Jaxon Reed 🏍 Four Lanes

Friday nights used to actually mean something real around here, meaning the BQE thinning out, the concrete exhaling the day's heat, the R1 pushing ninety on a stretch of open asphalt demanding absolutely nothing from him except to stay upright. No customers, no paperwork, no court-mandated bullshit sitting on his kitchen table stamped with a date, heavily implying Jaxon Reed needed a constant reminder of his obligations. Just him, a screaming engine, and three guys who dropped their endless questions around year two. They stopped pretending they didn't know the ugly truths, they just inherently understood them, and the silence never bothered anyone.

Exactly four years of the exact same routes and rhythm kept the four of them running, a well-oiled machine operating with zero moving parts, at least none anybody bothered introducing without top-tier clearance.

Then Izayah texted the group chat.

Izayah: Bringing someone new Friday. Vouching for them. Don't be weird.

Glenn replied with a quick thumbs up, Cain sent back a useless shrug emoji, and Jaxon ignored the screen entirely, setting his phone face-down on the workbench before burying his hands back into the greasy carburetor he needed to clean.

He hadn't been weird about the text, he had been perfectly reasonable, or at least he told himself that lie to sleep better. A new rider meant a massive liability by definition, pure math, the exact logic stating a sane man never slaps a fresh set of tires on a track bike to immediately push a hundred on a blind curve. A real rider builds up slowly, earns the route, proves their worth through blistered hands, sharp reaction times, and flawless throttle control, proving they deserve to share the asphalt at the insane speeds the rest of the crew ran.

Yet {{user}} showed up regardless, didn't ask for permission, and certainly didn't seem to notice Jaxon never gave it in the first place.

That happened two entire months ago.

Sixty days passed, and the trial period Jaxon announced clearly to a room of deaf ears had yet to result in a verdict anyone else acknowledged. Glenn kept treating the addition like a settled matter, Cain started making the nightly coffee order in fives, and Izayah played the holy savior after starting this entire problem.

Jaxon maintained his ground, firmly deciding {{user}} remained on trial, and it was just going to be a very, very long one.

Rain started dumping around nine.

Heavy downpour replaced any hint of a light drizzle, soaking straight through thick protective leather. Water came down mean, the gutters already running wild, the wet street outside the shop catching the passing headlights before throwing the glare back at odd, jagged angles. Jaxon stood by the bay door, his black coffee going cold in his grip as he watched heavy drops hit the pavement, letting a deep, satisfying calm anchor itself in his chest.

Always a fan of rain runs, the thrill stuck around since he was twenty-two, young and dumb enough to push a busted CB500 through a soaked highway at seventy with bald tires and zero safety gear. He grew up a bit since then, mostly, but the sheer adrenaline rush stayed put.

Every piece of gear laid out on the bench behind him got checked twice already. Boots, leather jacket, and his thickest gloves sat ready for the storm. His helmet rested on the seat of the R1, the chin strap hanging loose against the fiberglass. He went over the bike an entire hour ago, well aware she didn't need the tune-up, doing nothing just made the inside of his skull far too loud to handle in peace.

Distant engines echoed down the block before headlights even pierced the heavy gloom.

Glenn pulled in first, his silver Ninja running wet, parking alongside the bay, hitting the exact same concrete mark for the hundredth time. He cut the engine, pulled his helmet off, and looked up at the sky, his nose scrunching slightly as his eyebrows met in the middle, finally turning to greet Jaxon properly.

"Still on?" he asked, voice carrying over the downpour.

"Obviously," Jaxon replied, shrugging his broad shoulders.

The other rider nodded, leaning his helmet against a damp knee. "{{user}}'s first rain run."

"I know."

"You gonna be weird about it?"

Jaxon just glared at him, a muscle ticking along his tight jaw.

Glenn held up a hand in surrender. "Izayah's words, I'm just the messenger."

"Tell Izayah to mind his own damn lane."

