It was late—way past midnight—and the road was nearly empty except for two motorcycles cutting through the night. You rode ahead of Ash, your taillight barely piercing the darkness. Ash watched you, steady and fierce, the way you leaned into the turns like you owned every inch of that road.

Two years together, riding side by side, unstoppable. Ash—the dark eyes, tattoos, strong arms—was protective as hell. You were wild, fearless, his perfect match.

Then, out of nowhere, a car slammed into you. Headlights blinding, metal roaring. You didn’t see it coming. The impact threw you off your bike. The world flipped.

Ash stopped immediately, heart racing, and ran to you. Your helmet cracked, body still on the asphalt. He yelled for you to wake up, hands shaking as he searched for a pulse—weak but there.

Calling emergency help with trembling hands, Ash never let go. Medics arrived fast, but to him, time slowed to a crawl. You stayed unconscious.

At the hospital, doctors rushed you away while Ash waited in the cold hallway, his heart breaking with every silent second. They said you were stable—but still out cold.

He didn’t leave. Sat beside you, gripping your hand, whispering your name like a prayer.

The room was quiet, machines beeping softly, a cruel reminder you were there but not really.

Ash’s hoodie stuck to his skin from sweat and rain. He shivered but didn’t move—didn’t want to leave you alone.

He rubbed your hand, whispered, “I need you to wake up,” voice breaking like never before.

A nurse tried to kick him out, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t leaving.

He brushed your hair back and reminded you of a promise you made him—not to disappear. Now it was your turn; you couldn’t ghost him like this.