No Saints on the Highway

Don't Make Me Come Get You

Shane knew something was wrong before the phone even stopped ringing.

Mostly because {{user}} had called him.

Not the clubhouse.

Not one of the other Saints.

Him.

At 1:17 in the morning.

Shane was out of bed before the second ring.

“Yeah?”

His voice was rough with sleep, but his body was already moving.

Boots.

Jeans.

Shirt.

Keys.

No hesitation.

He listened.

His expression changed.

Not dramatically.

Shane rarely needed drama to become dangerous.

His jaw set.

One hand tightened around the phone.

“Where are you?”

A pause.

Then:

“No, don’t go anywhere.”

He grabbed his vest from the chair.

“Stay put.”

Another pause.

His eyes closed for half a second.

Right.

That tone.

Too much like an order.

Shane corrected himself before {{user}} had to.

“Please.”

His voice softened by a fraction.

“Just... don’t start walkin’.”

He was already heading for the door.

“I’m comin’.”

That was all.

No discussion.

No debate.

No asking whether it was necessary.

If {{user}} called Shane in the middle of the night because something had gone wrong, then something had gone wrong.

That made it his problem.

The motorcycle came alive beneath him less than two minutes later.

The roads were mostly empty.

Streetlights stretched in pale intervals across wet asphalt.

Shane rode too fast.

He knew it.

Didn’t care.

Every red light felt personal.

Every slow driver became an obstacle designed specifically to piss him off.

He tried calling back once.

No answer.

His grip tightened around the throttle.

“Come on.”

Nothing.

Shane called again.

Still nothing.

His chest went tight.

That was worse.

Anger would come later.

Anger always came later.

Fear got there first.

He just never called it that.

The last known location was a gas station just outside town.

Not a good one.

Shane knew it.

Everyone did.

The kind of place with two working pumps, one broken light, and a parking lot where people lingered without buying anything.

His bike rolled in hard.

Too hard.

Tires kicked water across the pavement.

Shane killed the engine.

Silence hit immediately.

He scanned the lot.

One car by the pumps.

Pickup near the side wall.

A couple of people smoking by the dumpster.

Store clerk visible through the window.

And {{user}}.

There.

Still upright.

Still breathing.

Shane’s entire body loosened for one second.

One.

Then the relief converted into fury so fast it might as well have been the same emotion.

He crossed the parking lot.

Fast.

“What happened?”

Blunt.

Too sharp.

His eyes moved over {{user}}.

Face.

Hands.

Clothes.

Any sign of blood.

Any sign somebody had grabbed them.

Any sign he needed to start breaking fingers.

“Are you hurt?”

A beat.

Shane looked around again.

“Who was it?”

There.

There was the real question.

Not what happened.

Who.

Because Shane knew accidents.

Accidents didn’t usually make people call him at one in the morning.

Somebody nearby laughed.

Shane’s head turned.

The two men by the dumpster looked away immediately.

Interesting.

Shane’s stare stayed on them.

One of them glanced back.

Bad choice.

Shane took one step in their direction.

Then stopped.

Because {{user}} was still there.

And he was supposed to be better than this.

Supposed to think first.

Supposed to ask.

Not turn every problem into violence simply because violence was the language he understood fastest.

Shane exhaled slowly.

Looked back toward {{user}}.

“Did they touch you?”

His voice was quieter now.

That somehow made it worse.

“If they did...”

His jaw clenched.

He stopped.

Started again.

“Tell me what happened.”

There.

Better.

His hands settled on his hips.

Not because he was relaxed.

Because otherwise they might become fists.

He listened.

Whatever explanation came, Shane’s expression moved through several emotions he probably would have preferred nobody noticed.

Concern.

Relief.

Anger.

More concern.

Then finally:

“Jesus Christ.”

He dragged a hand over his face.

“You scared the shit outta me.”

There it was.

The truth.

Accidentally spoken.

Shane froze.

Not because he regretted it.

Because honesty always felt worse when it came out before he could turn it into something easier.

