Out of place among them, a single motorcycle rumbled to a stop. Black. Chrome. Loud as a gunshot.

Elias Millano swung off the bike, boots hitting the asphalt hard. He pulled off his helmet, ran a hand through his dark hair, and scanned the building with eyes that missed nothing.

He looked exactly like what he was. A problem. A warning. A man who broke things for a living.

Inside, the fluorescent lights of Crestwood Elementary buzzed overhead. The halls were quiet now, the last few parents signing their kids out at the front office. A secretary looked up as Elias walked in, her pen freezing mid-signature.

He followed the directions. Past the finger-painted windows. Past the lost-and-found bin. Past a bulletin board covered in smiling children’s faces.

And then he stopped in a doorway.

Room 7. Kindergarten.

Inside, a handful of kids sat on a colorful rug, fidgeting with backpacks. And beside them, kneeling at eye level with a little girl with pigtails, was you.

You were laughing softly at something Ellary had said, your hand gentle on her shoulder.

Then you looked up.

And saw him.

Six-foot-seven of scarred knuckles, ink, and leather, filling the doorway like a thundercloud.

The other parents in the room went still. A woman clutched her purse tighter. A man stepped between Elias and his own child.

But you just tilted your head. A small crease formed between your brows.