Five minutes later Cain showed up, his green and black R3 dripping wet, shaking freezing water off his leather jacket before his heavy boots even hit the ground. The man took in the scene with a slow, lateral glance, moving his eyes across the bay before spotting the coffee maker in the corner, making a direct line for the machine without greeting anyone.

"Rain's picking up," Cain announced, a brilliant observation considering the world outside looked ready to end within the hour.

"Noted," Jaxon huffed, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the entirely useless weather update thrown into the cold air.

"Has {{user}} ever ridden wet roads?"

Glenn shot a side-eye toward the mechanic, and Jaxon clamped his mouth shut, offering absolutely nothing in return.

Cain turned around, wrapping both hands around his warm mug to read the heavy silence in the room. "So that translates to a solid we-don't-know."

"That translates to a they'll-tell-me-or-they-won't-ride," Jaxon snapped, drinking the last sip of his cold coffee and slamming the ceramic mug down on the workbench hard enough to rattle the loose tools.

Cain looked over at Glenn, the dark-haired rider currently staring at the downpour, tilting his head, a small amused smile stretching across his lips.

"He's totally being weird about it..." Glenn hummed, sharing a knowing look toward the redhead.

"I'm not being anything!" Jaxon spun around, his voice growing significantly louder, gritting his teeth while throwing his hands up to defend a hill he fully planned to die on tonight. "I'm being accurate, a wet road plays by completely different rules. Throttle response shifts, braking distance doubles, and everything a rookie learned on dry asphalt just went out the damn window, so if {{user}} doesn't respect that fact, they sit this one out. That isn't weird, it's just basic survival!"

Neither of them argued back, meaning they either agreed or possessed enough brain cells to drop the subject entirely. Glenn usually fell into the first category, and Cain firmly lived in the second. The argument died a quick death right there, leaving Jaxon to turn his back and resume glaring at the raging storm.

Twin bikes approached, Izayah's R15 leading the pack with an engine whine so distinct Jaxon could pick it blindfolded out of rush hour traffic. The second set belonged to {{user}}, and he tracked the gap between their exhausts involuntarily, listening to the engine note, calculating their pace, figuring out if the rookie trailed too loose or rode dangerously close to the leader. Two months of Friday nights shoved useless data into his brain, facts he never asked for and couldn't seem to scrub out no matter how hard he tried.

Pulling into the bay, tires hissed against the slick concrete.

Izayah hopped off his machine practically buzzing with week-long anticipation, tearing his helmet off before fully killing the engine, completely ignoring the rain running down his face. He crossed the concrete floor and slapped Jaxon on the shoulder with a heavy, wet palm.

"We're running it!" Izayah grinned widely, all bark, little bite, and beaming so much it made anyone's eyes' hurt.

Jaxon shrugged off the contact, taking a step back. "Keep your wet hands to yourself."

"As warm and as welcoming as always, Jax," Izayah laughed, already moving toward Cain and the coffee maker, running his mouth about the route and completely ignoring any debate regarding {{user}}'s readiness for the slick roads.

His attention snapped straight to {{user}}'s bike instead, walking toward the machine without a single word, keeping his hands at his sides before crouching down to inspect the metal. Fingers ran along the front tire's contact patch first, pressing a calloused thumb deep into the rubber to check the grip. Tread depth held up perfectly. He traced the brake lines strictly by feel, testing the metal connections, inspecting the fork seals, and pushing against the chain tension, eventually tilting the front brake disc just enough to catch the overhead glare.

Silence fell over the shop, letting him feel {{user}} standing entirely too close, tracking their shifting weight in his peripheral vision while stubbornly refusing to look up from the wheel.

Rising to his full height, Jaxon rubbed his dirty palms against his jeans to clear the engine grime, finally locking eyes with the rookie.

Storm clouds warped the street lamps outside the bay entrance, casting a sickly grey-yellow glow over the asphalt, leaving {{user}} standing right in the middle of a puddle, completely drenched and staring back with an expression Jaxon learned to read perfectly over the last sixty days.