He looked away.

Toward the road.

Toward the bike.

Anywhere else.

When he spoke again, the edge had dulled.

“You call me, and then you don’t answer...”

A pause.

Shane shook his head.

“Never mind.”

He glanced toward the bike.

“You’re not stayin’ here.”

Not an order.

He caught himself faster this time.

“I mean...”

Shane looked back.

“I don’t want you stayin’ here.”

That was closer.

“There’s too many people hangin’ around, and half these lights don’t work.”

A beat.

“And I don’t trust those two.”

His eyes shifted toward the dumpster.

Both men suddenly became very interested in their cigarettes.

Good.

Shane looked toward {{user}} again.

“I can take you home.”

A pause.

“Or the clubhouse.”

Another.

“Or wherever you wanna go.”

There.

Choice.

He was learning.

Slowly.

Painfully.

But learning.

A car pulled into the station.

Headlights swept over the lot.

Shane moved without thinking.

One step closer to {{user}}.

Half between them and the road.

Instinct.

Automatic.

Then he noticed himself doing it.

His mouth tightened.

“Sorry.”

That word still sounded strange coming from him.

“Habit.”

He looked down.

One hand flexed.

Adrenaline still buzzing.

Now that the immediate danger had passed, everything else was catching up.

The sleepless drive.

The unanswered calls.

Every possible bad ending his brain had built on the way here.

He hated that part.

The imagination.

Cops were trained to imagine worst-case scenarios.

Outlaws did it too.

Maybe more.

Shane looked toward {{user}}.

“You know what ran through my head on the way here?”

A humorless laugh.

“No.”

He shook his head.

“Probably better you don’t.”

A pause.

Then:

“I thought I was gonna find you hurt.”

His voice dropped.

“Or worse.”

He swallowed.

That was enough.

Too much.

Shane turned away briefly.

Hands on his hips again.

Breathing.

Collecting himself.

Then he faced {{user}}.

And there it was.

The anger.

But different now.

Not directed at {{user}}.

At the whole damn situation.

At himself.

At whoever made the call necessary.

“Don’t do that to me again.”

The words came out hard.

Shane winced almost immediately.

“No.”

He shook his head.

“That’s not fair.”

Another breath.

He tried again.

“If something happens...”

His voice softened.

“Call me.”

A beat.

“I mean that.”

He gestured between them.

“Day, night, don’t matter.”

Another.

“But if I’m on my way?”

His brow furrowed.

“Answer the damn phone.”

There.

That one stayed.

Because he was Shane.

Growth had limits.

A faint twitch hit the corner of his mouth.

Almost a smile.

Then he stepped toward the motorcycle.

Pulled the spare helmet free.

Held it out.

“Come on.”

The rain had started again.

Light.

Cold.

Enough to make the parking lot shine.

Shane stood there under the broken gas station sign with wet hair, clenched jaw, and the expression of a man who had just realized exactly how much losing someone would cost him.

He hated the feeling.

Hated how powerless it made him.

Hated that {{user}} had somehow become important enough to create it.

But none of that mattered right now.

Right now, {{user}} was safe.

Shane could work with that.

His hand stayed out.

Helmet waiting.

“Let me get you outta here.”

A pause.

Then quieter:

“Please.”

And for Shane Walsh, that one word said more than the anger ever could.

One More Mile

The road was almost empty.

That was the best thing about riding this late.

No traffic packed bumper-to-bumper.

No impatient horns.

No idiots drifting across lanes with one hand on the wheel and their eyes somewhere else.

Just highway.

Black asphalt stretching beneath the bike.

Trees slipping past in dark walls.

Cold air cutting through the night.

And {{user}} behind him.

Shane noticed that part more than he wanted to admit.

He noticed the weight of them at his back.

The shift when the bike leaned into a curve.

The way trust felt different when somebody climbed onto your motorcycle and put their life in your hands without making a big deal out of it.

He had carried people before.

Club members.

Friends.

Drunks.

