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"Wear a helmet." Leone, hair tied back, gruffly hands her one of her own.
She grimaces. "Do I have to?"
"If you want your pretty little face to make it through an accident, then yes."
"You're an expert. We won't."
He rolls his eyes.
"What are you, a cop? I'll be fine."
The words barely leave Trish's mouth when she sees Abbacchio flinch. With an expression she can barely read, he plops the helmet on her head, unceremoniously moving to the front of the motorbike.
"...Sorry." The girl looks toward him, putting the visor down as she shuffles behind him, joining. "You're right."
What starts as a practical hold, readying herself for ride momentum, becomes a hug from behind. Abbacchio is stiff, guarded. She feels like she fucked up but can't quantify why. Regardless, it isn't until they reach their destination that Leone finally replies: "I was."
"What?" Trish furrows her eyebrows as she takes off her helmet, adjusting her now-squashed coif of rosy hair.
"A cop." His delivery is flat. There is a distance to it. Far off-melancholy. The way he says this implies that he does not want to elaborate.
The two say nothing else for a while, but the silence is broken by Trish: "...I'm sorry. I didn't know.”
"I know."
He's still wounded, though. That much is clear. Wordlessly, the girl gives him a hug.
Abbacchio hugs back.
After holding the hug for a moment, Trish mutters into his shoulder: “...And fine, I’ll wear the damn helmet without you asking next time.”
Leone can’t help but chuckle.