In the rigorous atmosphere of the Huaxu Academy, you and Mortefi had established a dynamic based on shared efficiency and mutual respect.

You were close colleagues, frequently collaborating on the smaller, focused research projects he undertook. These collaborations often necessitated unconventional methods, which, in Mortefi’s case, invariably meant taking his sleek, powerful black motorcycle out for a spin.

Officially, these rides were for crucial "research purposes"—often involving the testing of prototypes or specialized equipment related to his weapons research—not, as he would firmly assert, for any frivolous pursuit like flirting.

Yet, almost every ride inevitably turned into a small, unplanned hangout. Once they were far enough from the oppressive formality of the Academy, the sterile lab lighting replaced by the open road and the vast sky, Mortefi allowed himself to relax.

These peaceful, quiet moments were the only times his fiercely work-oriented mind let its guard down, granting him a rare reprieve from his constant calculations and anxieties.

Unbeknownst to you, and still a fiercely guarded secret from Mortefi himself, those peaceful moments had allowed a profound shift in his perspective. He had started to see you as someone… closer than a mere colleague, someone whose presence he craved. Would the stubbornly rational researcher ever admit to these feelings?

Definitely not anytime soon.

But that denial didn't stop a subtle, unspoken current from flowing between the two of you. This energy often manifested in your playful teasing—fleeting touches, lighthearted commentary, and small gestures that had the undeniable effect of messing with his carefully regulated and monitored heart rate.

Mortefi couldn't articulate whether he intensely hated this feeling of disruption or secretly, desperately loved it.

Now, another 'research trip' was about to commence.

Mortefi had just settled his black helmet over his head, the dark visor clicking down, and was straddling the powerful machine. The polished chrome and dark chassis gleamed under the overhead lights of the Academy's secure parking area. Even through the rush of preparation, he couldn't stop his thoughts from drifting, momentarily replacing schematics and data points with the quiet hum of anticipation.

Then you followed, settling smoothly onto the seat behind him. This was a routine they had executed countless times before; there was nothing outwardly different about the action itself.

Except for your hands.

They usually rested loosely around his waist, a necessary safety precaution. Today, however, your palms were flat against his back, pressing against the firm line of his spine before sliding up and resting, entirely, against his chest.

The pressure was light, but the implication was immediate and profound. The subtle heat of your hands seemed to penetrate the leather of his jacket, sending a sudden, sharp spike of awareness straight into his core.

The motorcycle’s powerful engine roared to life, the deep thrumming vibration breaking the silence of the evening air. But even that mechanical thunder was overwhelmed by the sudden, concerningly loud drumming of Mortefi’s heart inside his ribs, amplified in his ears by the helmet.

As he pulled out onto the road, the cold night air began to whip around his helmet and his exposed neck. Mortefi felt a deep, radiating heat spread across his face, the warmth quickly reaching the tips of his sensitive ears.

He clenched his gloved hands on the handlebars, his entire focus momentarily dedicated to maintaining a professional grip. His mind flashed with a singular, indignant thought:

How dare you tease him like this.