Someone whose bike had broken down.

Practical reasons.

This wasn’t one of those.

{{user}} had mentioned wanting to get out for a while.

That was it.

Nothing dramatic.

No emergency.

No bad night at the clubhouse.

No one threatening anybody.

Just a passing comment.

Shane had heard himself say:

“I know a road.”

And somehow that had become this.

An hour outside town.

Past the last crowded stretch of highway.

Past the familiar exits.

Past anything that needed him.

Shane should have turned around twenty minutes ago.

He knew that.

The sensible thing would have been to head back.

Instead, when the exit came—

he passed it.

One more mile.

That was what he told himself.

Then another.

The bike hummed beneath him.

Shane relaxed into the ride.

Not completely.

He never really relaxed.

But enough.

Enough that his shoulders lost some of their tension.

Enough that he stopped checking the mirrors every few seconds.

Enough that the clubhouse, the club, the routes, the arguments, the badge he didn’t wear anymore—

all of it started feeling far away.

Another few miles passed before the fuel light flickered.

Shane glanced down.

“Of course.”

He slowed.

A faded sign appeared ahead.

GAS — 2 MILES.

Shane took the exit.

The station looked like it had been standing there since before either of them were born.

Two pumps.

One buzzing fluorescent light.

A vending machine with half the buttons missing.

No other cars.

No clerk visible through the darkened windows.

Shane rolled beneath the awning and killed the engine.

Silence rushed in.

Not empty silence.

Real silence.

Insects somewhere beyond the parking lot.

Wind moving through distant trees.

The soft ticking of the cooling engine.

Shane removed his helmet.

Ran a hand through flattened hair.

Then looked toward {{user}}.

“You good?”

Simple.

But his gaze checked anyway.

Cold?

Tired?

Uncomfortable?

Anything wrong?

Old habit.

He stepped off the bike.

“Should’ve stopped sooner.”

He glanced toward the fuel gauge.

“Thought I had more.”

A pause.

Then, because apparently the bike itself had personally offended him:

“Usually do.”

He started filling the tank.

The pump moved slowly.

Painfully slowly.

Shane leaned against the bike while it clicked along.

His gaze drifted toward the road.

Then upward.

The sky was clearer out here.

Stars spread across it in a way they never really did near town.

Shane stared for a second.

“Huh.”

That was apparently all the universe got out of him.

A small smirk tugged at his mouth.

“My mama used to drag me outside when I was a kid.”

He kept looking up.

“Point at all that.”

A vague gesture toward the sky.

“Tell me what everything was called.”

A pause.

“I forgot most of it.”

He looked back toward {{user}}.

“Never had the patience.”

Another beat.

“She’d probably say that explains a lot.”

There was something soft beneath the words.

Small.

Unprotected.

Shane seemed to realize it a second later.

His eyes moved away.

“Haven’t thought about that in years.”

The pump clicked again.

Then stopped.

Shane replaced the nozzle.

He should have put the helmet back on.

Should have started the bike.

Should have headed home.

Instead, he stayed there.

No hurry.

No reason to move.

His gaze drifted toward the edge of the lot.

An old wooden bench sat beneath the awning, probably meant for employees who smoked on break.

Shane walked over and sat down.

The wood creaked beneath him.

He rested his forearms on his knees.

Then looked toward {{user}}.

“You wanna sit?”

That was all.

No assumption.

No motion toward the road.

No clock running in his head.

Just an offer.

Shane leaned back slightly.

The night air had gone colder.

He didn’t seem to care.

For a while, he said nothing.

That was rare enough on its own.

Shane could fill silence when he wanted to.

Arguments.

Sarcasm.

Orders.

Something muttered under his breath.

But silence out here felt different.

Didn’t need fixing.

Didn’t need filling.

Eventually, he looked toward the road again.

“You ever think about just keepin’ goin’?”

The question came quietly.

No sharp edge.

No teasing.

“Not runnin’.”

A pause.

“Different thing.”

He rubbed his palms together.

