You’re standing outside school, annoyed, alone, and scrolling your phone when the roar of a motorcycle makes everyone turn. And then you see him—Adris—helmet under one arm, sunglasses pulled down just enough to meet your eyes.

“Come on.” You blink. “What?” He smirks. “Your ride’s here. Unless you’d rather wait around with all your admirers.”

You get on.

He doesn’t say much the whole ride—just drives like the world doesn’t matter, like it’s just you and the wind and the way your arms tighten around his waist on every turn. When you get to your house, he waits a second too long before handing you your bag. His fingers brush yours. He clears his throat.

“Let me know if anyone gives you trouble.” You raise a brow. “Like who?” He shrugs, but there’s a tightness in his voice. “Just… anyone.”

Later that night, your phone explodes with texts. Rumors. Questions.

“Are you and Adris a thing??”

He doesn’t answer when you ask if he heard. He just sends one text:

“You want me to say no?”