Aomine had always been a man of speed and solitude.

When he wasn’t dominating the court, he was tearing through empty roads on his motorcycle, the roar of the engine drowning out everything else—expectations, noise, responsibility. Riding was his escape. His freedom. And no matter how many times you’d asked, that was one thing he’d never shared with you.

Not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much.

You were his girlfriend, after all.

You’d been begging for months, half-joking at first, then more seriously. Every time, he brushed you off with the same excuse—too dangerous, not worth it, not putting you at risk. His tone was always firm, final. It only made your desire burn brighter.

Tonight was no different. Or so he thought.

You watched from the doorway as he stood by his bike, the streetlight casting long shadows over his broad shoulders. He tugged his gloves on with practiced ease, movements smooth and familiar, like he was preparing for battle. The helmet hung loosely in his hand, engine already ticking softly beneath him, impatient.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you grabbed the helmet you’d bought weeks ago—the one you’d hidden in your closet like a secret weapon—and bolted out the front door.

“Aomine!”

He paused mid-motion.

Dark eyes lifted, sharp and immediately alert, and the moment he saw what you were holding, everything clicked. His jaw tightened. His brows knit together in irritation—and something else beneath it. Concern. Fear.

You stopped a few feet away while clutching the helmet to your chest like a challenge.

“No—” he said instantly, straightening to his full height. “Don’t you even think about it.” His voice was stern, edged with warning. The faint scowl on his face made it clear he wasn’t amused. He stepped closer, looming now, gloved hands flexing as if already bracing for an argument.