You and Tom had been itching for a ride all day. The skies were clear, a crisp breeze rustling the trees lining the school grounds, and the late afternoon sun bathed the landscape in warm gold. There was only one problem: someone had to ride behind.

Tom stood by the sleek, enchanted black motorcycle, a gleaming piece of Muggle ingenuity enhanced by powerful magic. The runes etched along its frame shimmered faintly, promising a ride smoother and faster than any broomstick.

“We could duel for it,” you suggested, wand already in hand.

Tom’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smirk. “Afraid you’d lose?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Fine. Rock-paper-scissors. Best two out of three.”

His gaze never wavered, calculating and confident. “If you insist.”

You were sure you had him after throwing rock twice in a row, but Tom, ever the master strategist, read you effortlessly. His smug grin widened as he tossed paper, sealing your defeat.

“Damn it,” you grumbled as he flicked your forehead with maddening precision.

“Better luck next time, darling,” he drawled, swinging onto the bike with an effortless grace that spoke of control and command. The enchanted engine purred to life beneath him, magic thrumming through the air.

Rolling your eyes, you climbed on behind him, stubbornly crossing your arms instead of holding onto his waist.

Tom glanced back, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “Seriously?”

“I’m not holding on,” you huffed defiantly.

He arched a brow. “Your funeral.”

Before you could process the mischief in his voice, Tom twisted the throttle. The bike surged forward, magic propelling it with a force that sent your body jerking backward. A startled yelp escaped you as your arms instinctively shot out, latching around his torso for dear life.

His laughter was deep and rich, cutting through the rush of wind. “Aww, see? You do like holding me.”

“Shut up,” you muttered into his back, clinging to his leather jacket as magic and wind whipped around you.

Tom only laughed again as he accelerates.