Fran finally set me down when we reached the curb where his motorcycle was parked. He didn't say a word, but his movements were deliberate as he placed his helmet over my head, bucking the strap with a slow, steady hand.
He kicked the engine to life and signaled for me to get on.
I hesitated.
For three months, this bike had been off-limits to me. I had watched from the sidewalk as he let Athena ride with him, leaving me to walk to school alone while they waited for me at the gate like a ghost of their past.
He signaled again, more impatiently this time. I climbed on behind him.
I couldn't see his face, but the tension radiating off his shoulders told me he was still simmering with rage. Yet, despite the anger, I felt a familiar warmth spreading through my chest. I missed this Fran. The one who watched over me, the one who was always there whenever I turned my head.
A stray tear pricked the corner of my eye. I gripped the hem of his shirt tightly and leaned forward, resting my forehead against his broad back. I inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of his leather jacket and the faint hint of his cologne.
I really miss you, Fran. How did we end up like this?
Before the tears could fall, the engine cut out. We were home.
Fran pulled the helmet off my head, but as it came away, he froze. He stared at my face—at the split lip, the bruising cheek, and my eyes, which were rimmed with red. His jaw tightened. Without a word, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me inside.
He pushed me gently onto the sofa and disappeared for a moment, returning with the first aid kit. He sat so close to me I could feel the heat from his body.
The silence was absolute. I watched him in a daze as he prepared the antiseptic. His touch was unexpectedly light—a gentle, rhythmic care that felt like a haunting echo of the boys we used to be. For a few minutes, the wall between us felt thin enough to break.
When he finished taping the small bandage on my cheek, I looked at him. His own lip was bleeding, and a dark mark was blooming under his eye. My hand moved on instinct, my fingers reaching out to touch the wound.
He caught my wrist mid-air.
"You're hurt too, Fran," I whispered, my voice trembling.
He held my gaze, his eyes intense and unreadable for thirty long seconds. Finally, he let go. He didn't let me touch him. He just snapped the first aid kit shut and set it on the table.
"Why did you do it, Fran?" The question tumbled out before I could stop it. "I thought you hated me."
He froze.
I stood up, stepping behind him. I reached for his hand, desperate for any kind of connection.
"Fran, can we please talk? Can we go back to the way things were? I know you still care about our friendship. "
He didn't just pull away; he shoved my hand back as if my touch burned him. He spun around, his eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying fire.
"Don't be so full of yourself, Rain," he spat, his voice like shards of glass. "We are never going back." He stepped closer, looming over me until I felt small. "I won't allow anyone else to hurt you. Only I am allowed to break you. Remember that."
He turned and walked toward the bedroom, the door slamming shut behind him.
The sound echoed through the empty living room. My heart felt like it had been shattered into a thousand pieces.
He wasn't protecting me because he cares; he was keeping me for revenge.
A single, hot tear finally escaped and rolled down my bruised cheek.