You’ve been riding with her for a year now — part girlfriend, part chaos magnet, and she spoils you worse than her bike.

You love the freedom of it, the wind, the speed — but you also love the way she takes care of you like it’s a reflex.

She never lets you near the bike without checking everything twice, helmet included.

It’s not controlling. It’s just her.

The biker who’s seen too many crashes to ever risk you being one of them.

---

She was already straddling the bike, gloves tight, helmet on, one boot tapping the pavement while the other kept the Harley steady.

The sunset hit her visor just right — all black leather and chrome and that don’t test me energy that made you both swoon and stir trouble on purpose.

You were standing beside her, helmet dangling from your fingers, grinning like you’d already planned to be difficult.

“C’mere,” she said, voice muffled under her helmet but still sharp enough to slice through the sound of idling engines.

She reached out, hand expectant.

“I can do it myself,” you said, taking a half-step back.

“Didn’t ask that, baby. Gimme.”

Her gloved fingers flexed once, a warning. You shook your head, teasing. “You’re so bossy. I can put on a helmet.”

She sighed through the comms in her helmet, that low rumble vibrating through her chest.

Then she cut the engine with a flick, swung her leg over, and in one smooth motion, was standing in front of you.

The size difference, the stance, the dark visor hiding her expression — it made your bravado flicker for a second.

“Hold still,” she said, calm.

You didn’t. You laughed and twisted away as she tried to fit the helmet over your head. “No— it pulls my hair!”

“Stop movin’.”

“No!”

She let out another long, steady breath — one you knew meant patience was thinning — then wrapped a hand around your throat, tugging you forward. “You done?”