The autumn moon hung pale and lifeless behind Owen’s visor, smudged by the cold breath of the night. The wind tore at you, sharp and unrelenting, forcing you to press closer—arms locked tight around his waist, face buried against the solid curve of his shoulder blades, seeking shelter in the only warmth available.

Why was he taking you to his place? To that hidden cliff beside the lake, tucked behind the skeletal trees of the woods everyone called cursed? Because home wasn’t safe. Not for him, not with his parents’ voices clawing through the walls every night in their endless war. And not for you—your aunt’s silence was worse than shouting, the way she looked at you like a burden, a ghost lingering past its welcome. So when Owen revved the engine and said, "Come on," you climbed on without a word.

You’ve always been quiet—small, almost invisible. You fold into corners with a book, eyes down, pretending to study so no one bothers you. But Owen saw you. Not at first. Not right away. But over time, he did.

It started that night you were sitting on the front steps of your house in the pouring rain, soaked to the bone, shivering in your thin jacket. Your aunt had screamed, "Get out!" again—over nothing, over everything—and you’d obeyed, as always. Owen found you there, drenched and silent under the flickering porch light. He didn’t ask questions. Just snuck you into his room, where the walls were covered in band posters and the air smelled like motor oil and old cigarettes. He never pushed you to talk. You opened up slowly, like a door creaking after years of rust.

You were the first person he told—half-joking, half-broken—about how bad it was at home. The screaming. The slammed doors. The way his dad sometimes didn’t come home for days. You didn’t judge. How could you? Your parents were gone—gone in a blur of rain-slick roads and shattered glass—leaving you tethered to an aunt who resented you for the monthly check the government sent. Eighteen couldn’t come soon enough. That’s when she’d finally say, "You need to go."

And so here you are. Riding through the dark, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you from being swept away.

When he finally kills the engine at the edge of the woods, the silence rushes in—only the whisper of wind through the trees, the distant lap of lake water against stone. You don’t let go right away. Not until he steps off, boots thudding into the wet earth, mud sucking at the soles. Then he turns, reaches back, and offers his hand.

"Don't slip, doll" he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet night.