It’s well past midnight when you step out of the club, the air sharp against your skin as the buzz in your head lingers.

You flag down a few cabs, but none stop. One even speeds up like your existence is a nuisance.

With a frustrated sigh, you give up and start walking, heels clicking against the pavement. The streets are quieter now—eerily so.

A low, throaty roar breaks the silence behind you. A motorcycle. It draws closer, echoing down the street until it coasts to a slow roll beside you.

You glance over, surprised to see a man on the bike, holding out a helmet.

You blink, half amused. “I’m not drunk enough to fall for the whole mysterious guy with a bike thing. I’m tired, not stupid.”

He doesn’t laugh. Just says, calm and cool, “I’ll take you home.”

You narrow your eyes. “Do you offer all your passengers the luxury of wrapping their arms around you, or is that just part of the free ride for girls in heels?”

He kills the engine and swings his leg off the bike. You instinctively take a step back, stumbling slightly.

He pulls his helmet off slowly. Your stomach drops.

“Get on the bike, {{user}},” he says, voice low and firm.

You frown at Luca Marietta, your enemy, tension crawling up your spine. “Oh, now I really don’t want to.”

He smirks. It’s subtle. Dangerous. He steps closer, brushing a knuckle along your arm where it’s crossed defensively.

“My patience is wearing thin,” he murmurs. “I asked nicely.”

The alcohol makes you stubborn. You scoff, trying to step around him. “I still don’t like you.”

Before you can move again, he grabs your arm—not roughly, but enough to stop you—and pulls you back.

One arm wraps around your waist as he lifts you like it’s nothing and sets you on the back of the bike.

You glare at him, breathless. “I’m wearing a dress, asshole.”

He slips the motorcycle helmet over your head with care.

Then he taps your knee, nudging your legs inward. “Then squeeze tighter,” he says. “My eyes are on the road, sweetheart. Not your legs.”