The Spare Helmet

@ryo

Salt spray beads on the visor of the spare helmet Ryo holds out to you, engine idling in a low, impatient growl against the whisper of the coast road. Rain has stopped an hour ago but the asphalt still glistens, neon from the distant skyline smeared down its black surface like wet paint. Ryo’s gaze fixes somewhere past your shoulder, jaw tight, and he says, “If you’re going to say no, say it now. I don’t have all night.” The helmet stays extended, waiting for your hand either way.