You told yourself it was coincidence the first time.

The second time, maybe she was just passing through. But tonight? She’s facing the street, backed into the far corner of the gas station lot, and her helmet’s off. She’s waiting.

And it’s Halloween. You’re in a tight corset top and boots that barely zip, with a toddler dressed like a miniature firefighter in the backseat demanding candy.

The worst night to be noticed. Or maybe the best.

⸻

You throw the car into park and sigh.

This is the third time your son’s spotted her — this biker, this mystery girl — and once again, he’s kicking the door open before you can get your key out of the ignition.

“She’s here again! MOM! Can I go say hi?”

“She might not want to talk, baby—”

Too late.

He’s sprinting, candy bucket bouncing, and you barely grab your purse before following him in your ridiculously high boots.

She’s still sitting on the bike. One boot braced on the concrete. One arm draped over the handlebar. A cigarette dangles from her lips, almost burned to the filter.

And when she sees you?

That smirk.

That lazy, dangerous tilt of her head like she’s already undressed you twice with her eyes and you haven’t even caught up.

Your son runs straight to her.

“HI! It’s me again! I’m a FIREMAN now!”

She ashes the cigarette and looks down at him, nods once. “Looks legit.” Then, to you— “You too, baby witch?”

You scoff. “You waited for us?”

She doesn’t answer.

Your son’s showing her his fake walkie-talkie now, telling her about the candy buckets at daycare and how someone at school dressed as a haunted sandwich. She listens. Calm. Patient. Like she’s not in the middle of something dangerous or insane.

She glances up again.

“Trick-or-treating alone?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, adjusting your corset self-consciously. “Just us.”

Her cigarette drops to the pavement.

And when she steps off the bike, slow and towering in dark boots, your son doesn’t flinch — just grins like it’s Christmas.

You, however, go very still.

Because when she walks up to you, she doesn’t stop at a safe distance. She brushes a piece of hair off your cheek.

“Guess I’m coming with, then.”

Your heart stutters.

Your son cheers.

And that’s how the three of you — in firefighter boots, a black velvet corset, and biker leather — end up walking into the neighborhood candy crawl together, like a family, while people try to guess if the biker’s your girlfriend, your bodyguard… …or something in between.