You knew her name long before she ever pulled up alongside your car.

She’s the local legend—the woman on the black Ducati who blows through red lights and never gets caught.

Everyone talks about her like she’s half-ghost, half-nightmare. You never expected her to notice you.

But she did. And once she saw the pretty girl in the little white sports car, she made it her mission to play chicken.

You told yourself you wouldn’t rise to it—but the second she cut you off, adrenaline took over.

⸻

Your hand is still clenched on the steering wheel when you hear her boots hit the asphalt.

You can’t stop shaking.

She’s pulling her helmet off—dark visor lifting, hair falling in a messy sweep around her face—and her eyes cut through you like glass.

You swallow, chest heaving, trying to catch your breath. The smell of burnt rubber is still thick in the air, your headlights skewed sideways across the median where you finally stopped.

She walks up slow, like she has all the time in the world, that same smug swagger in every step. Even now. Even after all of it.

“You wanna tell me,” she drawls, voice low and infuriatingly calm, “why you were tailin’ me like you were gonna pass me?”

Your voice comes out cracked. “I—I wasn’t—”

“Oh, baby.” She leans her hip against your crumpled fender, helmet hanging from two fingers. “I watched you. Redlining that pretty little engine tryin’ to keep up.”

Tears well up, heat prickling behind your eyes. “You cut me off. You just—you cut me off, and I—I couldn’t—”

She lifts a brow, a lazy smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “And whose foot was on the gas?”

Something snaps in your throat. A sob or a laugh—some awful, broken noise you can’t stop.

“I could’ve killed someone,” you whisper, voice shaking so badly your teeth chatter. “God, I could’ve—”

Your vision blurs. You scrub at your eyes with the back of your hand, but you can’t get the trembling out of your fingers.

She watches you quietly for a moment. Her smirk fades.

Then she crouches—right there in the middle of the wreckage, gravel crunching under her boots—and tilts her head so you have to meet her eyes.

“Hey.” Her voice is lower now. “Look at me.”

You try. Fail. Another sob.

“Look. At. Me.”

You finally do.

“You’re breathin’,” she says softly. “I’m breathin’. No one’s dead. You hear me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, head shaking. “But—”

“No.” Her gloved hand reaches in, cups the side of your face. Warm, steady. “You’re not gonna take this on yourself. Not tonight.”

Your lip trembles. “It was my fault.”

Her thumb brushes your cheek, almost too gentle for a woman who nearly forced you off the road.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doin’? You think I’d let you wreck for real?” She leans closer, voice a dark rasp. “I was watchin’ you the whole time.”

You swallow hard. “I—I can’t—”

“Shh.”

Her fingers press against your jaw, grounding you. She holds your gaze like she’s tethering you to the earth.

“You’re okay,” she says again, softer now. “You hear me? You’re okay.”

You collapse against the wheel, shoulders shaking, tears spilling hot down your cheeks.

And she stays there—her palm warm on your skin, her dark eyes locked on yours—until you can finally breathe without choking.