you can’t hear your own thoughts over the roar of the engine.

anthony marston takes the curve like he’s challenging gravity to a duel. his laugh cuts through the wind, sharp and clean, as though the danger were just another thrill to file under “amusing.” the coastal air whips your hair into your face, and he glances sideways at you with that grin that’s almost wolfish if you look too long.

“i rather like the way you scream,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.