The city was alive with motion.

Engines roared in the distance, neon signs flickered against the dusk, and the air carried that electric hum of something about to happen. You were walking along the edge of the street, lost in thought, the world blurring around you.

Then you heard it.

The low, unmistakable growl of a motorcycle slicing through the quiet.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Chuuya Nakahara—red hair whipping in the wind, coat trailing behind him like a flame, eyes locked on the road ahead. His motorcycle gleamed under the streetlights, sleek and fast, a blur of black and chrome.

Except it wasn’t headed for the road anymore.

It was headed for you.

“Oh, sh—”

He swerved hard, tires screeching against the pavement, but it was too late. The impact wasn’t violent, more like a shove from a storm. You stumbled, hit the ground, breath knocked out of you. The world spun for a second before settling.

You weren’t hurt.

Just stunned.

And then you heard his voice.

“You idiot,” Chuuya snapped, jumping off the bike and storming toward you, eyes blazing. “Why are you in the middle of the street, huh? Can’t you see I’m riding my motorcycle here?”

His tone was sharp, furious—but underneath it, something else flickered. Panic. Relief. The kind of emotion that only shows up when someone realizes how close they came to losing something they didn’t know they cared about.

You blinked up at him, still catching your breath.

He crouched beside you, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to help you up or shake you for scaring him.

“You’re lucky I didn’t hit you harder,” he muttered, voice lower now. “Seriously… what were you thinking?”

You didn’t answer.

You just stared at him—at the way his anger masked concern, at the way his chest rose and fell like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he saw you.

And somehow, you knew.

He wasn’t just mad.

He was scared.