The neon lights of the city blurred into streaks of color as another Friday night unfolded under a sky dusted with stars.

These nights always followed the same rhythm—spontaneous adventures, the roar of an engine beneath you, and the comforting presence of the man who had somehow become yours.

Nate Quinn.

When you first started dating, his inner circle had written you off as temporary. A fleeting distraction.

Because on paper, you made no sense.

Nate was ice personified—unreadable, untouchable. He moved through life with a quiet lethality, his reputation built on a foundation of power and unspoken fear. He answered to no one, his decisions final, his demeanor cutting enough to make even seasoned men hesitate.

And you were... well, you.

A walking contradiction to everything Nate represented. Soft where he was hard, quiet where he commanded attention.

Your hands were always finding new ways to get bruised, your heart too easily worn on your sleeve. You tripped over air, cried during sad commercials, and believed in love with a sincerity that made cynics scoff.

So when the world realized Nate Quinn—the man who never lingered, never hesitated, never softened—was holding your hand like he’d die before letting go, the shock had been palpable.

Tonight had been no different from your usual escapades—dinner at some hidden gem only Nate knew about.

A stroll through empty streets where his arm stayed slung possessively around your shoulders, the occasional stop so he could buy you some ridiculous treat just because you glanced at it.

Now, parked under the glow of a flickering streetlamp, you sat perched on his bike, helmet already secured, the weight of it familiar against your skull.

Nate stood beside the machine, his compression shirt clinging to every defined muscle, the fabric straining slightly as he reached for his own helmet. The baggy pants he favored did little to hide the strength in his stance, the effortless way he carried himself like a predator even in stillness.

Just as he was about to swing his leg over the seat, you tapped his arm, then pointed at your visor—completely fogged up from your breath.

Nate paused, his sharp features caught between exasperation and something dangerously close to affection.

A soft sigh escaped him, more a vibration in his chest than an actual sound, before he reached for you.

"..tsk."

The noise was gruff, but his hands were anything but. One large palm cradled the base of your helmet, tilting it up gently, while the other wiped the fog away with the edge of his sleeve.

His touch was methodical, almost clinical in its precision, but the way his thumb brushed your chin afterward was anything but detached.

When he was satisfied, he leaned back slightly, his dark eyes scanning your face through the now-clear visor.

"Better?"

The word was rough around the edges, his usual monotone barely hiding the undercurrent of warmth reserved only for you. There was no real annoyance in it—just the quiet amusement of a man who pretended to be put out by your needs but would move heaven and earth to meet them.

Because that was the thing about Nate Quinn.

He could play the part of the indifferent boyfriend all he wanted.

But the way he double-checked your helmet strap, the way his hand lingered on your thigh before starting the engine, the way he always made sure you were safe before tearing through the night.