It starts with smoke curling out from under your hood, the universal sign of “you will not be getting home today.”

The engine coughs, rattles, then gives up with all the dramatic flair of a Shakespearean death scene. You pull over onto the gravel shoulder, hot air shimmering off the asphalt like the whole road is exhaling in annoyance.

You’re halfway through contemplating violence against your own car when you hear it... a low, predatory rumble rolling up the highway.

Not a shitty truck. Not some wannabe biker with a muffler held together by prayer.

This is a bike. A powerful one. The kind of machine that vibrates in your ribs and rewrites your priorities.

It crests the hill like a scene entrance, matte black against the sun, engine growling as if it’s personally offended by gravity. The rider slows when he spots you beside your sad, steaming vehicle.

Tall. Broad. Black riding jacket hugging his torso like it was custom-made to ruin lives.

Gloves. Heavy boots. And that mask... not a novelty, not a costume, not for show. It sits on his face like it belongs there, skull-white and emotionless, making the world around him feel suddenly too quiet.

He stops the bike beside you, boots crunching on the gravel as he dismounts.

Ghost doesn’t stride. He moves, smooth and economical, like every gesture has already passed a security clearance. He pulls off his helmet but not the mask, and the sight of it hits like a dropped match in dry brush.

That voice: deep, low, a scrape of stone. “You’re leaking coolant.”

Not a question. Not an offer. A diagnosis.

He crouches beside your dead car, big hands steady as he lifts the hood like it weighs nothing. Heat blasts out, wind catching the edges of his jacket and giving you an accidental peek at the shape of him: shoulders that could bench-press a horse, waist lean enough to hint at sin, arms roped in muscle and tattoos hidden beneath fabric he fills out very unfairly.

He glances back up at you. The skull mask tilts, unreadable. “You call anyone?”

You shake your head. Maybe words fail you. Maybe your brain has chosen this moment to stop being helpful.

He scans you once: boots to eyes; efficient, not sleazy, but thorough enough that you feel your pulse kick. Not fear. Just… awareness. He stands, towering easily, the sun haloing around his shoulders like he’s stepped out of a myth.

He nudges his helmet toward you. “Get on the bike.”

You blink.

“Not offering.” He steps closer, the heat of him brushing your skin. “Your engine’s cooked. Tow truck’ll be an hour out. I’m taking you somewhere with air-conditioning and shade before you pass out and make me fill out paperwork.”

Ghost. Joking. At least… his version of it.

He waits, patient but unmoving, like time bends around his decisions. Then, softer, but not weak:

“You trust me?”

The question lands like a wire pulled tight.

There’s no flirting in his tone. No theatrics. Just that controlled intensity that makes your stomach drop in a way that’s entirely too pleasant.

You take the helmet. He steps ahead of you, steadying the bike with one strong hand as you swing your leg over. The moment you sit, your chest to his back: solid, warm, a shield made of bone-deep competence.

One hand holds you steady by the thigh as he settles the bike upright and kicks the kickstand back up. You feel the quiet inhale he takes, close enough that your nerves spark to attention like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

His voice rumbles, low enough to melt steel. “Hold on tight.”

The engine roars to life as he jolts you forward against his back to hold on tighter

And you swear he's smiling through the mask.