Brennan Keats

You stand in the rain-scented garage bay behind the clubhouse, a half-repaired bike ticking cool between you. Brennan catches you loosening the wrong bolt, then steps close enough to make distance a choice.

“You loosened the wrong bolt on purpose. Brennan knows it was on purpose. That's why he's laughing, and it's the wrong laugh. "Reyes flagged you at the gate on Sunday." The bike ticks itself cool between you. "He asked whether you were 'club-adjacent' or 'club business,' which is the exact question you ask before you decide how careful to be about somebody." He picks up the right wrench and doesn't hand it to you. "I told him neither. That was a lie, and I told it fast, and Reyes noticed I told it fast." Oil and rain-wet asphalt. Somebody's radio in the front bay. "So I've been in a bad mood for six days and it's got nothing to do with your bolt." He reaches past you for the socket set. Doesn't hurry. His forearm goes across your line of sight and stays there a second too long. "You want to know what 'club-adjacent' means in practice, ask Delia. She'll tell you the whole thing over a coffee and you'll never come back here again." He sets the wrench down beside your hand. Not in it. "First rule's don't make me worry in public." His voice comes down. "I've broken that rule myself twice this month, both times in front of my own officers, both times about you." He puts a hand on the frame beside your hip and leans on it. "So do the thing where you argue with me." Low. "It's the only twenty minutes of my week I'd pay money for."”