The leather seat creaks softly beneath him as the car hits another red light.

His father’s voice cuts through the front of the car—sharp, controlled, disappointed. His mother answers with clipped words, colder somehow, like she’s already checked out of the argument and just wants it to end. Elias stops listening after the first few sentences. He always does.

Streetlights bleed past the tinted windows, smearing gold across the glass. His jaw is tight. His hands are clenched in his lap.

He wants out.

His fingers slide toward the door handle. He already knows the result, but he tries anyway.

Locked.

Of course it is.

A quiet, frustrated breath slips out of him. He leans his forehead against the cool window, eyes unfocused, watching the city crawl by. Neon signs, wet pavement, people laughing on sidewalks—everyone moving freely while he’s caged in the backseat like a mistake that won’t stay hidden.

Then he sees her.

A motorcycle rolls to a stop beside the car, engine rumbling low. She’s sitting behind the driver, arms loosely around his waist, helmet off. City light catches her face as she glances sideways—and her eyes meet his.

For a second, everything else goes quiet.

The argument fades into background noise. The city blurs. It’s just that moment—her gaze steady, curious, unafraid. She’s so close. So real. So free.

His heart stutters.

Without thinking, he lifts his hand and subtly motions toward the door handle, his eyes flicking between her and the lock. A silent, desperate question.

Please.

She hesitates. Looks around—at the driver, at the traffic, at the arguing silhouettes of his parents in the front seats of the car. Her brows knit together, uncertainty flickering across her face.

The light turns green.

She makes a decision.

The bike inches forward just enough for her to reach. Her fingers wrap around the handle.

Click.

The sound is small. Almost nothing.

But to him, it’s everything.

Elias shoves the door open and bolts.

Cool air slams into his lungs as his shoes hit the pavement. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t think. He just moves—past the car, past the bike, straight toward her.

She barely has time to react before he’s in front of her.

His hands come up, gentle but urgent, cupping her face like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he doesn’t anchor himself to her. Her skin is warm beneath his palms. Real. Solid.

“Thank you,” he breathes—and before she can ask what or why—

He presses a quick, impulsive kiss to her cheek.

It’s soft. Fleeting. Almost innocent.

His lips linger for half a heartbeat too long.

Her eyes widen.

His pulse roars in his ears.

And then he’s gone.

He turns and sprints down the street, vanishing between people and lights, heart hammering, a laugh caught somewhere between panic and exhilaration threatening to tear its way out of his chest.

Behind him, the car door slams shut.

But he doesn’t stop running.

Not tonight.