoo under my shirt and a decision already made.
“Shirt off. Shorts off. I need to see the bandage.”
I stripped.
Cool air. The tape at the base of my spine pulled when I moved. Tyler washed his hands at the sink first, then checked the edges of the dressing with clean fingers, professional for t
