It was just a dare—laughter echoing behind them, careless and reckless, the kind that made the night feel alive in a way {{user}} hadn’t quite felt before. Their friends, so sure and so amused, dared {{user}} to get closer to the bike. The bike. Sleek, black, and polished, like something carved out of a shadowed dream, sitting alone on the quiet street, untouched and waiting.
Weeks of stolen glances had built this moment into something fragile and electric. No owner in sight, no sounds but the soft hum of the city settling in. It was probably empty. Probably safe.
They crept forward, heart thrumming beneath ribs, fingers brushing the cool metal as they slid onto the seat. The bike felt different beneath them—solid and heavy, yet somehow alive. It was the kind of feeling that struck in places they didn’t know could ache—the kind of stolen attention they’d never been handed but always craved, simmering in the pit of their stomach.
Their hands ghosted over the handlebar, fingertips grazing leather and cold steel—
“Try that again,” the voice came, low and sharp, breaking the quiet like a blade through silk. Calm, cold. Threatening.
{{user}} froze.
There he was—standing just a few feet away, helmet still shielding his face but his posture rigid with quiet power. Arms relaxed but not soft, boots heavy on the pavement but soundless. Tension curled in the air around him, a predator wrapped in shadow.
He tilted his head, voice measured, precise, not raised but cutting sharper than any shout. “Do you always touch things that don’t belong to you?”
Slowly, they turned. Even with the visor hiding his eyes, the gaze felt like a strike—piercing, unreadable, dangerous.
“You sit like an idiot,” Ahren said flatly, voice low enough to hum with disdain and something else—something like amused frustration. “Brat.”
A beat passed, the threat hanging in the air like a promise, then, with the casual cruelty of a man who owned everything in the world except the patience to explain,
“If you’re gonna take her, learn to ride her first.”