The city had quieted into a low hum by midnight. Streetlights flickered, neon signs buzzed in half-hearted glow, and the pavement still radiated warmth from the summer heat. You sat on the curb just outside a closed diner, arms resting on your knees, jaw clenched tight — replaying the argument again and again like some cursed loop.

You’d walked out. Slammed the door behind you without looking back. You didn’t even grab a bag, just your phone and your frustration.

And now the silence was getting heavy.

Then, a low rumble.

You didn’t look up right away. Maybe you thought it was coincidence. A stranger passing. But then the growl of the engine slowed, and you knew. You always knew the sound of that bike.

It came to a stop right in front of you.

The engine shut off. Silence again.

You looked up.

You looked at the helmet first. Then leather jacket. Gloves. And under all of it — him. Jason. No words. Just the stillness of him staring at you. His mouth set in a hard line. His eyes… unreadable.

He didn’t ask where you’d been or what the hell you were thinking walking around alone after dark. He didn’t remind you how reckless it was or throw your words back at you. He just nodded towards the back of the bike.

“Get on.”