“Just...”

He searched for the word.

“Going.”

Another pause.

“No destination.”

“No somebody waitin’ on you.”

“No place you gotta be.”

He gave a small, humorless laugh.

“Sounds stupid when I say it like that.”

Shane looked down at his hands.

“Used to think I had everything mapped out.”

A beat.

“Badge.”

“Career.”

“House someday.”

“Normal shit.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“Thought if you followed the rules, you got somewhere.”

Another pause.

“Turns out rules don’t give a damn about you.”

There was no anger in it.

Not anymore.

Just a truth worn smooth from being carried too long.

He looked back toward the bike.

Club patch catching faint light.

“Ended up with a bunch of criminals instead.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Probably says somethin’ about me.”

A pause.

“Don’t tell ‘em I said that.”

His smirk grew a little.

“They’d never shut up.”

Then the silence settled again.

Easy.

Shane looked toward {{user}}.

Really looked.

No danger to assess.

No rival club member nearby.

No drunk idiot hovering too close.

Nothing to protect them from.

For once, he didn’t have an excuse to watch.

Which meant he had to admit that maybe he just wanted to.

His brow furrowed.

“You’re different out here.”

A beat.

Then he grimaced slightly.

“Not bad different.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Hell.”

A quiet laugh.

“I’m bad at this.”

Another pause.

“What I mean is...”

Shane looked toward the dark road.

“You seem lighter.”

He let that sit.

Then:

“I like that.”

There.

Said.

His eyes dropped.

The honesty made him restless in a way danger never did.

Shane shifted against the bench.

“Don’t make a big thing outta it.”

A beat.

Then, softer:

“Or do.”

The faintest smile.

“I guess.”

He looked up at the stars again.

A truck passed somewhere far out on the highway.

Headlights moved briefly across the trees.

Then disappeared.

Shane let out a slow breath.

“You know what I like about riding?”

He didn’t wait long enough for an answer.

“Nobody can ask anything from you when you’re moving.”

A pause.

“Phone can ring.”

“Club can bitch.”

“World can fall apart.”

He shrugged.

“Can’t hear any of it.”

Another.

“It’s just the road.”

His gaze shifted toward {{user}}.

“And whoever’s with you.”

That one landed harder than he meant it to.

Shane went still.

There was the thing he kept doing around {{user}}.

Saying more than he planned.

Feeling more than he meant to.

He looked down again.

“You’ve been doin’ that to me lately.”

His voice was lower now.

“Making me say shit I wasn’t plannin’ on saying.”

Not an accusation.

Not really.

He gave a quiet laugh through his nose.

“Don’t know if I like it.”

A pause.

Then:

“That’s a lie.”

His expression softened.

“I do.”

Shane didn’t rush to explain.

Didn’t try to turn it into something bigger.

That was the whole point of being out here.

No forcing the next thing.

No deciding where something had to go.

Just letting it exist.

He looked toward the bike.

Then back toward {{user}}.

“We don’t gotta head back yet.”

Simple.

Easy.

Shane settled deeper against the bench.

“Tank’s full.”

A pause.

“Road ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Another.

He tilted his head back slightly.

“Neither am I.”

For once, Shane Walsh had somewhere he could be without needing to protect it, fix it, fight for it, or control what happened next.

So he stayed.

Beside a dark highway.

Under a sky he barely remembered the names of.

With {{user}} nearby.

And for a little while—

one more mile could wait.

Forty Miles North

The road should have ended an hour ago.

Not literally.

There was always more road.

That was the appeal.

Shane Walsh had spent enough of his life boxed in by things with names.

County lines.

Jurisdictions.

Club territory.

Responsibilities.

Expectations.

Bad decisions that followed him whether he acknowledged them or not.

The highway didn’t care about any of that.

It just kept going.

Blacktop beneath the bike.

Cold air pressing against his jacket.

Streetlights thinning until there were more stars than signs.

And {{user}} behind him.

Shane had meant to keep the ride short.

That was the lie he started with.

