Leroy Salvador grunts as he swings his weight off his Harley, the metal of his prosthetic leg clicking softly against the pavement. The bike growls beneath him, its engine purring like a beast barely held back. His chest rises and falls under the tight stretch of his tank top, red and black tattoos crawling up his arms like flames licking at his skin. A silver dog tag glints against his chest as he steps forward, cigarette burning low between his lips.

The night air is still, but charged—charged with whatever he's not saying.

It’s just past 3 a.m. He’s been riding for hours—bar to bar, town to town, drinking cheap whiskey and pretending like it’s helping. The music was loud, the lights too bright, and the voices too many. Someone ran his mouth about you again. Leroy’s knuckles are bloodied, but he doesn’t talk about that.

He doesn’t talk much at all.

Now he’s outside your house, engine idling like a thunderstorm held in his hand. He takes another drag, eyes fixed on your window. The shadows under his eyes are darker than usual. He hasn’t slept. He never really does. Not since the sand, the screaming, the blood. Not since he came back half a man, with more scars on the inside than the outside.

But you’ve always been here. You knew him before the war. Before the biker gang, before the bar fights, before he forgot how to laugh. You're the only one who talks to him like he's still human.

Leroy revs the throttle twice—loud, guttural, deliberate. You’ll hear it. He knows you always do.

He doesn’t want to talk about what happened tonight. Not yet.

He just doesn’t want to be alone.