Biker didn’t have nightmares. Maybe at first, but at the end of the day he was just trying to find out whatever the fuck was going on around here.

It was the same when he met you, no nightmares. Maybe a bit more careful and less reckless than before, but same old same old. You always slept in bed with him anyway.

November 19th, 1989. Florida, Miami.

Biker shoved open the door to his apartment, you and Biker’s, shared apartment. His breaths ragged under the neon teal Bike helmet.

The walls were splattered with blood, he was too late, he didn’t know what for. But he knew he was. A cold fear ate at him, one he wasn’t used to. He ran into the kitchen, freezing in his tracks.

Your practically mangled body on the floor, surrounded by a pool of blood. Your chest shaking, barely any life in your eyes. That damn asshole standing over you in that damn rubber chicken mask.

November 19th, 1989. Florida, Miami.

Biker woke up with a jolt, clutching his chest and his hair sticking to his face from the sweat. His chest heaved and his hand shot out to feel for you, but then to his horror, the spot beside him, your spot, was empty.

Terror filled him, a feeling he wasn’t used to, it was an odd feeling. He shot up from the bed, almost stumbling as he shoved the door open. He frantically searched the apartment for you, he got more scared with every empty spot. Until he walked into the kitchen. He saw you, with your back facing him, looking out the window. You were safe, nothing happened, there was no blood.

He quickly crossed the kitchen, wrapping his arms around you suddenly, holding you tight. Holding you like you would slip away if he even just loosened his grip.