The bar door creaks as you shove it open, relief washing over you the second the night air hits your face. Past midnight, the streets are quiet, only the hum of distant cicadas and the buzz of a flickering streetlight filling the silence. You’re bone-tired from the shift, smelling like beer and fryer grease, but at least you’re free.

Behind you, the door swings again. Heavy footsteps follow, steady, deliberate. You don’t even have to look to know who it is. Rafe Cameron. Kook prince, smug bastard, and the last person you want trailing you after work.

“You walkin’ home?” His voice cuts into the night, low and rough.

You keep walking. “Yeah. Why?”

He falls into step beside you, shoulders tense, expression unreadable in the half-light. “At this hour? No.”

You scoff, quick and sharp. “Pretty sure I don’t need your approval, Cameron.”

He tilts his head, jaw tightening. “Not approval. Common sense. Hop on.” He jerks his chin toward the motorcycle parked by the curb, gleaming under the dim glow.

You bark out a laugh. “You’ve officially lost it if you think I’m getting on that thing with you.”

“Not asking,” he says, voice like steel. “Get on.”

You bristle, every part of you screaming no. You hate him. You hate everything about him, his money, his arrogance, his stupid jawline. But then he holds out his helmet, the only one he’s got. Before you can argue again, he slides it over your head himself. His fingers brush your jaw as he pulls the strap beneath your chin, the faint scrape of his knuckles sending an unwelcome shiver down your spine. His touch is firm, steady, almost gentle in its precision, as if the world’s biggest jerk suddenly cares whether you make it home in one piece. His thumb lingers a second too long by your throat before he snaps the buckle closed.

The protest dies in your throat.

Rafe swings his leg over the bike, glances back once, waiting. You curse under your breath but climb on, arms stiff at your sides. The engine growls to life.

“Hold on,” he mutters.

You don’t want to. You really don’t. But as the bike surges forward, you’re forced to wrap your arms around his solid frame, clinging despite yourself.