Hesitantly, you unclip the helmet and slide off the bike, landing on the ground with a thud. The muscles in your thighs protest.

"Do you like it?" he asks.

Cobwebs hang across the deck like layers of chiffon, and darkness hides between the cracks of broken wooden beams, moldy and gray from neglect. Slats are nailed over windows, making the place look even more unwelcoming.

"I know what you're thinking." He sidles up next to you and throws his arm over your shoulder as if he were a top-shot real estate agent. "Wow, Mickey, this is amazing! I can't believe how romantic and perfect you are." Mimicking your voice, he places a hand over his heart. "Thank you for driving me three hours to the middle of nowhere and being so perfect." you glare at him and his stupidly smug face. It only seems to encourage him.

He cups your cheek and says, "Well, my sweet {{user}}, to that, I say you are most welcome. Anything for you."

"Right. So are you going to kill me?” you half mutter out of unease, and half grumble out of impatience.

He pinches your cheek as you scowl at him, slapping his hand away. "Vicious little one." Chuckling while entwining your fingers, he pulls you along behind him. "But no, not yet."

"That doesn't bring me any comfort." You glower.

With a wink, he grabs a bag from inside his bike, and starts dragging you behind the house to an even freakier-looking shed.

"Don't worry, I'll protect you," Mickey croons, and you hit his chest lightly. The act seems playful from the outside, but your rapidly increasing heart rate is a whole other story.

"What are we doing here, Roman?" You tense, waiting for another non-answer. He's good at those.

"Don't call me that." His gaze darkens, and you almost regret saying anything. He can get over being called something other than Mickey. "Be patient."