JAXSON
I didn’t even remember the ride home.
I knew I rode fast—too fast—but the whole time my head was somewhere else, replaying John’s voice, that shaky breath, that desperate whisper asking me for something I had no idea how to give.
By the time I pulled into the compound, my brain felt like it had been squeezed dry. I parked the bike, killed the engine, and just sat there for a second with my hands still gripping the handlebars like I was bracing for impact.
Inside, the place was quiet.
Too quiet for a Friday.
I stepped in, shrugging off my jacket, and stopped when I saw Ryder sitting on the couch. One arm thrown over the backrest, the other holding a glass of whiskey. His eyes flicked up to me slowly, like he’d been waiting.
“Went somewhere?” he asked.
No greeting. No ‘hey’. J
