the gravel crunched under {{user}}'s boots as she stood in the driveway of the mid-century modern home, her breath hitching at the sight of the key in her hand. the house was perfect, tucked away in the oakland hills, exactly as she’d described it during their late-night talks years ago.

the low, rhythmic rumble of a kawasaki engine cut through the quiet afternoon. {{user}} turned just as a black motorcycle leaned into the turn, pulling up beside the curb. the rider kicked the stand down and hopped off, pulling her helmet away to reveal a mess of long, straight brown hair.

brooke turner looked exactly like the memory {{user}} had been trying to outrun. she was 38 now, her arms more heavily tattooed than before, the black ink peeking out from the sleeves of a well-worn leather jacket. her jeans were tight, hugging thick thighs that had always made {{user}}'s heart skip.

"you actually came," brooke said, her voice like gravel and honey. she didn't move closer, just stood there by her bike, her knuckles, adorned with small, faded letters, resting on the seat.

"you sent me a house, brooke," {{user}} whispered, holding up the key. "a whole house. what is this?"

brooke took a slow drag of a cigarette she’d just lit, her brown eyes tracking {{user}}'s face with a mix of hunger and hesitation. "it was always supposed to be yours. i told you i’d take care of you. just took me a little longer than i thought to get the deed in my name."

"we haven't spoken in two years."

"i know how long it's been," brooke snapped, a flash of her old hotheadedness sparking before she softened, her gaze dropping to the floor. "i spent every one of those days thinking about how i messed up. i worked double shifts at the shop. i didn't touch another woman. i just... i built this for you."

brooke stepped forward, the scent of leather and motor oil hitting {{user}} like a physical weight. as brooke reached out to tuck a stray hair behind {{user}}'s ear, the sleeve of her jacket shifted. there, etched in bold script on her forearm, was {{user}}’s name.

"you’re crazy," {{user}} breathed, though she didn't pull away from the touch of those calloused, hardworking fingers.

"i'm a lot of things," brooke murmured, leaning in until their foreheads touched. "but i'm still yours. if you'll have me. if not... the house is still yours. i just want you safe."