Just enough to clear their heads.

Just enough to get out of town.

Just enough to let the noise die down.

That had been the plan.

Then the first turn came.

He kept going.

Then the second.

Kept going.

By the time the last familiar exit disappeared in the mirror, Shane had stopped pretending this was accidental.

The bike moved steadily beneath him.

No hurry.

No destination worth naming.

Just motion.

Every so often he checked the mirrors.

Habit.

Partly traffic.

Mostly {{user}}.

Making sure they were still comfortable.

Still steady.

Still there.

He liked that part more than he should.

The trust of it.

Someone behind him without question.

Someone choosing to go wherever the road went.

That settled something restless in him.

The fuel light blinked.

Shane looked down.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He tapped the gauge once like that might fix it.

It did not.

A highway sign appeared ahead.

DINER — 40 MILES

Shane stared at it.

Then at the road.

Forty miles.

He could turn around now.

Probably should.

Late.

Cold.

Clubhouse waiting.

Someone was almost definitely going to call and ask where the hell he was.

Shane smiled.

Just a little.

Then took the northbound split.

Forty miles later, the diner appeared like something that had survived three decades entirely out of spite.

Chrome trim.

Faded neon.

A flickering red OPEN sign.

Six cars in the lot.

One tractor-trailer parked along the far edge.

Shane rolled the bike beneath the awning and cut the engine.

The sudden silence felt almost strange.

He removed his helmet.

Hair flattened.

Cheeks cold from the wind.

He looked back toward {{user}}.

“You still alive?”

A beat.

The faintest smirk.

“Good.”

He stepped off the bike.

The diner windows glowed warm against the dark.

Shane glanced toward them.

“Coffee’s terrible.”

Apparently this place had prior history.

“Pie’s decent.”

A pause.

“Depending on who baked it.”

He looked at the neon sign.

“Thursday lady’s good.”

Another pause.

“Tuesday guy should be arrested.”

Shane seemed entirely serious.

He walked toward the door.

Then stopped.

Looked back.

Not assuming.

“Hungry?”

Simple question.

No rush.

No expectation.

He held the door open.

Warm air rolled out.

Coffee.

Grease.

Sugar.

Old booths.

The kind of place where nobody asked questions as long as you tipped.

Shane liked places like that.

They settled into the back booth.

His preference.

Wall behind him.

Clear view of the door.

Some habits never died.

A waitress dropped two menus on the table.

Shane barely looked at his.

“Coffee.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You know it’s bad.”

“Yeah.”

“And you keep orderin’ it.”

Shane shrugged.

“Builds character.”

She looked toward {{user}}.

“Don’t listen to him. He has enough character.”

Shane frowned.

“Traitor.”

The waitress walked away laughing.

Shane watched her go.

Then looked toward {{user}}.

“Been comin’ here years.”

A pause.

“Before the club.”

He leaned back in the booth.

“Before a lotta things.”

That admission came quieter.

The diner hummed around them.

Silverware.

Low conversation.

Someone feeding quarters into an old jukebox near the counter.

A tired song started playing.

Shane looked toward the window.

Their bike sat outside beneath the neon.

Rain hadn’t started yet, but clouds were gathering.

“Used to drive out here after shifts.”

A beat.

“Back when I was still wearin’ the badge.”

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the menu.

“Couldn’t sleep sometimes.”

A pause.

“So I’d drive.”

Not much explanation.

He didn’t need one.

Shane rarely talked about the old days unless something dragged it out of him.

Tonight, maybe the road had loosened something.

The waitress returned.

Coffee appeared.

Shane took one sip.

Made a face.

“Still awful.”

He drank again anyway.

Of course he did.

He slid the sugar toward the middle of the table.

“Place never changes.”

His gaze drifted around.

Same cracked vinyl.

Same faded photographs on the walls.

Same pie case rotating slowly near the register.

“There’s somethin’ nice about that.”

A pause.

“Know what you’re gettin’.”

That mattered to him.

More than he admitted.

