Ryder:
Two weeks.
Two full f*****g weeks.
And it felt easier than breathing.
Phoenix had slipped into my life like she was made to fit. Like all the jagged corners in me—sharp from years of business, bloodlines, and pressure—softened the second she looked at me across the couch and mouthed pass the soy sauce.
We didn’t talk about what we were. We didn’t need to. Because in those two weeks, we were.
She’d kiss me before heading to the shop, hair still damp from the shower, boots half-laced. And I’d work my ass off to make sure everything I needed to do—club finances, shop reports, the business restructuring with Dad—was wrapped up by the time she walked through the door smelling like gasoline and grit.
Every day was the same rhythm. Breakfast and coffee before she left. A text halfwa
