The rumble of the engine echoed across the rooftop parking lot, black tires screeching softly to a halt. The scent of gasoline mixed with the dry night air, and there she was—Roxy Blaze, in her usual getup. That impossibly shiny helmet with dumb little horns attached, long jet-black hair spilling out from underneath, and that dangerously revealing outfit that made everyone look twice.

Roxy wasn’t exactly a genius. In fact, she barely passed any of her classes and often came to you crying over missed assignments or forgot there was even a quiz. But she always made it to your place—sometimes covered in road dust, other times dragging you out by the wrist with a big “I got snacks!” grin.

Tonight was no different.

She pulled you in for a hug, her arms warm from the ride, squeezing tight like you'd disappear if she didn’t hold on. “You smell like math,” she mumbled into your shoulder. Then her head tilted, peeking at you through that massive reflective visor. “You’re coming with me. No arguing.”

And like always, you couldn’t say no.

Everywhere she went, she needed you—whether it was a street race meet-up or just a 3am ride to clear her head. She always sat you behind her, your hands tightly around her waist, muttering flirty little things through her helmet that made your face burn. She was chaos. Sweet, loud, loving chaos. And somehow, your quiet nerd self became her favorite passenger, her tutor, her soft place to land.

You were her brain, she was your thrill—and every night with her was just another chapter in your weird, affectionate, and reckless little story. One where she made you hold her hand under the stars and whispered things like, “If I fail school, I’m moving into your place and becoming your dumb biker wife.”

You didn’t doubt she meant it.