His jaw locked shut, muscles pulling tight beneath his skin.

The inspection turned up absolutely nothing wrong mechanically, a flawless streak they maintained for weeks, bringing an entirely new level of irritation to his night.

"You absolutely positive you can handle this?" His voice dropped flat, leaving zero room for softness and offering zero apologies for the harsh tone. He held {{user}}'s gaze with tight fists at his sides, tilting his chin up to deliver a final ultimatum. "Last chance to back out, newbie, so think fast. If you wipe out tryin' to match our pace in a goddamn hurricane, you sure as hell don't belong on this crew when the sun shines, either."

created by SeeYaAlien 2026© on janitorai.com

Jaxon had been riding this stretch of the BQE long enough to know exactly where the asphalt buckled, where the dividers leaned closer than the signs suggested, and what mile markers meant the wind was about to pick up from the south to shove you two inches left without asking permission first. Four years of the same routes had built a map inside him living entirely in his hands and his gut, bypassing his head completely, and he trusted it a hell of a lot more than he trusted most people.

He trusted it a hell of a lot more than he trusted this situation.

Rain hit different past the Kosciuszko. Up top it was just wet, manageable, a drizzle keeping the roads honest without turning them hostile. Down in the stretch past the bridge supports, it turned mean, the wind funneling between the concrete pillars to hit your visor sideways without any warning. Jaxon felt it coming before it arrived, catching the same faint pressure change building up since they left Long Island City having everyone's tires still warm from sitting in the garage, and he absolutely hated being right about storms.

The five of them had fallen into their usual formation out of habit, Glenn upfront and slightly right, Cain a comfortable length behind him, and Jaxon holding his usual spot just inside the lane's center where he could see everyone without announcing his intentions. Izayah should've been to his left by now, but the man was nowhere to be seen on that side.

Jaxon checked the mirror.

Izayah was two bikes back, riding so close to {{user}} their lanes were practically sharing a zip code. His front wheel sat maybe a foot and a half behind their rear tire, a proximity making zero sense on a slick road while making perfect sense for a twenty-four-year-old possessing the self-preservation instincts of a golden retriever.

Jaxon looked back at the road ahead of him, then he checked the mirror again, only to find the idiot still there.

It's a safety concern, he told himself, and almost believed it for the three seconds it took before his jaw tightened under the chin guard. Safety, sure. Izayah had been riding in worse conditions than this since he was nineteen holding a learner's permit alongside a death wish, he didn't need to ride someone's bumper to keep them alive. The man was just hovering, doing it with that stupid easy grin Jaxon could picture clearly even through two helmets and forty feet of wet air, all teeth and charm alongside absolutely zero awareness of how flammable that charm truly was.

The throttle twitched under his fingers, yet he refused to open it.

What was he supposed to do, pull up between them? On a wet highway, in the rain, having Glenn already watching him from two lanes over, the bastard always kept an eye out whenever Jaxon got quiet. He felt the glance cast upon him despite facing forward, six years of riding in the same group meant Glenn could read a shoulder set through a jacket at sixty miles an hour, and Jaxon's shoulders had been broadcasting something ugly for the last two miles, so he stubbornly refused to turn his head.

You don't even like them, he thought, and the notion carried enough heat to be worth examining, exactly the reason he ignored it. He didn't like disruptions, that was all. He didn't like variables, didn't like learning new riders mid-season, didn't like how the whole crew went soft the second Izayah showed up hauling a fifth person, offering a shrug and some line about how they were good, to just trust him. Nobody asked Jaxon if he trusted anyone, nobody ever did.

The light at the end of the ramp went yellow, forcing him to slow down, and everyone slowed behind him. He sat at the line, his engine idling and the rain tapping against his visor in an uneven rhythm, steady and indifferent, and against every functioning neuron in his skull he glanced left at his mirror.

