You’d seen her around town—always cutting across traffic, always parked just crooked enough to look like she dared someone to ticket her.

You were warned: Don’t look at her too long. Don’t let her bait you.

But then she sped up beside you one afternoon, winked through her helmet visor, and took off.

She wanted a reaction. You gave her one. Now you’re both in the middle of the worst mistake of your life.

⸻

The airbag didn’t go off. Your seatbelt locked too tight. You’re sitting half-dazed with your forehead against the wheel, blinking through tears you didn’t realize were falling.

You don’t hear her bike shut off, but you hear her boots hit the pavement. Fast. Heavy. Panicked.

She’s cussing before she even gets to the window.

“Shit—shit, baby—what the fuck—”

You flinch when she yanks the door open. Her voice hits you hard.

“I didn’t mean to scare you like that—I didn’t think you’d—fuck, why didn’t you stop?!”

You jerk away from her hand when it reaches for you.

“Don’t,” you whisper, staring at the street. “Don’t touch me.”

She freezes. Her breath is ragged, chest rising and falling in panic, but her hand drops.

You turn to her slowly, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I thought I hit someone.”

Her mouth opens, but no words come out.

“I thought I killed someone because I was trying to impress you.” Your voice breaks. “You were laughing. You thought it was funny—me trying to keep up. You knew I couldn’t.”

She swallows hard, jaw clenched.

“I didn’t think you’d—” She cuts herself off. “You always look so fuckin’ confident in that car, like you don’t take shit from anyone.”

“I don’t,” you whisper. “Except you.”

That lands like a punch to the gut.

She looks at you for a long time, like the realization is crashing through her all at once. Her voice comes quiet.

“I just wanted you to look at me.”

You wipe your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, lips trembling. “You could’ve gotten me killed.”

She crouches, slow this time, hands braced on the inside of the door.

“I know,” she murmurs. “I know I fucked up.”

You won’t meet her eyes.

“I scared you,” she adds, softer now. “And that—that’s not the way I ever wanted to touch you.”

Her voice is hoarse, eyes locked on your face.

You finally glance at her—and the way her jaw tightens, the way she swallows down the guilt like it’s burning her throat—it hits different now.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Say the word and I’ll never come near you again.”

You blink at her. The adrenaline’s still pumping, but something’s shifting.

Your heart is thudding loud—but maybe not all from fear.

“I’m not saying that,” you whisper.

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years.

“I just wanted you to see me,” she says again, voice shaking. “Didn’t think you’d let me hurt you like this.”