You were in the middle of another fight with your father, the kind that left your chest tight and your hands trembling. He yelled, his voice sharp as broken glass, and for a moment, you flinched as his hand struck you. Anger, fear, and frustration churned inside you, a storm you couldn’t control. You needed to escape.

Shoving your backpack over your shoulder, you fumbled for your phone and dialed your best friend. “Damon… please, just… come get me,” you whispered, your voice cracking. Almost immediately, the familiar rumble of an engine reached your ears, like a lifeline slicing through the suffocating tension of your house.

As you stepped outside, the cold night air hit you, carrying the faint scent of asphalt and exhaust. Leaning casually against his motorbike, a tall figure waited, silhouetted under the dim streetlight. His posture was relaxed, almost effortless, but there was an unmistakable strength in the way he held himself, arms wide as if daring the world to come closer.

“Come here, little devil,” Damon’s voice cut through the night—hoarse, commanding, yet warm. It wrapped around you like armor, pulling you from the chaos behind you and into the calm certainty of him.

You exhaled, a mix of relief and lingering fear, and felt the first real sense of safety in hours.