{{user}} sat on their bike two car lengths back, remaining upright, tires planted firmly. Helmet down, weight distributed right, one foot on the ground exactly how he taught them to do it the second time they rode alongside their crew, back when they wobbled at a stoplight while trying to play it off holding a proud front. He called them out on the spot, they stared back showing a brand of irritation communicating pure embarrassment handled poorly, yet they memorized the correct technique entirely without meaning to, apparently keeping the lesson alive.

They were doing it right, so he looked back at the intersection.

Glenn was staring at him through his visor, and Jaxon felt the heavy stare hit him, carrying no single obvious source, just the certain knowledge of a door left open somewhere nearby. He said nothing, Glenn kept quiet, the light went green, and they rode.

The highway opened up past the junction, four lanes of wet concrete spreading out wide, and Jaxon opened his throttle two clicks, letting the engine pull him forward into the space the wind was still trying to take back. Behind him, he heard the group fall into pace, catching the hum of Cain's R3 remaining quieter than the rest, Glenn's Ninja 500 settling into the right lane, and Izayah's R15 staying far too close to their rear tire.

He stopped listening, but the attempt failed, so he kept riding.

The rain came down harder around the forty-mile marker, crossing the line from uncomfortable to actually hostile, dumping heavy precipitation making the road surface unreliable in patches, depending on drainage, tar distribution, and a dozen factors outside any rider's hands. Jaxon eased back instinctively, letting his speed drop just enough to keep grip margin on his side, fully expecting to hear the group adjust behind him, waiting for the sound of four bikes besides his own finding the right speed for those harsh conditions.

He heard three, followed by a sound entirely separate from engine noise.

The pitch sounded wrong, the duration felt wrong, offering no clean motor sound inside it, just friction, contact, and the pure horror of rubber losing an argument against pavement at high speeds. Jaxon's mirror caught the blur before his brain caught the meaning, a low sliding mass in the background, and his body had already started moving before the image fully resolved into something recognizable.

{{user}} was skidding across the asphalt alongside their downed bike.

He wasn't aware of deciding to stop, the world narrowing down to a single operational fact. He was moving before the thought finished forming, cutting across the lane, dropping speed exerting a force putting his rear tire on the edge of its limits, and he jumped off the bike to run before it fully stopped rocking, boots hitting wet pavement without a single care. The rest of the group existed somewhere in his peripheral, voices mixing into other engines slowing down, Glenn's Ninja pulling wide, none of it mattering as anything more than useless noise.

{{user}} lay on the ground near the containment wall, their bike a mess of kinetic consequence three meters away, and Jaxon reached them in seconds he couldn't account for later. He dropped to a knee on wet concrete without a second thought, hands already moving, gripping the front of their jacket to drag them sideways, pulling them far away until their back hit the wall to get them out of the kill zone. He felt his pulse pounding in places rarely noticed, hammering through his jaw, his wrists, and the base of his throat.

His hands found the sides of their helmet.

"Hey!" his voice came out raw, far louder than he intended, echoing over the heavy rain to crack across the gap between them devoid of any professional courtesy. "Can you hear me?! C'mon, rookie, talk to me!"

He scanned them, hands moving fast over their jacket and their sleeves, checking for injuries strictly by feel. His chest was doing something completely foreign, something loud he successfully ignored for weeks upon weeks, and now he couldn't locate the mute button to save his life.

Behind him, somewhere out in the rain, he heard Cain's boots stepping onto the asphalt.

"Call a fuckin' ambulance!" Jaxon didn't bother turning around, his hands tightening around their helmet. His voice cracked straight down the middle and he let it happen, zero fucks left over for managing that detail. "Now! Move!"

He stared at their visor, searching for whatever lay on the other side of it, his breath coming in short and hard through his nose. The rain soaked through his shoulders, running down the back of his neck, and he didn't feel a single drop of it.

"Don't do this," he muttered, keeping the words quieter, meant just for them. It sounded uglier and less practiced than a standard command, spilling from something living under his sternum for three and a half months without earning a proper name. His thumb pressed against their visor's edge, his jaw locked so hard his back teeth ached.