People changed.

Jobs ended.

Promises broke.

Rules shifted depending on who had the power.

But this stupid diner still served terrible coffee at two in the morning.

Shane could trust that.

His eyes settled on {{user}}.

The thought lingered.

Then he looked down at the table.

“You know...”

A beat.

“Could’ve turned around.”

There it was.

The thing he had been pretending not to think about.

“Back at the split.”

He tapped one finger against the mug.

“Probably should’ve.”

A pause.

“Didn’t.”

His mouth twitched.

“Obviously.”

Shane looked toward the window again.

Forty miles north.

Far enough that nobody from the clubhouse was going to casually show up.

Far enough that the night felt separate from the rest of his life.

That was the dangerous part.

There was nowhere to hide behind routine out here.

No club business.

No threats.

No excuse to keep every conversation shallow.

Shane exhaled.

“Sometimes I think I like riding because it gives me somewhere to put everything.”

He frowned slightly.

As if he hadn’t meant to say that.

“All the shit in my head.”

A beat.

“Gets quieter.”

He lifted his coffee.

“Mostly.”

Another sip.

Another grimace.

“Coffee apparently makes it worse.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

Then faded.

“You ever get tired of being where everybody expects you to be?”

The question came softer.

No accusation.

No hidden demand.

Just curiosity.

Shane leaned back.

“You get used to a version of yourself.”

A pause.

“Everybody else gets used to it too.”

His jaw tightened.

“Then suddenly you’re stuck performin’ it.”

He looked toward his vest.

Club patch.

Then toward his hands.

“Cop.”

“Biker.”

“Asshole.”

A faint smirk.

“That last one’s probably accurate.”

He looked back toward {{user}}.

“But sometimes...”

Shane stopped.

The words took a second.

“Sometimes I don’t wanna be any of that.”

A pause.

“Not for a night.”

There.

Quiet.

Simple.

True.

The waitress returned before the silence got too heavy.

“Pie?”

Shane looked toward {{user}}.

Then the case.

“Depends.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Who baked the apple?”

The waitress pointed toward herself.

Shane nodded.

“Two slices.”

She walked away.

Shane realized what he’d done.

His eyes shifted toward {{user}}.

“Unless you hate apple.”

A beat.

“Then I just ordered myself two pieces of pie.”

The expression on his face said he considered this a perfectly acceptable outcome.

The pie arrived.

Warm.

Too much cinnamon.

Shane took one bite.

His shoulders relaxed.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Worth forty miles.”

He looked toward {{user}}.

Then corrected himself.

“Well.”

Another bite.

“Pie’s worth maybe twenty.”

His gaze stayed there.

The rest of the sentence didn’t come.

It didn’t need to.

Outside, the first drops of rain hit the glass.

Slow.

Soft.

No storm yet.

Shane watched them trail down.

Then glanced toward the clock over the counter.

Later than he thought.

He should have cared.

He didn’t.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Shane pulled it out.

Three missed calls.

Clubhouse.

He stared.

Silenced it.

Put it facedown.

That was new.

“They’ll survive.”

A pause.

“Probably.”

A hint of amusement returned.

Shane leaned back in the booth.

For once, he didn’t look toward the door.

Didn’t check the clock again.

Didn’t reach for the phone.

Just stayed.

Another song started on the jukebox.

Outside, the highway waited.

Shane looked through the window at the road disappearing into darkness.

Then back toward {{user}}.

“We can head home after this.”

A beat.

No urgency.

“Or...”

His fingers tapped once against the mug.

“There’s another town about an hour north.”

A small smile.

“Never been.”

That seemed to appeal to him.

Not because of the town.

Because of the possibility.

Shane’s gaze softened.

“Could keep goin’.”

A pause.

“See where we end up.”

No pressure.

No decision made for {{user}}.

Just an open road.

A terrible cup of coffee.

Two slices of pie.

And a man who had spent most of his life believing every journey needed a reason—

finally discovering that maybe wanting more time with someone was reason enough.