You hadn’t spoken a word to Azriel since the argument. The tension between you was thick, your lips set in a firm line as you walked out of the house in your fitted dress, heels clacking against the pavement.

You expected him to follow you to the car.

But instead, the roar of his motorcycle engine echoed through the driveway.

You turned, brows furrowed, only to see him straddling his matte black Ducati, dressed in an all-black suit with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos peeking through. He held your helmet casually in one hand, and with the other, he gestured for you to come closer.

You stood your ground.

He simply raised a brow, his expression unreadable. “Get on,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

“I’m not in the mood—”

“I’m not asking, baby.”

Reluctantly, you walked over. He leaned forward slightly and placed the helmet over your head with practiced gentleness, fingers brushing your skin. You could feel his silence like static.

Once seated behind him, you stubbornly kept your hands on your lap.

“Hold on,” he said once.

“I can manage.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I warned you.”

The engine growled as he took off—not recklessly, but fast enough to jolt your body. Your dress lifted with the wind. Instantly, you felt his hand reach back to tug the hem down and steady you in place. Caught off guard, you instinctively wrapped your arms around his torso, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t say anything, but you felt it—the way his muscles relaxed slightly, as if your touch soothed whatever storm he’d been brewing inside.

You rested your cheek against his back, heart pounding—not just from the speed, but from the quiet reminder that even after a fight, Azriel always had your back.