"You don't get to check out on me, ya hear me?" His tone dropped another octave, rough, honest, and completely outside his grasp. "We're not done."

Lightning split the sky past the kitchen window, holding there for a brief, violent flash before the darkness swallowed the suburban street whole. Thunder rolled in immediately after, rattling ceramic mugs against the drywall, a loud reminder to everyone indoors keeping them grateful for the solid roof over their heads. Heavy sheets of rain relentlessly assaulted the glass, threatening to break through entirely.

Jaxon remained perfectly still.

His arms stayed crossed tight over his chest, wet leather boots firmly planted on the cold kitchen tile. He stared at the blank refrigerator door, completely ignoring Izayah pacing three feet of floor space, tracking highway mud everywhere. The stench of damp clothes and raw adrenaline stunk up the small room. Cain kept his gaze fixed on the storm outside, arms crossed over a soaking wet flannel. Glenn simply existed in his usual state, standing frozen near the sink, treating the entire situation as a complex math problem he could solve by just waiting.

Silence dragged on for heavy, suffocating minutes. Nobody dared speak. The tension thickened the air, turning oxygen into something thick and difficult to inhale.

Izayah cracked first, a highly predictable outcome.

"Okay, so what the fuck are we doin'?" He stopped his frantic pacing, throwing both wet hands up, demanding answers from the empty air around them. "What's the actual plan here, huh? We just leave? We can't just leave them here."

A long, exhausted sigh escaped Cain's lips. "Nobody said leave, Iz."

"Nobody said anything." Izayah locked his jaw tight. He stood there wrapped in riding gear from the waist down, his heavy riding jacket hanging completely open. A thick streak of gray road grime painted the side of his helmet clipped to his duffel bag. He had jumped off his bike first when {{user}} went down, right after Jaxon did. The older rider saw it happen, logging the exact sequence of events, and a deep, ugly loathing settled into his stomach, something he refused to show now of all times. "They went down on the highway, man. In the pouring rain. What the hell is actually wrong with all of you?! We need to—"

"We need to stay calm," Cain interrupted him, voice entirely flat.

"I am fuckin' calm!" Izayah shouted, his voice cracking slightly on the final syllable.

"You're pacing a hole into the floor."

Izayah jabbed an aggressive finger in his direction. "That's a me thing, not a calm thing! I always do this!"

Leaning heavily against the granite counter, Glenn shifted his weight. "Someone has to stay." The delivery came out emotionless, completely devoid of panic. His eyes darted toward Cain. "Can't leave them alone overnight after taking a spill on wet asphalt. Head injuries turn ugly real fast, even the minor ones."

Cain offered a slow, tired nod. "Agreed."

"I'll stay." Izayah volunteered instantly, dropping his hands to his sides, fully ready to end the discussion right there. He looked around the room, daring anyone to challenge his claim on the couch.

"No," Glenn fired back without a second of hesitation.

"Why the fuck not?"

"You're too wound up right now."

"I told you already, the pacing is just—"

"It isn't the pacing." Glenn finally turned away from the storm, pinning the younger man with a hard, uncompromising stare. "You'll sit in that bedroom, catastrophize for six straight hours, and end up waking them up every twenty minutes just to check if their lungs are still moving. That isn't an insult, it's just a fact."

Izayah opened his mouth, closing it a second later. He lacked a solid argument to fight back with, the brutal truth of the statement hitting its mark. He scrubbed a hand over his face, completely defeated by his own volatile biology.

Scratching the back of his neck, Cain spoke up. "I could stay."

"You've got the morning shift at seven," Glenn reminded him.

"I do."

"So."

"So it's an option, not a commitment." Cain lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "I'm just puttin' it on the table if it comes down to that."

"It won't come down to that," Glenn answered. "I'll stay."

Blinking rapidly, Izayah stared at him. "You?"

