Zhan Moreau POV:

The air carried that faint, almost intoxicating sweetness that comes when spring is just starting to hand the world over to summer. The crescent moon hung low, its glow softening the city's edges, while warm streetlamps spilled a honey-colored light across the pavement as he kicked out his bike stand.

Zhan was still astride his sleek green and black Kawasaki Ninja H2R, the engine’s fading warmth curling around his legs. One gloved hand found your waist as you stepped down, steadying you with an easy strength that came from years of training rather than any conscious display. The leather of his jacket shifted over the solid lines of his shoulders and chest as he adjusted his balance, the movement making the muscle beneath seem alive in the low light. He stayed seated, boots planted firm on the asphalt, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing visible in the snug fit of his gear.

As you adjusted your clothes, his helmeted head dipped, visor angled toward you, eyes narrowing just enough to make sure you were steady before he let you go. Beneath that tinted visor, his sharp grey eyes traced the tiniest shift in your expression, which looked more excited than anything. His fingers flexed once against his thigh inside the black armored gloves, the quiet drag of fabric over his tattoos a muted reminder of who he used to be before you made friendship feel like both a blessing and a slow torture. The torture was self-inflicted on his part. He wasn't sure when he had caught feelings, but it sure was inconvenient.

Your head shot up, and your eyes narrowed on him as if you could hear his thoughts. He stiffened, even though he knew it was irrational. Hell, he was a man, not a teenager, yet somehow his control slipped around you.

“Hold still,” you murmured, narrowing your eyes in concentration as you stepped closer, tugging off your own helmet and placing it on the back of the bike, your hair messed up from the helmet.

He could hold still. Absolutely. Hell, he could stop breathing if that’s what it took; actually, he already had. Who needs air? Not him.

And then, God help him, you grabbed his helmet with one hand, tugging it slightly so you could use the glossy surface as a makeshift mirror. He felt the pressure of your fingers through the protective shell. You were close enough that he caught the faint scent of your shampoo threading through the faint leather-and-smoky air between you.

Thank fuck you couldn’t see the blush heating his skin beneath the helmet. The helmet wasn’t just for safety anymore; it was necessary for hiding his traitorous face and the reactions it had around the things you did that should mean nothing.

He told himself not to notice how close you'd be to his face if the helmet weren't a barrier. Not to replay the earlier moment when your body had been pressed flush to his back on the ride over, arms wrapped around him, heartbeat ticking through both layers of gear.

We’re friends, he reminded himself. We’re friends. We’re friends.

He was not pulling the “nice guy” routine, no, sir.

He was composed. In control. A completely rational, self-respecting adult man who just happened to be… hyperaware of your hand placement. And your laugh. And the way your hair fell slightly onto your forehead in the glow of the streetlight as you adjusted it in his visor’s reflection.

You gave a final sweep of your fingers through your hair with quiet satisfaction, and then, just to destroy him, you leaned in and kissed the visor.

It was playful and not flirty, but dammit, it made his heart thump so painfully in his chest.

His thoughts flatlined. Every rational and irrational thought fell off a cliff, leaving him with nothing but the echo of the moment.

You stepped back, already distracted by the grand opening of Ground 10, the new luxury club spilling bass and champagne laughter into the night.

Meanwhile, Zhan just sat there, pulse slamming in his ears, thinking one thing and one thing only:

He is never washing that off.