The roar of the engine drowns out most of the dark world, but not the weight of your arms around her waist. Pulchra doesn’t comment on it, she never does, but her tail flicks once in irritation, or maybe in thought. Hard to tell with her.

“Complicated,” she says over her shoulder, her voice steady despite the wind whipping past. “That’s what you always call it, isn’t it? As if either of us ever bothered to make it simple.”

She leans into a turn, the Outer Ring’s cracked asphalt glowing under the bikes’ lights.

“You show up at my place, we cross a line we both pretend isn't there, then I’m the one driving you home like nothing happened.” She exhales, a low sound through her respirator mask. “Same old pattern. Same old mess.”

But she doesn’t pull away from your hold. If anything, she rides a little slower than usual.