Page 76 of Bend

And the worst part?

Some selfish, horrible part of me is hurt too.

Like I’m the one who got cornered, after all I’m the one who’s been forced into honesty

Like him kissing me back, wanting me back, is somehow the problem, instead of the fact that I can’t seem to handle it without panicking and bolting like a dickhead.

I get to my bike and jam the key in harder than necessary, my hands still not fully steady. I yank my helmet on, mostly because I need something between me and the world for a minute, then swing onto the seat and start the engine.

The growl of it cuts through the dark, low and rough and familiar.

I sit there for one second too long with both feet planted, the bike idling under me, my whole body still buzzing with the kiss and the shame and the guilt of knowing exactly what I left standing back in that garage.

Then I rev once, too hard, and tear out of the lot before I can change my mind.

Chapter Eleven

Wolfe

Gotta love waking up pissed off.

What's annoying is it’s not even the loud or smash-something, throw-something, tear-the-world-apart kind of mad.

No, of course, cause life loves to fuck with me, its the worse fucking kind.

The kind that just sits there, heavy in my chest, waiting for me to open my eyes so it can remind me that just because I went to bed and got a solid eight hours of sleep, doesn’t mean it left.

For a second I stay flat on my back, staring up at the dark industrial ceiling over my loft while pale morning light pushes in through the big factory-style windows and cuts across the room in long grey strips. The space around me is all exposed brick, black metal, dark wood, and worn leather.

My bed’s a mess in the middle of it, sheets kicked half off, pillows everywhere, one helmet still on the floor where I dropped it last night like even that felt like too much effort.

The cabin usually feels like an escape. Solid and quiet. Tucked back in the woods far enough that the world can’t get too loud, but still close enough to the ocean that salt hangs in the air if I leave the windows cracked. Most days, that balance does the trick.

Today it just feels too still.

It’s one of those old converted spaces with rough edges that somehow work. The bedroom sits tucked into the back with exposed brick, industrial light fixtures, a low leather bed, dark rugs, and warm wood that keeps the whole place from feeling cold.

The main floor opens into the kitchen and living room. Black cabinets. Metal railings. Brick and dark floors. A beat-up sectional, helmets and leathers on the bench by the door, and enough open space that I can pace when my head gets bad.

It’s not home-home, not really.

But it reminds me of it enough.

The wood. The quiet. The way the place feels grounded instead of polished.

It’s different from the reserve back in BC, different from the house I grew up in with my mom and dad and Wyatt, but there’s something in it that still pulls the same part of me. Something solid and lived-in.

A little rough around the edges. The kind of place that doesn’t ask anything from you except that you show up as you are.

It’s home in the ways that matter.

Usually waking up here resets me.

Usually the quiet helps.

This morning it just gives me too much room to think, and all I can think about is Thorne.

About the way he kissed me back like he meant it, like he’d been holding it in for ages, and then shoved me off yet again, like wanting me is something he should be ashamed of.