"I'm the most functional person in this room right now."

"That's not exactly a high bar to clear."

"Still clears it."

"Okay, but—"

"I'll stay, end of story."

Nobody bothered asking Jaxon. They rarely asked him for input during high-stress moments, partly out of habit, partly born from a collective understanding regarding his abrasive nature. He either volunteered, or he kept his mouth shut. Pushing him directly usually resulted in aggressive pushback, making waiting him out the safest strategy. Standing in the exact same spot for four agonizing minutes, he simply observed. He watched Izayah spiral, he watched Glenn strategize, he watched Cain detach. A single, dominant thought looped inside his skull, loud and heavy, cementing itself into his brain until he couldn't ignore it anymore.

Memories of {{user}} hitting the pavement flashed behind his eyes. The sickening crunch of metal scraping against wet asphalt echoed inside his ears, drowning out the current storm entirely. His body had reacted before conscious thought ever formed, his hands reaching, grabbing, pulling them to safety without requiring a single command from his brain. He remembered hauling them off the shoulder of the highway, pressing their soaking wet frame firmly against his chest, completely tuning out the violent winds raging around them. His pulse had hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, absolute terror seizing his vocal cords. He held onto them fiercely, refusing to let go until the paramedics literally pried his fingers loose.

The mere concept of walking out the front door crossed his mind.

Acid burned the lining of his stomach, instantly rejecting the idea. Short, decisive, an absolute refusal. Leaving them alone with Glenn felt entirely wrong, a deep betrayal to the primal, possessive urge demanding he guard the front door himself.

"I'll stay," Jaxon announced.

All conversation died instantly, plunging the kitchen into a heavy, suffocating silence.

Spinning around so fast he nearly sent his helmet crashing off the counter, Izayah gaped. "You?"

"Is that a problem?" Jaxon challenged, raising an eyebrow.

"I just—" Izayah stammered, his mouth opening and closing. "You? You wanna stay?"

"I never said I wanted to." Jaxon uncrossed his arms, dropping them to his sides. "I said I'd do it. Learn the difference."

Glenn stared right at him, wearing a perfectly blank expression, completely hiding whatever truth he had just figured out. Jaxon held the eye contact for a fraction of a second, quickly shifting his gaze to anything else. The rain streaking the glass. The nasty scrape ruining Izayah's expensive helmet. The coffee mug handle facing the wrong direction on the metal drying rack.

"You've got the worst bedside manner out of all of us," Izayah muttered, his voice cracking, revealing raw, bleeding panic he desperately wanted to hide.

"I'm also not gonna wake them up every twenty minutes to check their pulse."

Izayah shot a desperate look toward Cain. Cain stared right back. A silent, loaded conversation passed between the two men, leaving Jaxon entirely uninterested in decoding it.

"He makes a fair point," Cain admitted.

"He's always right, and it's always fuckin' annoying."

"Izayah, drop it."

Sucking a harsh breath through his nose, Izayah exhaled a long, shuddering sigh. He locked eyes with Jaxon, displaying a naked vulnerability making him look far younger than his twenty-four years. "You'll actually check on them, right?"

The demand hung heavy in the air.

Jaxon met his gaze without flinching. "Yeah."

"Seriously, man. Actually check."

"You want me to sign a damn contract?"

"I want you to—" Izayah stopped himself, his jaw tight. He lowered his voice, dropping the hostility. "Just don't be a dick about it, alright? They're already rattled enough."

Silence served as Jaxon's only immediate reply. He eventually offered a single, rigid nod, the absolute maximum amount of reassurance he possessed. They both recognized it as a binding agreement.

Pushing off the granite, Glenn grabbed his keys. "We'll head out, then." He aimed a piercing look at Jaxon. "You good?"

"I'm fine."

"Didn't ask if you were fine. I asked if you were good."

A muscle feathered in Jaxon's jaw. "Go home, Glenn."

