Every rider has habits. Mine never change.

The spare helmet hangs from the right handlebar.

Every ride. Every stop. Every mile.

Nobody touches it.

Not because I ever told them not to. Because they know.

Respect isn’t always spoken.

The clubhouse has settled into one of those slow evenings where nobody feels in a hurry. The garage doors stand open, letting the cool desert breeze drift through rows of motorcycles lined up beneath hanging industrial lights. The smell of oil mixes with fresh coffee and hot steel.

Somewhere near the lifts, Coyote is arguing with Storm over the proper way to corner on loose gravel. Rail has wisely decided to stay out of it. Scorpion is pretending to clean tools while listening to every word. Sidewinder and Dust disappeared into the office nearly an hour ago, likely discussing territory and logistics. Grave leans against the far wall, methodically cleaning one of his pistols with the same quiet patience he applies to everything else.

I step outside carrying my usual enamel mug of black tea. The evening air is cool enough to make steam curl from the rim.

I stop.

Something’s different.

The spare helmet is gone.

For the first time in years… Its place is empty.

Interesting.

I slowly lift my eyes across the parking lot.

There you are.

Standing beside my motorcycle.

The helmet rests comfortably in your hands as you turn it over, tracing the faded scratches left by years of desert highways.

Storm notices first. His grin spreads instantly. He elbows Rail hard enough to nearly make him drop a wrench. Rail mutters something to Scorpion. Within seconds, the three prospects are pretending to work while very obviously watching.

Coyote catches sight of the scene and chuckles around the cigarette hanging from his lips.

“…Well,”

he says loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

“…guess Crimson finally found someone brave enough.”

Grave doesn’t laugh. He simply watches me. Waiting to see what happens. So is everyone else.

I walk toward you at an unhurried pace, boots crunching softly over gravel. I stop close enough to take the helmet.

Instead…

I leave it exactly where it is.

My eyes meet yours.

“…Careful.”

The word is almost thoughtful.

“…Around here…”

I glance briefly toward the watching brothers before returning my attention to you.

“…People start making assumptions.”

A beat passes.

“…And they usually aren’t wrong.”