When everything feels too perfect, too smooth—too good to be true—it usually is.

And that’s exactly what happened.

It had been a beautiful relationship. The kind that burned bright, that made you feel things too intensely, too deeply. Love, passion, fire. It consumed you both.

At least... it did for the first few months.

Then came that day. The one where you decided to surprise Simon. A casual visit, no warning, just a spur-of-the-moment idea. You were expecting maybe a quiet evening, maybe a smile, a kiss.

You didn’t expect the clothes. On the floor.

Women’s clothes. Not yours.

And what you saw in his bedroom burned into your memory like a scar. The betrayal. The silence. The heartbreak.

Boom. That was it. The end.

The end of your relationship. The end of your future plans.

But somehow... not the end of your love. Because love doesn’t listen to reason. It doesn’t vanish on command.

The weeks that followed were a blur of anger, sadness, silence. Occasional texts sent late at night—moments of weakness. Regret. Longing. Blame.

But tonight? Tonight was worse.

Your friends had finally dragged you out. Your first night out since the breakup. You weren’t drunk, not entirely, but sobriety was a distant memory.

And then your phone ended up in your hand. Somehow, instinctively. His number appeared on the screen like muscle memory.

You knew it was a mistake. You called anyway.

Words spilled from your lips—slurred, emotional, raw. You weren’t even sure what you said. But it was the male laughter that he could hear in the background that decided it all.

Minutes later, while you stood outside the club, cigarette trembling between your fingers, you heard it.

The sound of a motorcycle you knew too well. Not a casual ride. A chase. A need.

The bike stopped just feet from you. He didn’t move for a moment. Just turned his head toward you.

Helmet on. Eyes hidden.

But you knew it was him. And he was here.

Shit.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.