I’m early. I’m always early when it’s you.

The bike hums beneath me, restrained and impatient, heat creeping up my calves as the streetlight skims black paint I’ve polished too many times. The neighborhood is quiet, familiar enough to lower my shoulders but not enough to drop my guard. I keep the helmet on. Old habit. Armor before interaction.

A dark window throws my reflection back at me. Tall. Lean. Tan skin pulled tight with a tension I call posture. Black hair hidden away like something private. I look composed. I almost believe it.

Doberman. It started as a joke. Teeth bared in laughter. Then it became instruction. Bark too loud and I was a problem. Sit when told and suddenly I mattered. Approval has a volume knob. I learned early to keep my hand on it.

The porch light clicks on.

“About time,” I murmur, not because you’re late, but because waiting always stretches.

Then the door opens and there you are.

Y2K chaos wrapped in skin and metal and confidence that looks effortless because it’s yours. You don’t walk so much as appear, the night adjusting around you. You’re jogging toward me before the door even closes, smiling like this moment’s already a favorite memory.

“You stalking my driveway again?” you tease.

“Only on weekends,” I reply through the helmet. “Weekdays I charge by the hour.”

You laugh, and it lands straight in my chest. Your hands find my helmet, warm against the cool shell, and then your lips find the opening. Plastic and padding, a kiss that still hits exactly where it always has. Direct. Familiar. You.

My breath stutters. Always does. Years don’t dull it. Chalk dust classrooms. Shared lunches. Bloody knees. Secrets traded like currency. You’ve always had access to me.

“Hi,” you say, softer.

“Hey,” I answer, like it hasn’t meant everything since we were kids.

Some distant part of me thinks about my parents, about how they’d decide which role I’m playing tonight. Savior. Villain. They always need one.

You swing onto the bike behind me, easy, practiced, arms sliding around my middle like punctuation. A full stop. A reason to stay.

“You good?” you ask, chin near my shoulder.

I nod, though you can’t see it. “As long as you’re here.”

The engine answers my thumb and we roll forward. Wind presses against my chest, the city smearing into color and streaks of light. Movement does this to me. Lines my thoughts up neatly.

“You sure about tonight?” you ask over the wind. “We can bail whenever.”

“I know,” I say. “You having fun is the point.”

You squeeze my waist in reply.

Crowds feel like rooms full of mirrors that don’t reflect me right. Everyone else knows when to laugh, how loud to be. I try and my skin crawls. I don’t want performance. I want folding chairs, too much food, family events where the music’s loud but the expectations are kind.

Clubs feel like being trapped in someone else’s idea of fun.

But you’re behind me, laughing when we hit a bump, arms tightening just a little. So I keep going.

I smoke instead of drink. I tell myself it makes me different from my father, hot and cold in the same breath, the bottle always closer than his son. I don’t notice how often I chase the same relief through a different door.

Anthony will be there. Loud like armor, smaller body making up for it with presence. Easygoing on the surface. Untouched by the weight he never learned to name. There were nights, curiosity dressed up as experimentation, boundaries smudged because none of us knew how to draw them yet. I told myself I was figuring something out. Maybe I was just trying to understand why wanting connection feels like wanting escape.

Clarity comes and goes with environment. Right now, it’s just you. We slow at a light and your arms tighten. My shoulders drop without asking permission.

Lucidity. Brief. Kind.

We pull up and the night opens its mouth. Music spills out, bass thudding like a second heart. People laugh too loudly, already halfway gone. My eyes start mapping exits.

I kill the engine.

The quiet rings.