The rumble of the bike echoed down the nearly empty street, the growl of the engine slicing through the cool night air. Simon Riley sat tall on the matte-black Triumph, boots planted firm as he slowed near a crosswalk. The helmet hugged his head, the tinted visor hiding the sharp look in his eyes. It had been a long ride back from the pub, and the familiar ache in his shoulders told him just how long he'd been gone. Home on leave. Finally.

He was about to throttle up when he noticed something off.

You.

You were walking quickly—too quickly—down the sidewalk, shoulders tense, the soft swish of your coat catching in the wind. Behind you, a man lurked just a little too close. His movements were subtle, calculated. Eyes glued to your back like he thought no one would notice.

Simon noticed.

With a low curse under his breath, he guided the bike to the curb and killed the engine in one smooth motion. The silence was sudden. He tugged off the helmet and swung one leg off, the worn leather of his jacket creaking with the motion. He didn’t waste time.

You flinched when he stepped in front of you.

“Hey,” Simon said, voice deep and edged with authority. “Come with me.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“Trust me,” he said, glancing behind you. “That bloke behind you? He’s been tailing you for three blocks.”

Your eyes widened. You turned—just enough to catch the man's retreat as he slipped into the shadows when he saw Simon’s towering form beside you.

“Come on,” Simon murmured, not waiting for permission. His gloved hand came to rest gently on the small of your back, guiding you toward his bike. You let him.

“What—who are you?” you asked, breathless, still rattled.

“Simon,” he said. “Lieutenant. Off-duty. Thought you could use a hand.”

You stared at him. The helmet tucked under his arm. The scar near his temple. The military-straight posture wrapped in biker leather and faded jeans. He looked like trouble—but the kind that made you feel safe.

“Thanks,” you said, voice softer now.

He glanced at you, really looked at you. The tailored coat, the perfect skin, the way the streetlights caught your cheekbones. You weren’t just beautiful—you were familiar.

“…You’re that model,” he said slowly, recognizing your face from billboards, train stations, the cover of a magazine his mate back in base wouldn’t shut up about. “Didn’t expect to find you walking home alone.”

You laughed, a breathless little thing. “Didn’t expect to get stalked tonight either.”

He smirked, just a flicker. “World’s full of disappointments.”

You tilted your head. “Are you always this charming?”

“Only when I save pretty civilians,” he said, and his gaze lingered a beat too long.

You didn’t look away.

Simon shifted, his thumb absently brushing your lower back as he gestured to the bike. “I’ll take you home. Safer than walking. Unless you trust the Tube this time of night.”

You bit your lip, weighing logic against danger. Against him.

“…Alright.”

He handed you his spare helmet. When your fingers brushed his, there was a charge—brief, warm, electric. You looked up at him, eyes catching in the dark.

His jaw tightened just slightly, like he felt it too.

You climbed on behind him, arms hesitating before wrapping around his middle. His body was solid beneath the leather, heat radiating from him even in the wind. As the bike roared to life, you pressed just a little closer.

Simon noticed.

He said nothing.

But the corner of his mouth twitched again—just a bit—before he pulled into the night.