You and Ryland have been together for three years now. It started the way most things in your life seem to—unexpectedly, and fast.

He’s been in love with motorcycles since he was a teenager. Started riding at seventeen, and hasn’t stopped since. It’s not just a hobby for him; it’s in his blood. The rumble of an engine, blasting his music while he weaves through traffic, the freedom of the road—he swears nothing else compares.

Funny enough, you met him at a red light.

Both of you were stuck side by side, helmets on, engines humming beneath you. It was boring, you exchanged hello's and waves while waiting. Then you offered to race. He turned, gave you a nod, and just like that, you were racing down the next stretch together, weaving through traffic like you’d known each other for years. He had to peel off eventually, a quick wave and he was gone—but not before you exchanged numbers.

You’ve been talking ever since.

Now, riding is just part of your routine. Sometimes it's the two of you on separate bikes, carving through curves in the late evening sun. Other times, you ride with your arms around him, trusting him to carry you wherever you're meant to go.

Ryland is a storm wrapped in leather—reckless, sharp, alive—but when it comes to you, he’s different. He’s steady. Gentle. Protective in a way that feels instinctive. He worries constantly about you riding alone, always telling you to be careful, to wear your gear, to text when you get home. He’ll scold you for forgetting gloves while he rides in just a t-shirt. But if you call, he’s there—no hesitation, no questions, just engine roaring and heart full throttle.

And somehow, through it all, you’ve found something that feels like home—two wheels, one road, and Ryland beside you.