The motorcycle club is exactly what I expected.
And worse.
A converted warehouse that smells like engine grease and bad decisions. Bikes lined up outside like chrome soldiers waiting for war. Music thumping through the walls — something heavy and angry that vibrates in my chest.
I push through the door, and every head turns.
Leather jackets. Tattoos. Eyes that measure my coat and my boots and my posture and find me exactly as wanting as I feel. The room goes quiet for half a second — just long enough for me to hear my own heartbeat — before the commentary begins.
"Well, well." A guy near the pool table grins, showing a gold tooth. "The royalty from North Side decided to honor us with her presence."
Laughter ripples through the room. Someone wolf-whistles.
"Careful, princess." Another voice, somewhere to my left. "You might get your clothes dirty."
More laughter. I keep my chin up and my hands steady, scanning the room for Danny. I will not flinch. I will not run. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me crack.
I find him in the back corner, crouched beside a motorcycle with its engine exposed like a mechanical autopsy. Leather jacket. Grease-stained hands. Dark hair falling across his forehead as he concentrates on something I couldn't name if my life depended on it.
He looks up when I approach, and something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. That I actually came.
"You're early," he says.
"You said seven."
"It's six forty-five."
"And?"
He almost smiles. Almost. "Ten more minutes. Then we can go to the library or wherever you genius bookworms usually study."
I stand there with my arms crossed, feeling every stare drilling into my back. The music keeps thumping. The laughter keeps circling. I am very aware that I'm the only person in this room who doesn't belong here.
A guy with a shaved head saunters over, blocking my view of Danny. He's big — not tall, but wide, the kind of build that comes from lifting heavy things and hitting people who annoy him.
"Lost, princess?" He looks me up and down with a smirk that makes my skin crawl. "The country club is on the other side of town."
His friends snicker. Someone behind me mutters something I don't catch but can guess.
I open my mouth to respond — something sharp, something cutting, something that proves I'm not the fragile thing they think I am — but Danny's voice cuts through first.
"Back off, Marcus."
He doesn't look up from the engine. His tone is flat. Final. The kind of voice that expects to be obeyed.
Marcus hesitates. For a second I think he's going to push back, going to make this into something bigger. Then he retreats with a muttered "whatever" and rejoins his friends by the pool table.
Danny glances at me. "Don't blush. It's my job to keep order around here. Nothing personal."
"I wasn't blushing."
"Sure you weren't."
I want to ask what his job means. Want to ask why Marcus listened so quickly, why Danny's word carries weight in a room full of guys who look like they eat North Side girls for breakfast. But I don't. Because asking would mean caring, and I don't care about Danny Vega's place in his little hierarchy.
I don't.
Twenty minutes later, we're sitting across from each other in a 24-hour diner Danny picked. Neutral ground, he called it. Red vinyl booths and fluorescent lights and a waitress who looks like she's seen every bad decision this city has to offer.
Danny pushes a menu aside without looking at it. Leans back in the booth like he owns the place.
"I'm not working on anything," he says, "until you tell me why you ran."
My coffee cup freezes halfway to my mouth. "Excuse me?"
"The rooftop. We were talking, and then you looked at me like I'd grown a second head and bolted." His eyes are steady on mine. "Why?"
My heart pounds. I can't tell him the truth. Can't say because you said something only Ghost would say and my entire reality collapsed. Can't say because I think you might be the person I love and the person I hate and I don't know how to exist in a world where that's possible.
So I lie.
"Because you're an asshole from West Side," I say coolly, "and I don't want to deal with someone like you."
Danny's jaw tightens. Something flashes in his eyes — hurt, maybe, buried under layers of practiced indifference.
"Right. Of course." His voice drips sarcasm. "The princess can't stand being near the trash. Guess your daddy taught you well."
"Don't bring my father into this."
"Why not? He's the one who programmed you, right? North Side good, West Side bad. Rich people matter, poor people don't." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Tell me, Nora. Do you actually have thoughts of your own? Or do you just download them from the family server every morning?"
I want to slap him. I want to scream. I want to throw my coffee in his face and storm out and never see him again.
But I also notice something.
This biting cruelty. This defensive hostility. The way he attacks before I can get close enough to wound him.
It's nothing like Ghost.
Ghost is patient. Gentle. Warm. Ghost listens without judging. Ghost holds space for my pain without making it about himself.
Danny is sharp edges and cold walls. Danny is sarcasm and spite and a chip on his shoulder the size of a motorcycle.
My suspicions must be wrong. They have to be.
"Can we just work on the project?" I say tiredly. "I don't have the energy for this."
He studies me for a long moment. Then something in his posture shifts — not softening, exactly, but retreating. Putting the weapons away.
"Fine."
We discuss the project through gritted teeth. I divide the roles — research for me, data analysis for him. He doesn't argue, which surprises me. Just nods and makes notes on a napkin like this is actually something he cares about.
"We should meet tomorrow," he says. "Get ahead of the deadline."
"I can't tomorrow."
His eyebrow arches. "Hot date?"
"Excuse me?"
"Some secret rendezvous with a perfect nerd from North Side? Gotta keep the bloodline pure?"
"It's not your business what I'm doing tomorrow."
"You're right. It's not." He holds my gaze for a beat too long. Something unreadable moves behind his eyes. "Day after tomorrow, then. Same time, same place. Don't be late, princess."
"Stop calling me that."
"Stop acting like one."
I grab my bag and stand up. "Day after tomorrow. Try not to be insufferable."
"No promises."
I'm halfway to the door when his voice catches me.
"Nora."
I turn. He's still sitting in the booth, watching me with an expression I can't decode.
"What?"
A pause. Something shifts in his face — like he's about to say something real, something that matters. Then the walls slam back into place.
"Nothing. Drive safe."
I push through the door into the cold night air, my heart pounding for reasons I refuse to examine.
Danny Vega is not Ghost.
He can't be.
Because if he is, then everything I thought I knew about both of them is wrong.
And I'm not ready to live in that world yet.