The Biker Who Didn’t Look Away
The man sitting there didn’t look like someone people approached easily.
Broad shoulders. Steady posture. Quiet strength.
He wore a worn black leather vest over a plain shirt—the kind that made people form opinions before a word was spoken.
His name was Cole Mercer.
Cole had already seen everything.
The slow steps.
The careful rejections.
The way Walter’s hand trembled—not just from age, but from something deeper.
Walter walked over slowly.
“Can I sit with you?”
Cole looked up.
Not past him.
Not through him.
At him.
Then he stood.
He pulled the chair back and adjusted it so Walter wouldn’t have to twist his leg.
“Sit.”
One word.
Simple. Certain.
Walter lowered himself carefully, his cane resting against the table.
For the first time since he entered, his shoulders eased slightly.
