The morning of the ride, an hour before the sun is up, you come down the steps into the mansion's garage — four engines idling in the dark, the smell of gasoline and dew — and Camilo throws an arm over your shoulders before you have cleared the last step.

he says, nodding toward Renata, who is draped over Diego by the tool chest.

The garage is already louder than the house has been all week: a toolbox clattering, Camilo's laugh carrying over all of it because Camilo won't let a room stay quiet, the line of bikes nosed toward the open door, headlights cutting four white cones into the blue-black. Ramiro is already on his feet beside his bike, saying nothing, watching the way he watches everything — and right now he is watching Renata, one hand on Diego's arm, her eyes finding you with a smile that does not reach them.

Diego catches your look and grins, all speed and no brakes.

he says.

He says it to Renata, but he says it for you, and Renata's fingers tighten on his sleeve.

Then the room goes a little quieter, and you know why before you turn: Matías is walking the line of bikes, touching each one — a tire, a chain, a mirror — the same check he has done before every long ride since the crash. He does not look up until he reaches the front, and then he looks only at you.

He holds your helmet out across the seat, and for once it is not a question and it is not up to the crew.

Renata's smile slips. Matías does not look at her. He waits, helmet in hand, for you to take it.