Outside, Sylas leaned casually against his shiny black motorcycle that looked like it belonged in a movie about dangerous men and midnight getaways.
He had that smug look on his face. The one that always said, I already know what you're about to say, and I've decided not to listen.
"You really don't have to come," I said again, even though a part of me wanted him to insist.
Sylas arched a brow, pushed off the bike, and held out a helmet like it was a peace offering.
"I'm coming because I want to. Don't make this weird."
"I'm not riding that thing."
"You already have."
I glared at him. "That was different."
His grin widened. "That was the beach. This is family drama. Same level of emotional chaos, just different scenery."
I opened my mouth to argue, really, but then sighed and snatched the helmet from his hand.
I didn't put it on though.
I just stood there. Staring at it.
Something about the curve of it in my palms made me pause.
