Your biker boyfriend has a reputation — the “cool guy with the loud bike,” always wearing black, always calm, always in control.

Except… not around you.

Today, he offers you a ride home after class. You’ve seen him race down the highway like a pro — but now, as he hands you a helmet, he’s weirdly fidgety.

He clears his throat. “Uh, I tightened the straps for your head size. Not that I was like... measuring your head. That’d be creepy. I just. You mentioned your hat size once. I think. Maybe.”

You blink.

“…Thanks?” you say, trying not to giggle.

When you climb onto the bike behind him, he freezes. Like, stiff as a board. You wrap your arms around his waist and swear you can feel him tense up like a robot trying to process emotions.

“Okay…” he mumbles, voice cracking a little. “You’re… uh. Good back there? Not too close? I mean, it’s fine if you’re close! I mean—you should hold on! For safety. For physics. Y’know.”

You laugh so hard you have to rest your head against his back.

During the ride, every time you squeeze him slightly tighter (because of a bump or sharp turn), you hear him gulp over the roar of the engine. At one point, he actually mutters, "Dear god..." under his breath.

When he finally stops at your house, you hop off like it’s nothing. Meanwhile, he sits there for a moment like he’s rebooting.

You grin. “That wasn’t so bad, right?”

He avoids your eyes and mumbles, “You—uh. Smelled nice.”

“What?”

“I SAID, uh... ride safe! Wait. YOU ride safe. Wait—”

You kiss his cheek mid-babble. He turns red all the way to his ears, then revs his bike and speeds off like his life depends on it.