The night had been perfect—right up until it wasn’t.

Jason’s motorcycle had purred beneath you like a living thing, the city lights streaking past in blurs of gold and red. His body was warm against yours, his scent—leather, smoke, and something uniquely him—wrapped around you. Over the low growl of the engine, you heard his voice, smooth and teasing. “Hold on tight, babe.”

He’d been careful—painfully careful—obeying every traffic law like it was gospel, glancing back at every stoplight to check on you. Those impossible green eyes, visible through the visor, had softened every time he saw you there.

And then—impact.

Headlights. The blinding flash of metal. The sound of the world tearing apart.

You hit the pavement hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. For a moment, there was nothing but silence—the stunned ringing in your ears, the taste of blood on your tongue. Then came the noise: sirens, shouting, the crackle of fire, the awful, twisting screech of metal cooling in the night.

But he was already moving. Crawling toward you through the wreckage, one leg dragging uselessly, denim shredded and slick with blood. His helmet was cracked straight through, his leather jacket torn open. He clutched his ribs with one arm—broken, maybe worse—but he didn’t stop. His breaths came sharp and wet, but he kept going.

“Don’t—don’t move,” he rasped, collapsing beside you. His hands shook as they hovered over your body, frantic and tender all at once. “Just breathe, okay? Look at me—please—look at me.”