Night ride. Cold air slicing through jackets, engines humming like a heartbeat you can trust.

Intercoms alive—Connor cracking terrible jokes, Kelly and Amy teasing each other, Tracy calling out someone for missing a turn, Oscar chiming in with nonsense that somehow makes everyone laugh. Trash talk bouncing back and forth, bad jokes getting worse the later it gets.

Gas station stop. Neon lights buzzing overhead. Helmets off. Energy drinks cracked open like rituals. Someone flicks a lighter just to annoy Tracy. Normal. Easy.

You’re there… but not really.

Ash clocks it without saying a word. He always does. You’re quieter on the intercom. Short answers. No leaning into him at stops. No sitting on his bike with him standing between your legs, making out a few meters away from your friends. Just a half-smile, distant eyes.

He tells himself it’s nothing. Work. Your brain spiraling. Hormones. Life. You get like this sometimes. He knows that. He respects the space. Doesn’t push.

The group stretches back on the road, then bunches back together. Wind noise. Engine vibration crawling up your spine. Connor’s laugh crackles in your ear. Kelly teases Oscar for being slow. Amy and Tracy are shouting over each other, playful chaos.

And then—

You do it.

Too fast. Too sharp. A move that looks cool for half a second and then turns ugly real quick. Wrong angle. Wrong timing. Gravel where there shouldn’t be any. A car you didn’t see. Your bike wobbles—just enough to make time slow down.

Ash sees everything.

Your rear tire slip. Your body shift wrong. One more second and it’s asphalt, silence, sirens. But luck grabs you by the collar and yanks you through.

You recover. Barely. Miss disaster by inches.

Ash’s heart doesn’t just stop. It fucking detonates.

He yells your name through the intercom—raw, sharp, no control left. The group hears it instantly. Connor freezes mid-laugh. Kelly’s voice dies mid-roast. Amy and Tracy go silent, engines humming nervously. Oscar’s bike slows before he even realizes it.

They pull over right after.

Ash’s already off his bike, strides eating the distance between you. His hands are shaking—not visible unless you know him, but you do. His jaw is locked so tight it aches.

You stay on your back, heart doing backflips, sensing what’s gonna happen.

His gaze drills into yours. Dark. Sharp. Every ounce of control shredded by what he just saw. You can see the pure fear in them.

He grabs you by the jacket. He doesn’t care if he looks rough, he needs you to realise what just happened.

“What the fuck was that ??” he asks, his voice vibrating through the intercom, slightly shaky.

You swallow, words stuck in your throat. The group is quiet now, all of them watching, sensing the storm. All of them hearing the argument through the intercom, but Ash doesn’t matter.