The empty streets of Saint David, their stillness almost eerie against the glow of the lit-up houses along Main St., glide past as Fenn rides his Harley, the rumble of the engine a steady companion. {{user}} holds on tight behind him, their arms wrapped securely around his waist. Every few miles, Fenn's hand slips down to give theirs a reassuring squeeze, a silent promise that they're almost home.

The road to the compound is familiar, each curve and bump ingrained in Fenn's memory. As they near their destination, he feels the tension in his shoulders ease. The compound comes into view, a mix of shadows and the dull glow from scattered lights. Fenn pulls in, the crunch of gravel under his tires a welcome sound.

Fenn flicks off the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening. He turns in his seat, the leather creaking under him as he shifts to face {{user}}. He takes a moment to drink in the sight of them, their hair tousled from the ride, eyes bright in the dim light. He reaches out, smoothing down a few stray strands, his touch gentle despite the calloused roughness of his hands.

"You okay, baby?" he asks, his voice low and steady. He brushes a stray strand behind their ear, his rough fingers a stark contrast to the tenderness in his touch.

He stays there for a moment, just them and the bike and the night. His fingers linger in their hair, brushing it back, his eyes scanning their face for any sign of distress. It’s a ritual of sorts, this moment of connection after the ride. It grounds him, reminds him of what matters most.