Page 45 of Property of Bones

“What are they?”

“Pain meds and something to help you sleep.”

She eyes them like they’re little miracle pills. “Actually, both of those sound amazing right about now. But… would you still read something to me while I’m falling asleep? I like the timbre of your voice. It’s relaxing.”

Damn her and that soft little smile.

“Yeah, baby,” I say quietly, handing her the pills. “You close those eyes, and I’ll read whatever you want.”

Even the back of a cereal box, if that’s what she asks.

Tossing the pills back, she takes a drink of water.

“You choose,” she says, laying her head back and closing her eyes.

I grab the first book my hand lands on.Motorcycle Mechanics 101. Not exactly a bedtime story, but hell, she told me to choose.

Pulling a chair close to the bed, I flip it open and clear my throat, voice dropping low and steady.

“Chapter One: The Heart of the Machine.

The engine is the soul of every motorcycle…its beating heart. Whether it’s a thumping single-cylinder or a roaring V-twin, understanding your engine means understanding your ride. Combustion, compression, spark, and exhaust. It’s not magic, it’s mechanics. And when you get it right, that engine doesn’t just run…it purrs, growls, and tells you a story with every mile.”

I glance over.

Her lips are curved in the faintest smile, eyes still closed, and her hand curls loosely in the blanket.

“Respect the machine,”I keep reading,“and it’ll take you anywhere. Abuse it, and it’ll leave you stranded.”

I look at her again, soft and still and beautiful in my bed, and I swear the universe just nodded likeyeah, man, this is it.

My voice goes quieter.

“You’re my favorite kind of stranded, doll.”

“Weird thing to write in a book about motorcycles,” she says, a soft laugh in her voice. “Did you know that the engine of most motorcycles is referred to as a powerplant?” she murmurs, eyes still closed, voice hazy with sleep and pain meds. “I read that somewhere. Thought it sounded kinda poetic… like the bike grows from it.”

I huff a laugh, setting the book on my knee but not closing it.

“That’s exactly what it is. A powerplant. Feeds the beast…keeps it moving. Without it, the whole thing’s just a pretty corpse.”

She hums. “That’s broodingly dramatic.”

“You like broodingly dramatic things,” I say, softer this time.

There’s a pause. Then…

“Yeah,” she whispers. “But only when you do it.”

I lean back in the chair, watching her breathe. She’s drifting, slow and easy, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything look so right.

The girl who thinks she’s too soft for a world like mine, curled up in the middle of it like she was always meant to be here.

And God help me... I think I believe it.

I glance down at the book again, thumb sliding over the dog-eared edge like it’s sacred text. Maybe tonight it is.

My voice drops low, more breath than sound, but steady enough to carry.

---