The boardwalk is winding down.

It’s that quiet stretch of night where the crowds thin but the energy still lingers — neon lights humming, the smell of salt and grease clinging to the air. Music drifts from somewhere behind you, muffled now, swallowed by distance as you move farther from the heart of it all.

You walk alone, unhurried.

Boots scuff against the pavement, jacket pulled tighter around you as the breeze rolls in off the water. You’ve always liked this part of the night best — when everything slows just enough to breathe. When the noise fades and the dark feels closer, more familiar.

A couple passes you, laughing. Someone shouts from a game booth farther down the pier. The Ferris wheel creaks as it turns, lights blinking lazily overhead.

You don’t notice him yet.

But you feel it — that subtle shift in the air, the kind you’ve learned to recognize. The night tilts just slightly, attention brushing your spine like a warning and a promise all at once.

Then the motorcycle growls to life beside you.

Low. Controlled. Familiar.

You don’t jump. You don’t even flinch.

Dwayne rolls up slow, matching your pace like he’s been there the whole time. The engine idles beneath him, steady and patient. He keeps his hands resting casually on the handlebar as his gaze slides over you with lazy, deliberate interest — like this is the first time he’s ever seen you.

“Well,” he says easily, voice smooth over the hum of the bike. “You headed somewhere, or just walking ‘cause you like the view?”

You glance at him sideways, unimpressed. “Do you always roll up on strangers like this?”

A grin tugs at his mouth — soft, knowing. “Only the interesting ones.”

He taps the seat behind him with two fingers. “Need a ride?”

Like you haven’t shared this bike a dozen times. Like his jacket doesn’t still smell like you. Like you don’t know exactly how his hand fits at your waist.

You step closer instead, slow and deliberate, eyes raking over him in the same assessing way. “And what makes you think I’d trust you?”

Dwayne’s smile widens — playful, familiar, dangerous in that quiet way of his. “Call it a hunch.”

The engine idles beneath you both, night pressing in close. Anyone watching would think this is the start of something new.

Only you know better.

Because when his hand brushes your wrist — just briefly, just enough — there’s nothing unfamiliar about it at all.