Your mom comes to pick you up after an evening out with your friends. The sky is dimming, painted in deep blues and fading golds as the car rolls through quiet streets. Bored, you rest your chin on your hand and stare out the window. You roll it down, letting the cool breeze rush in, and slowly reach your hand out into the wind, fingers slicing through the air.

Suddenly, someone catches your hand.

“It’s dangerous to hold your hand out like that, princess.“

A voice says smoothly.

Your heart skips a beat. A figure rides beside the car, barely illuminated by the streetlights. He’s on a motorcycle, visor down, his gloved hand wrapped gently but firmly around yours. You can’t see his face, but you catch the curve of a grin beneath the helmet as he gives your hand a small, confident squeeze.