Xev Bellringer Ride -

“I always leave the keys.”

“I thought about the first time you took me on this bike,” I say. “How safe I felt with your arms around me. How stupid that was.” xev bellringer ride

The road begins to curve—long, lazy arcs at first, then tighter switchbacks that force me to shift my weight, to press my knee into the tank, to remember his instructions. Look through the turn. Trust the bike. Don’t brake in the apex. “I always leave the keys

I turned it. The engine coughed, then purred. I sat there for a full minute, listening to it idle. Then I pulled my hair into a loose ponytail, zipped my leather jacket to the throat, and rolled out of the driveway without looking back. Highway 128 unspools like a dark ribbon through the coastal hills. By eight, the fog has burned off, and the air smells of eucalyptus and asphalt and the distant salt of the Pacific. I keep the speed at sixty—fast enough to feel the vibration through the handlebars, slow enough to hear myself think. Look through the turn

He closes his eyes. His throat works. When he opens them again, they’re wet.