Wade pov
I wait until she's inside the car before I move, my hand resting briefly on the edge of the door as she settles into the driver's seat, her fingers brushing the steering wheel like she needs something solid to hold onto.
"Thank you," she says, glancing up at me, her voice softer now. "For the coffee machine… and everything else."
There's something in the way she says it that lingers longer than it should.
Like it means more.
Like I mean more.
"Anytime," I reply, and I don't miss the way her breath shifts slightly at the word.
Her gaze drifts past me then, landing on my bike, and for a second she just looks at it before her eyes flick back to mine.
"Please be safe."
The words hit me harder than they should.
It's not dramatic. Not heavy.
But it's real.
And something about that, about the fact that she said it without thinking, without hesitation, settles somewhere deep in my chest.
Like she cares.
Maybe not enough.
Maybe not in the way I want.
But enough to say it.
"Yeah," I say, quieter than before. "You too."
I close the door gently, my hand lingering for just a second before I step back.
She doesn't drive off immediately.
Neither of us rushes it.
And for a moment, there's something suspended between us, something unspoken that neither of us is willing to touch yet.
Then the engine turns over.
And I hear it.
A faint, uneven clicking beneath the idle.
Subtle. Easy to miss if you don't know what a perfectly running engine is supposed to sound like.
My head tilts slightly, my focus sharpening as the sound catches again just before she pulls away from the curb.
That's not right.
I watch the car as it moves down the road, my attention narrowing instinctively, breaking the sound apart in my head, fitting it into patterns I know too well.
It's not loud enough to be immediate trouble.
Not yet.
But it's there. Something wearing down. Something out of sync.
Then I see it.
A thin trail of dark smoke curls from the exhaust as she accelerates, thicker than it should be, lingering just long enough to tell me everything I need to know.
My jaw tightens.
There it is. That car hasn't been serviced in a while.
Fuel mix. Oil burn. Could be a few things.
None of them good if they're ignored.
And she's driving that.
With her kids.
The thought settles hard in my chest, sharp and immediate.
How does that even happen?
How does something like that get missed?
If that's the car your wife is using every day, you don't let it get to this point. You check it. You maintain it. You make sure it's safe before it ever becomes a problem.
You don't just ignore it.
The evidence of his neglect is even more prominent now. Not just in how deprived his wife is of attention. But how the things around her shows the neglect she tries to explain away.
Not my wife. Not my problem, I try to remind myself.
My grip tightens slightly around my helmet as I watch the last of the smoke fade into the air.
And I already know, I'm about to make it my fucking problem.
Because now it's not just about her.
Not just about the way she looked at me, or the way she said it doesn't feel like she's married.
Now there's something real.
Something practical.
Something I can fix.
"She shouldn't be driving that," I mutter under my breath.
Not with kids in the back. I glance back at the shop. Then at the road she disappeared down.
And the decision settles in quietly, but completely.
I'm going to have a look at that car.
Whether she asks me to or not.
The bell chimes softly when I step back inside.
The girl behind the counter looks up, surprised to see me again.
"Hey," she says.
I nod once, setting my helmet down.
"What's your name?"
She blinks, caught off guard for a second
before answering. "Lindiwe, or just Lindi."
"Lindi," I repeat, reaching for a scrap of paper and a pen without asking.
I write my number down quickly, the motion automatic, before sliding it across the counter toward her.
"If anything breaks again," I say, keeping my tone casual, like this is normal, like I'm not already thinking three steps ahead, "coffee machine, door… anything like that, just give me a call."
She glances between me and the paper, curiosity flickering across her face.
"Okay…"
"And give that to Lizzy," I add after a beat.
Her brows lift slightly, but she nods.
"Sure."
"Thanks."
I pick up my helmet again and head back out before she can ask anything else.
The bike starts beneath me with a familiar roar, the vibration grounding, steady, something I can rely on in a way most things aren't right now.
I pull out onto the road, the engine responding instantly as I twist the throttle, the speed building faster than I realize.
The city begins to blur at the edges, my focus narrowing as my thoughts move just as quickly, chasing each other in a loop I can't quite break.
Her face.
Her voice.
The way she looked at me.
The hurt in her eyes when she talked about her husband. The small way she cared enough to tell me to be safe.
The speed climbs higher.
The wind cuts harder against my skin.
And then—
Please be safe.
Her voice cuts through everything.
My hand eases on the throttle before I even think about it.
The bike slows. The world sharpens again.
And I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
She cares.
Even if it's small.
Even if it's nothing more than a passing thought to her. It's not nothing to me.
I would ride safer, for her.
By the time I get home, the quiet doesn't hit the same way it did before.
It isn't empty.
It's focused.
Because now I have something to do with it. Something to figure out.
I pull my phone out before I can talk myself out of it and dial.
It rings twice.
"Yo," Mike answers.
"I need you to look into someone," I say, my voice steady, controlled.
There's a pause on the other end.
"That doesn't sound shady at all," he mutters. "Who?"
"Daniel Hayes," I say. "And Elizabeth Hayes."
Silence stretches for a second.
"What's this about?"
I lean back slightly, my gaze drifting as her face flashes through my mind again, sharp and clear.
Her smile, those big does eyes, the kindness in her voice.
"It's not important," I say finally. "Just see what you can find."
Another pause.
"Alright," Mike says slowly. "I'll dig."
"Let me know."
I hang up before he can ask anything else.
Because I don't need to explain it.
Not yet.
I already know what I'm looking for.