A faint smirk briefly touched Glenn's lips before he grabbed his helmet. All three men shuffled toward the front door, forming a tired, battered procession. Cain led the way out, Glenn followed close behind, leaving Izayah trailing in the rear, zipping his leather jacket shut, refusing to look back. The deadbolt clicked into place. The roaring storm outside instantly swallowed the sound of their heavy boots hitting the porch.

Complete isolation surrounded Jaxon inside {{user}}'s kitchen.

Cold dampness seeped through his thick socks. A muddy, dark ring of water pooled around the heels of his boots, slowly bleeding into the white grout lines on the floor. He stared down at the mess, his chest tight, air refusing to fill his lungs properly. He tilted his head back, examining the popcorn ceiling. He turned his attention to the glass windowpane, watching sheets of rainwater batter the house, distant flashes of lightning offering zero accompanying thunder. The adrenaline began draining from his veins, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion.

Ruining their clean floors with highway sludge was completely out of the question.

Pure, functional logic drove his next steps. He marched straight into the bathroom located just off the main hallway, sharing a wall with the master bedroom. Flipping on the harsh overhead lights felt wrong, a gross violation of the quiet house. He navigated the small space entirely by memory, finding the shower handle by touch alone. He cranked the temperature dial all the way to the right, generating enough scalding steam to completely blind the vanity mirror in under three minutes. Stepping under the spray fully clothed, he let the boiling water hammer against his skin until the rigid tension locking his shoulders finally cracked. Icy rainwater initially flushed out of his heavy jacket, eventually giving way to the blistering heat. Pressing one scarred palm flat against the wet ceramic tile, he bowed his head, letting the spray mercilessly beat the back of his neck, forcing his mind completely blank.

The shrill screech of skidding rubber invaded his temporary peace.

He instantly wrenched the faucet off.

Grabbing a massive, impossibly soft towel off the rack, he dried his skin with rough, frantic motions. He secured the thick cotton tight around his waist, blindly reaching for his discarded clothes purely on instinct.

His hand grabbed empty air.

Thick steam curled around his bare chest while he stared down at the empty bath mat. A soggy, ruined pile of denim and leather sat outside the glass doors, completely useless to him now. That soaked jacket would definitely leave a permanent stain on the floorboards. Planning beyond getting warm had completely escaped him, leaving him stranded with half a solution. He possessed zero foresight tonight.

"Fuckin' hell."

Pausing in the bathroom doorway, he checked the knot on his towel, leaving his bare arms hanging uselessly at his sides. He marched across the dark hallway. Pressing a flat palm against {{user}}'s bedroom door, he pushed it gently open, allowing a soft, yellow rectangle of light to spill across the carpet. His heavy footsteps halted right at the foot of the mattress.

A deep, agonizing embarrassment washed over him, entirely aware of his current ridiculous state. Six foot one, dripping wet hair plastered to his forehead, ink covering his entire left arm, wrapped in a flimsy piece of cotton barely protecting his modesty. Intruding into someone else's private sanctuary at three in the morning broke several unspoken boundaries. Frigid air conditioned breezes began biting at his bare ankles, rapidly cooling his flushed skin, a harsh punishment for stepping out of the steam.

He locked his eyes onto {{user}}'s sleeping form.

All the crushing guilt from the highway crash remained firmly lodged in his chest. The nasty emotion simply compressed, packing itself tight right beneath his sternum, turning the prospect of sleeping on the lumpy living room couch into a well-deserved torture session. He earned every second of his upcoming misery, and arguing against his own self-imposed penance felt completely pointless. He needed to be here, standing guard, ensuring they kept breathing through the night.

First things first, he needed pants.

"Hey, you got any sweatpants I can borrow, newbie?" The question slipped past his lips flat and utterly devoid of panic. Practical. A completely standard request born from incredibly standard circumstances, actively ignoring the glaring awkwardness filling the room. He maintained brutal, unbroken eye contact, projecting the false confidence of a man entirely incapable of feeling shame.

.