Chapter 2. Soren
I am crouched beside the exposed primary drive of a late-model touring bike, the heavy metallic mass of the engine ticking faintly as it cools.
I hold a half-inch drive torque wrench in my right hand.
I appreciate machines because they tell you precisely what they require.
You give them the correct input, and they give you the correct output. People are rarely that straightforward.
Halverson Moto operates entirely on that principle.
I built this shop to reflect the things I value most: order, precision, and a complete absence of pretense.
The polished concrete floors stretch out toward the front windows.
I sweep them every evening to eliminate the metallic dust that naturally accumulates in a working garage.
My custom-fabricated steel workbench runs the length of the far wall, bolted securely into the concrete.
Down the center aisle of the shop, custom bikes sit elevated on display stands.
A customer stands near the front window.
He is wearing a crisp button-down shirt and has spent the last twenty minutes staring at a rebuilt bobber like he’s trying to convince himself he has the necessary grit to actually ride it.
I let him look. If a man wants a motorcycle, he doesn’t need me breathing down his neck to finalize his decision.
The heavy thud of the side door being thrown violently open shatters the calm.
“Uncle Soren!”
Rue comes through the doorway. She propels herself forward, her small sneakers squeaking sharply against the polished concrete.
Her bright pink backpack is still strapped tightly to her shoulders, bobbing wildly.
She entirely ignores the yellow boundary line painted on the floor that designates the active work zone.
I set the torque wrench down on a clean shop rag beside my knee, rock back on my heels, and reach out my hands just as she crosses the threshold.
“Whoa. Brake, Rue,” I say. I catch her securely by her upper arms, bringing her to a halt right in front of the workbench. Her small hands instantly go out, her fingers aiming directly for a row of freshly oiled Allen keys resting dangerously close to the steel edge.
I catch her wrists smoothly, redirecting her hands down to her sides before she can make contact. “What are the rules of the bench?”
“Don’t touch the metal unless you’re invited,” she recites, entirely unbothered by the restriction.
She grins up at me, missing a front tooth, her cheeks still flushed a bright pink from the brisk autumn air outside.
Her strawberry blond hair is in two ponytails on either side of her head, her brown eyes fixed on me.
She’s a very energetic six-year-old. “I want to help. Can I help fix the motorcycle?”
“You can absolutely help,” I tell her, shifting my weight to stand up, my knees protesting mildly at the motion. “But we’re not touching this one today. It’s got too many sharp edges exposed. Come with me.”
I keep one broad hand resting lightly on the center of her back, guiding her safely away from the half-disassembled touring bike and back out into the main showroom.
We walk past the customer, who glances over and offers a tight smile.
I nod back before stopping beside a vintage standard I finished restoring two weeks ago.
It sits near the cash register, positioned directly below a framed black-and-white photograph of a 1970s race bike I used to own back in the day.
I drop to one knee beside the front wheel of the display bike, patting the concrete right next to me. Rue instantly crouches down, mimicking my exact posture.
“Alright. The first thing we always do is check the air,” I say, holding the metal gauge out to her. “You remember how to hold it?”
She nods seriously, taking the gauge with both hands. She grips it like a baseball bat. I gently wrap my large fingers over hers, physically adjusting her grip until she is holding it securely in her right hand.
“Good. Now, take the cap off the valve stem,” I instruct, pointing a finger at the small black cap protruding from the rim.
She reaches out with her free hand, her small fingers twisting the cap off clumsily but effectively. She proudly holds the tiny piece of plastic up for me to see. I slip it into my pocket for safekeeping.
“Now, line the head of the gauge up straight with the stem,” I say, bringing my hands back over hers to carefully guide the motion. “You push down firmly. If it hisses loudly, you’re not pushing hard enough. Ready? Press.”
Rue pushes down. There is a brief, sharp hiss of escaping air before the rubber seal sets perfectly against the metal.
“Perfect,” I tell her, pulling our hands back. “Read the number right at the bottom edge.”
Rue squints aggressively at the tiny, embossed black numbers. “Three... zero. Thirty.”
“Thirty-two,” I correct gently. “Which means it needs a little air eventually, but it’s okay for now. You want to try it again on the back tire entirely by yourself?”
“Yes, Uncle!” she says, already scrambling up from the floor and practically running to the rear wheel.
I stand up. The side door opens again, much slower this time.
Maren steps into the shop, a large canvas tote bag slung heavily over one shoulder.
She looks entirely exhausted, but the warm contentment that naturally radiates from her is as present as ever.
She leans casually against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest as she watches Rue wrestle with the back tire’s valve cap.
My sister is beautiful. Her brown eyes are shining, and her curly hair is tied with a huge red bow.
“I swear, you spoil that kid rotten,” Maren says affectionately.
“Teaching a kid basic maintenance isn’t spoiling them,” I reply. I don’t look over at Maren. I keep my eyes securely focused on Rue, waiting for her to properly line up the gauge.
“It’s spoiling her because you charge grown men a hundred and fifty dollars an hour to teach them what you teach her every day for free,” Maren points out, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward the small back office where she sometimes waits.
“She has an exclusive family discount,” I note, walking toward Rue just as she successfully pops the gauge onto the back tire.
“Thirty-six!” Rue announces loudly, displaying the gauge like a trophy.
“Good job. Put the cap back on,” I instruct, waiting until she carefully threads the plastic cap back onto the metal stem.
