Riding My Best Friend's Biker Dad

I came to the Cole house to take care of everything while Anastasia was away. What nobody knew was that I had accepted the job for one selfish reason: I wanted to be close to the man I had secretly loved for years, my best friend's dad, Cassian. The driveway was empty when I pulled in, but the garage door stood open. A black motorcycle sat under the work light, chrome catching the late afternoon sun. Cassian was bent over the engine, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, grease streaked across the front of his jeans. A fresh cut ran along the side of his face, still pink at the edges. He looked like he had been on the road for days and only stopped because the bike needed him more than sleep did. I killed the engine and sat there longer than I should have. My hands stayed on the wheel. I had practiced this moment a hundred times on the drive over. Be normal. Be helpful. Do not stare. Do not remember the way his voice used to settle low in my chest when I was seventeen and he told Anastasia and me to get home before dark. He straightened and wiped his hands on a rag. Those gray eyes found me through the windshield. For half a second something unreadable moved across his face, then it was gone. I got out and closed the door carefully, like noise might give me away. "Aurora." His voice was exactly the same. Rough around the edges, quiet, the kind that did not need to rise to be heard. "You're early." "Traffic was light." I lifted the duffel bag from the back seat. "Anastasia said the guest room was ready. I can start on the kitchen if you need me to." He came closer, still holding the rag. The smell of motor oil and leather reached me first. Up close the cut looked deeper than I first thought, a clean slice just under his cheekbone. Someone had gotten close enough to mark him. The thought sat wrong in my stomach. "You're bleeding a little," I said before I could stop myself. He touched the cut with the back of his hand, almost surprised it was still there. "It's fine. Bike threw a chain on the last run." I nodded like that made sense. Like I had not spent years cataloguing every small injury he never mentioned. He took the bag from me without asking. Our fingers brushed for less than a second. I felt it all the way up my arm. "Come on," he said. "I'll show you the house." The front door stuck the way it always had. I remembered the exact pressure needed to shoulder it open from the summer Anastasia and I were sixteen and spent every afternoon here. The hallway smelled the same. Coffee, old wood, and the faint trace of the leather oil he used on his boots. He set my bag down at the foot of the stairs. "Guest room is the second door on the left. Same as last time you stayed over." Last time I stayed over I was nineteen and heartbroken over a boy who never mattered. Cassian had made scrambled eggs at midnight without asking questions. I had sat at the counter watching the muscles in his forearms move while he cooked and told myself it was just gratitude. It had never been just gratitude. "I'll get out of your way," he said. "Got another hour of work on the bike before dark." "I can handle dinner. Anastasia left a list of what you usually eat." He almost smiled. Almost. "She would. Don't go to trouble. I'm used to whatever's left in the fridge." "It's no trouble." He studied me for a moment longer than politeness required. I kept my face carefully blank. The same expression I had practiced in every mirror for years whenever someone said his name. "You look nervous," he said finally. My pulse jumped. "Just tired from the drive. And the house is quiet without her." He accepted that. Or at least he let it stand. "Keys to the garage are on the hook by the back door. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I'll be outside if you need me." I waited until the door closed behind him before I let out the breath I had been holding. My hands were unsteady. I pressed them flat against the counter and forced myself to move. The kitchen was exactly as I remembered. The coffee mug he always used sat in the sink, dark blue with a small chip on the rim. I dried it and put it away like it was any other dish. Anastasia's list was taped to the fridge in her looping handwriting. Preferred meals. Preferred brands of coffee. Preferred times he usually came in from the garage. She had written it all down because she trusted me with the ordinary pieces of her father's life. She had no idea I already knew most of them by heart. I started chopping vegetables because it gave my hands something to do. Outside the open window I could hear the low clink of tools against metal. Every so often he muttered something under his breath, the same quiet curse he used when a bolt refused to turn. By the time the light turned gold I had a simple meal on the stove. Pasta. Something easy. Something that would not look like I had tried too hard. He came in through the back door just as I was setting the table. Grease still marked his knuckles. He washed his hands at the sink without speaking, then turned and saw the two plates. "You cooked." "I said I would." We ate in near silence. Every time our eyes met I looked down at my plate first. He noticed. I could feel him noticing. The air between us felt thicker than it should have for two people who had known each other this long. "Anastasia called this morning," he said eventually. "Said the internship is keeping her busy. She sounded happy." "She always does when something new is happening." He nodded once. "You'll tell me if anything feels off while you're here. The house. The garage. Anything." The way he said it made the back of my neck tighten. "Is there a reason it would?" "Just being careful." He stood and carried his plate to the sink. "I've got club business tonight. Should be back late. Don't wait up." He left the kitchen without looking at me again. A few minutes later I heard the motorcycle start. The sound rolled down the driveway and faded into the distance. I cleaned the kitchen slowly. Washed every dish. Wiped the counters twice. Anything to keep from walking into the living room and sitting in the chair that still held the shape of him. Night settled fully around the house. I turned off most of the lights and left only the lamp in the hallway on. The guest room felt too quiet. I sat on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hands and did not open any of the messages from Anastasia. I could not talk to her right now. Not when every thought in my head belonged to her father. Sometime after midnight I heard it. A motorcycle idling at the end of the street. Not Cassian's. The engine note was different, lower, meaner. I moved to the window without turning on a light and pulled the curtain back just enough to see. A rider sat on the bike under the streetlamp, helmet still on, face hidden. The headlight was off. He did not move. He simply watched the house the way a person watches something they have already decided belongs to them. My breath stayed locked in my chest. I waited for him to leave. He did not. Not for a long time. Then the engine revved once, sharp and deliberate, and the bike rolled forward into the dark. I stayed at the window until the sound disappeared completely. My hands were cold against the glass. Somewhere down the road Cassian was still out on club business. Or maybe he was not. Maybe the man who had just sat in the dark watching this house knew exactly who lived here, and exactly who had just moved in. I stepped back from the window and let the curtain fall. The house felt different now. Larger. Less safe. Sleep was not going to come tonight.