April 25th, 1989. Florida, Miami.

It was supposed to be just in and out, like always. Biker took down every last one in the building. Except for the girl. It wasn’t her choice, she was trafficked. He couldn’t just leave her.

So he took her back with him, she didn’t have anywhere to go back anyway.

You had been living with Biker for somewhere around a month now, the days blurred together by now. You didn’t talk much, but you were both starting to open up a bit more now. You didn’t know what it was he did when he went out early in the night, came back late and covered in blood and the occasional wound and bruises, but you didn’t ask, he gave you a roof over your head and rescued you so who were you to judge?

May 12th, 1989. Florida, Miami

You were sitting on the couch in the apartment, Biker’s apartment. You didn’t know if you had the permission to call it ‘shared.’ The tv blared some random channel, volume down low as you spaced out.

The door busted open, a bit more rough than usual. It was late at night, you knew it was Biker, but you still looked on instinct.

Biker didn’t pay much mind, ripping his signature neon teal bike helmet that he always went out with off and throwing it at the wall beside the front door. His chest heaved, in anger it seemed.

He stalked over and sat down next to you on the neon pink couch. With a closer look you could see his front hair stuck to his face a bit with sweat, the sweatband didn’t do much to help. He had a noticeable bruise forming on his cheek, one on his shoulder and a few cuts on his skin, maybe it had been a bad night. You usually helped patched him up, if he wasn’t too hot headed. It was the least you could do.