I offer her my open palm, and she proudly drops the tire gauge into it.
I ruffle her hair lightly, letting her know the task is complete.
“Go wash your hands in the back. Your mom brought a snack, I guarantee it.”
Rue takes off down the hallway toward the bathroom without arguing.
I slide the gauge back into my front pocket and turn toward the customer at the front window. He clears his throat, finally ready to engage.
“Is the fuel injection on this model totally rebuilt, or just tuned?” he asks, gesturing loosely toward the bobber.
“Totally rebuilt,” I answer. My tone shifts slightly.
It retains the exact same calm cadence I just used with my niece, but it replaces the fatherly warmth with absolute professional authority.
“New throttle bodies, matched injectors. We completely remapped the ECU to account for the aftermarket exhaust. It pulls cleanly through the entire rev range. No hesitation whatsoever.”
He nods slowly, looking suitably impressed. “I might come back this weekend to take another look.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” I tell him, stopping a few feet away. “Shop opens at nine on Saturdays.”
He offers a wave and pushes through the heavy glass front door.
Maren bundles Rue into her coat, promising they will see me for dinner on Sunday, and leaves the shop.
Their departure makes the space instantly feel too large.
It feels cavernous. I walk to the front of the showroom and manually throw the deadbolt on the heavy glass door.
I flip the illuminated ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ and walk slowly down the center aisle.
I reach the master switch panel near the bathroom hallway and kill the main fluorescents. The shop falls into a heavy quiet.
I walk over to the bench and pull out my stool. I sit down heavily and pull my phone from my pocket. I unlock the screen. I open the browser. The tab is already open. I visit it almost every night. And I hate it.
It is a community forum and profile-matching site, built specifically for the Daddy/little dynamic.
It’s an incredibly thorough platform. It isn’t a place for quick encounters.
I lean my elbows heavily on the edge of the steel bench and begin to scroll.
I move my thumb without any real urgency.
The interface is clean, displaying short summary blocks of people looking for a Caregiver.
I read the text, filtering out the performative submissions, searching for the truth in the words.
I know how to construct an environment that makes another human being feel completely protected from the world.
I want to build that structure for someone.
I have absolutely no one of my own to take care of in an intimate sense.
I want a Little to anchor me just as much as they need me to anchor them.
My thumb remains hovering over the glass.
I can’t do it. The format fundamentally defeats the purpose.
Connecting with someone through a screen feels totally alien to me.
I tap the icon at the top of the screen, navigating to my own profile.
It is completely filled out. I spent three hours writing it, carefully selecting the exact words necessary to convey the grounded, classic Daddy archetype I naturally inhabit.
I listed my boundaries clearly. I explained exactly what kind of emotional presence I am capable of providing. The profile is flawless.
I tap the icon next to it, opening my messages. My sent folder is entirely, completely empty. The search has been going on for months, but nothing online has ever moved past this exact, stalled point.
I close the browser tab abruptly. I press the power button and set the phone face-down on the cold metal surface of the bench.
I exhale slowly.
Then I hear it. The side door handle rattles sharply, turning before I even have the chance to stand up. I don’t reach for a weapon, and I don’t call out a challenge. Only three people use that entrance without knocking first, and two of them went home half an hour ago.
Ni steps into the shop, letting the heavy door pull itself shut behind them.
He’s wearing his leather Redline MC cut over a thick, faded gray hoodie.
His beard is longer than I remember, his hair in a ponytail.
Without any preamble, he crosses the concrete and drops heavily onto the empty stool stationed at the corner of my workbench.
“I knew you’d still be working late,” he says, as if he’s scored something.
“I’m pacing myself,” I answer, still feeling a little melancholic about my failed search.
“Let’s grab a beer?” he asks. I consider it for a moment and decide to do it. It’d do me good.
We both grab our bikes outside and go to our favorite bar down the road. It is a simple place where other bikers gather.
After we’re sitting with our bottles, the conversation starts perfectly smoothly, as always, with bikes.
Ni is fiercely loyal, deeply tied to his ride-or-die crew at Redline MC.
We talk for ten minutes about a blown tire on the interstate, an upcoming track day, and the rapidly dropping autumn temperatures.
Then, Ni shifts. He leans slightly forward on the stool, resting their chin briefly on their hand.
“You should come this Friday,” Ni says. “You can find a Little there.”
That sentence hits me. He knows I’m into kink. He is too. A lot of people in Redline MC are.
“They’re all good people, Soren. Everybody there rides. It’s very low-key. No one gives a shit about performing for anyone else. You just show up, get a drink, and exist.”
It is not a sales pitch. It’s true. I look thoughtfully at my bottle. I was never one for crowds. I’ve refused this same offer at least five times before.
But tonight, my faith in finding a dynamic online is wavering, and my solitude feels immense.
“They keep it totally locked down. The vetting process is strict. Trust me, nobody gets through that door who hasn’t earned the right to be in the room,” Ni says. He knows me. He knows he’s getting closer to an affirmative answer than he has ever been before.
Slowly, my gaze drops to my phone. I think about the months of waiting for something to feel real enough to actually pursue. I realize, quite suddenly, that I am tired of waiting in the dark.
I look back at Ni.
“Yeah, alright,” I say.
Ni nods. He doesn’t smile widely, he doesn’t congratulate me on the choice, and he doesn’t demand further confirmation. That is exactly why I like him so much. He simply accepts me as I am.