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My gaze slides past him to his motorcycle. It’s beautiful, I’ll give it that. In the same way lightning is beautiful when it’s not trying to kill you.

I’ve seen what bikes do to bodies. I have treated fractured clavicles, seen the aftermath of shredded skin, torn ligaments, and spinal trauma. I’ve sat with patients while they described what asphalt looks like in high definition.

My brain catalogs every risk of getting on that bike with grim professional efficiency, and I shake my head sharply. “No.”

Viktor’s eyebrows lift. “No?”

“No,” I repeat, with significantly less conviction, because Moreno waiting in his office and the perfect space next-door to his clinic floats into my head.

“You have helmet?”

My eyes narrow at him. “Viktor, do I look like I casually carry bike gear around with me?”

His gaze moves down my body and back up. It’s quick enough to pretend it didn’t happen, but slow enough for my heart rate to notice.

“I have a spare,” he says.

“Of course you do.”

“It is safe.”

I scoff so sharply it startles a pigeon on the sidewalk. “That is an obscene lie.”

“It is safer with helmet.”

“That’s like saying taking a slap shot to the face is safer with a mouthguard.”

“It is. Ask my dentist.”

“Oh my god, don’t make jokes while trying to lure me onto an organ-donor vehicle!”

His mouth does an almost-smile again. “I will drive carefully, especially for you.”

“Every man on a bike says that right before becoming a case study.”

“I am not every man.”

“No,” I say, dragging my eyes over his strong, broad shoulders. Then down to the thighs I once had to manually assess while he stared at the ceiling and tried not to wince. “You are an especially large man, which means if we crash, you’ll become an especially large projectile.”

Viktor, infuriatingly, just holds the spare helmet out to me. It’s sleek and expensive-looking, probably maintained with the same intensity he once applied to arguing with me about hamstring loading and recovery timelines.

I consider it with suspicion, but am saved when my phone buzzes again. I glance down to see Carina’s name flashing.

“I’m fine,” I answer, before I can think better of it.

“That’s a terrible opener,” Carina says. “Why are you saying that as though you’re being questioned by police?”

“… I’m not being questioned by police.”

A pause. “Heidi.”

I clear my throat. “Just had a tiny fender bender. It’s… well, more medium than tiny, actually, but tiny injury-wise. I mean, there’s no injuries—apart from my car. Which is being towed. I’m handling it.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yup. Peachy.”

“Where are you?”