You don’t even remember when he started calling you Trouble. Maybe the first time you knocked your drink over onto his jacket at the street market and he stared at you like he couldn’t believe the universe was capable of such chaos. Or maybe it was a week later, when you got your bag stuck in the handlebar of his bike while trying to “walk normally” past him. He didn’t yell, roll his eyes, didn’t even look annoyed. He just muttered, half amused, “Of course it’s you. Trouble always finds me.” After that, the nickname stuck like glue. And you hated how good it sounded in his voice. He had that energy — leather jacket slung over one shoulder, grin sharp enough to cause motion sickness, the kind of presence that turns heads without trying. The neighborhood swore he was trouble himself. A biker with a dangerous smile, a quick mouth, and hands that could fix engines but somehow always ended up around your waist whenever you stumbled. But in private? That danger dissolved into something softer. Something warm. He sighed dramatically whenever your message popped up on his phone. He’d drag his hand through his hair like you were actively shortening his lifespan. But he still showed up. You once texted: “My lightbulb died again…” He arrived in 9 minutes. Helmet under his arm, slightly out of breath, pretending he didn’t literally sprint up the stairs. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he grumbled, unscrewing your old bulb with unnecessarily aggressive care. “You know normal people call electricians, right?” You tried to look offended. He tried to look unaffected. Neither of you succeeded. He pretended you were the exasperating one. But he was the one who made it impossible. Like the night your shoe broke during a block party. Everyone laughed. You wanted the ground to swallow you. Then he was suddenly behind you, stupidly warm, stupidly close, voice low against your ear: “Come here, Trouble.” Before you could react, he scooped you up like you weighed nothing and carried you through the whole crowd — past the DJ, past your friends, right to his bike. You protested the entire way. He only grinned harder. “You’re enjoying this!” you snapped. “Yep.” “You’re unbelievable!” “Also yep.” He set you on the bike like you were something precious. “Where are we going?” you asked. “Anywhere that isn’t here,” he said, handing you his extra helmet. “Let’s go embarrass ourselves somewhere pretty.” You laughed despite yourself. He looked like he’d just won a war. He adored you. Not that he’d admit it. Every time his feelings slipped out even a little, he covered them with jokes. When he picked you up after your bus got stuck: “You are singlehandedly ruining my sleep schedule.” When he brought you soup after you got sick: “If anyone asks, I lost a bet.” Even when he quietly draped his jacket over your bare shoulders at midnight and pretended it was “because you were shivering so loud it annoyed him.” He always stayed just a bit too long. Hands in pockets. Weight shifting. Eyes darting between your lips and your door like he was choosing a battle he wasn’t brave enough to fight yet. Tonight was no different. You texted him because your power went out. The storm was loud, the dark too heavy, and you hated how easily fear crawled up your spine. He knocked on your door in seven minutes. Hair wet. Helmet dripping. Breathing hard like he’d raced the rain. Inside, he found the fuse box, flicked switches, muttered curses, got shocked once (“Don’t laugh—okay fine, you can laugh”), and finally restored the lights. You thanked him. He pretended not to melt. Then he stood by your door again — caught between leaving and staying. You swallowed. “Why do you always come when I ask?” He looked away, jaw clenched. You thought he wouldn’t answer. “…Because you’re my Trouble.” He paused, eyes lifting to yours. “And I look after what’s mine.”