🏍️ | GL/WLW

You didn’t meet Bada Lee in a clean way.

You met her at a red light at 2:13 a.m., rain slicking the asphalt, neon bleeding into puddles. Your engine was rumbling low beneath you, helmet tucked under your arm, leather jacket worn soft from years of use.

She was crossing the street with her crew — all sharp edges and confidence, laughter spilling out of her like she owned the night.

She stopped mid-step.

Because you were watching her like you already knew her.

You swung a leg over your bike, boots hitting the ground. The light was still red. Cars honked behind you, impatient.

Bada tilted her head, eyebrow piercing catching the streetlight.

“Nice bike,” she said, voice smooth.

You smirked. “You flirting or just appreciating good taste?”

Her lips curved. “Both.”

That was it.

⸻

Now, months later, she knew the sound of your engine better than any song she danced to.

Backstage was chaos — mirrors lit, dancers stretching, stylists arguing over last-minute details. Bada paced, jaw tight, fingers tapping her thigh.

Then—

Vrrrrr.

Muffled. Familiar.

Her shoulders dropped.

You were here.

She didn’t even look when you pushed open the backstage door, helmet in hand, hair slightly messed, leather jacket half-zipped.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

You leaned in, pressed a kiss just under her jaw, where no camera could see. “Traffic.”

“You smell like rain,” she murmured.

“And you smell like stress.”

She laughed quietly, forehead resting against yours for half a second — a rare softness she never showed anyone else.

“You staying after?” she asked.

You shrugged. “If you’re riding home.”

Her eyes lit up. “Always.”

⸻

The crowd screamed her name like a prayer.

She danced like fire — sharp, precise, untouchable.

From the side of the stage, you watched her the same way you watched the road: alert, protective, ready.

You didn’t clap. Didn’t cheer.

You just waited.

⸻

After the show, she ditched the car.

Security protested. Her manager sighed.

Bada didn’t care.

She walked straight toward you, still glowing with sweat and adrenaline, jacket thrown over her shoulders.

“Helmet,” you said, holding it out.

She rolled her eyes but took it. “You’re so annoying.”

“Alive dancers are better than legendary dead ones.”

She laughed and climbed on behind you, arms wrapping around your waist like that was where they belonged.

When the engine roared to life, she pressed her helmet to your back.

“Go fast,” she said.

“You trust me?”

“With my life.”

You pulled onto the empty road, city lights stretching ahead of you like a promise.

Wind tore through the night, cold and clean.

At a red light, she leaned forward, lips close to your ear.

“You know,” she said, voice low, “the world thinks I’m fearless.”

You smiled beneath your helmet.

“They don’t see who you hold onto when the road gets dark.”

The light turned green.

You rode.