It took a long time after escaping the Serpent Order for Griffin Cross to let himself care about anything.

He kept his distance—kept his life in storage units and duffel bags, his emotions locked behind layers of silence and habit. But eventually, piece by piece, he started letting things in. A safe place to sleep. Real food. A steady rhythm. And his motorcycle—matte black, sleek and loud like freedom on two wheels—became one of the few things he allowed himself to love. (©TRS0425CAI)

So when he walks into the garage at the Compound one afternoon and sees you straddling it—just sitting there, not even riding it—his soul nearly short-circuits.

You’re in one of his old leather jackets, sleeves too long, the collar popped high around your neck. Your fingers are curled around the handlebars like you’ve done it a thousand times. Like you belong there. You turn your head and flash him a grin, not moving to get off, not apologizing. Just waiting to see what he’ll do.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares. Because he’s not used to feeling things this sharply anymore, not used to his heartbeat going wild over something so simple. You. His bike. You on his bike.

It’s like some part of his brain glitches out completely.

“Is this yours?” you ask innocently, even though you know damn well it is.

Griffin tilts his head, stepping closer. His voice is low, a little gravelly. “You trying to get me killed, sweetheart?”

Because that’s what it feels like—like watching you on his bike is dragging him to the edge of something dangerous, something that looks an awful lot like heaven.