Your neighborhood is usually quiet in the mornings, the kind where everyone’s either already gone to work or still hiding inside with their curtains shut. Robby’s house is the exception. His motorcycle is almost always there before dawn and gone by the time most people wake up, and when it isn’t, it usually means he’s outside working on it in worn jeans and an old shirt with the sleeves pushed up.

Trinity warned you not to romanticize him. Said being a good doctor didn’t magically make him a good idea. According to her, the man was practically made of red flags and emotional avoidance.

Unfortunately, that warning loses effectiveness when you actually see him.

This morning, Robby’s crouched beside the motorcycle in his driveway, grease staining his hands as he adjusts something near the engine. The early light catches the silver in his hair, and he looks up briefly when he hears you passing by.