“Can I think for a second?”
Ace stepped aside.
“Take your time.”
The senior mechanic made a quiet noise of protest, but he didn’t speak.
Everyone could see Ace had decided to hear her out.
And that meant the girl with the pink toolbox was no longer simply an interruption.
She was becoming part of the diagnosis.
Ace hadn’t always been patient with malfunctioning motorcycles.
In his younger years, an engine that refused to cooperate could keep him awake half the night.
He’d spend hours checking the same components until frustration made every small problem feel personal.
Time on the road had changed him.
He had learned that a rider couldn’t argue with a machine.
He could listen to it, understand it, maintain it, and treat it with respect.
But he couldn’t force a damaged part to become reliable through anger.
The custom Harley standing before him represented everything he loved about riding.
It wasn’t a showpiece meant to sit permanently beneath fluorescent lights.
He wanted to ride it.
He wanted the steady pressure of the handlebars beneath his gloves, the familiar engine pulse, and the freedom of knowing he could continue down the road without wondering whether the motorcycle might suddenly lose power.
That last part had become impossible.
A Harley that died unexpectedly after starting in a garage was an inconvenience.
A Harley that shut down while pulling into traffic could be dangerous.
Ace wasn’t willing to gamble with that difference.
He’d spent enough time around other riders to know how quickly a minor mechanical fault could become something serious.
That was why seventeen mechanics had been allowed to examine the machine.
He wasn’t trying to embarrass them.
He wanted the problem solved correctly.