“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“He asked me to make sure you got home.”
For the first time since Annie’s death, Wade smiled without looking guilty for surviving her.
He walked beside Eleanor into the building while the motorcycle cooled behind them, its metal ticking softly in the afternoon sun.
No sirens.
No shouting.
No phones held up in accusation.
Just a scarred hand resting near an elderly woman’s elbow without touching her, ready to help if she asked.
Close enough to protect her.
Far enough to let her feel safe.
