Fifteen years old.
Too old to be protected from everything.
Too young to understand why adults sometimes behaved like children with better cars.
His eyes moved from the gloves to Logan.
Then to me.
“Mom?”
There was something in his voice that made my chest tighten.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For me.
I shook my head slightly.
Not now.
Don’t come closer.
Noah understood.
He always did.
I had spent years teaching him to recognize the difference between courage and recklessness.
Apparently, it was time to demonstrate it.
I bent down.
Slowly.
I picked up the gloves.
The neighborhood went silent again.
Logan grinned.
“There we go.”
I held the gloves in one hand.
They were worn but expensive.
Professional-grade.
Black leather with red stitching.
I turned one over.
Then the other.
“You’ve done this before,” I said.
