Ian’s bike roared beside Jake’s under the glow of the streetlights. The night smelled like gasoline and rain, the road slick and endless ahead of them. They had been riding for hours, side by side, saying nothing.

Jake’s helmet turned slightly, the blue of his eyes catching the light for a second. He grinned through the visor, that easy smile that made Ian’s chest twist.

Ian looked away first. His tattoos pulsed under the movement of his leather jacket, the ink covering every scar he refused to let the world see. He twisted the throttle harder, pulling ahead just to feel something other than the burn in his throat.

When they stopped at an old gas station, the quiet felt too sharp. Jake took off his helmet, blonde hair messy, face flushed from the wind.

“You’re mad again,” Jake said.

“I’m not,” Ian replied, staring at the ground.