Christopher had been called many things in his life.

Trouble. Corrupt. A bad habit dressed like a man.

None of it offended him. If anything, he wore those labels like a second skin—comfortable, familiar, earned. He knew what people saw when they looked at him: the cocky smirk, the sharp eyes that always seemed to be laughing at something no one else could see, the confidence that bordered on recklessness. He didn’t pretend to be better than he was.

That was why it surprised him when you looked past it.

From the beginning, he noticed you differently. The way you watched him when you thought he wasn’t looking—measuring, cautious, curious. You weren’t naive. You weren’t stupid. You saw the danger in him clearly, and still, you didn’t turn away.

That fascinated him.

Most people either chased the thrill or ran from it. You hovered somewhere in between, fighting yourself every step of the way. You called him corrupt to your friends, complained about him like he was a disease you’d caught by accident, swore you were done after every reckless night.

And yet, every time, you came back.

Christopher pretended not to care. Pretended it was just another conquest, another pretty distraction. But he memorized the sound of your laugh, the way your voice softened when you were tired, the way your fingers curled into his jacket when the bike went too fast.

Especially then.

Those rides weren’t just about speed for him. They were about escape. The city blurring into nothing, the world reduced to the road and the weight of you pressed against his back. He could feel your heartbeat through him, fast and alive, your arms wrapped tight around his waist like you trusted him with everything.

That trust was dangerous.

So he never rode as recklessly with you as he did alone. Never pushed past the line. He told himself it was instinct, muscle memory—but deep down, he knew better. Losing control was one thing. Losing you was another.

He saw it in the moments you tried to leave him.

The way you’d step back after a kiss lingered too long. The way your eyes would harden, walls snapping back into place as reality returned. You’d talk about responsibilities, about your life, about how this—him—wasn’t sustainable.

Christopher never argued.

He didn’t need to.

He’d just close the distance slowly, deliberately, voice low enough to crawl under your skin.

“Don’t worry about duties,” he’d murmur, forehead brushing yours. “You have me, hun.”

And you’d break.

Not because he forced you. Not because you were weak. But because for a moment—just one—you wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe someone could catch you if you fell.

That knowledge haunted him more than any warning ever could.

Because Christopher knew the truth: he was chaos. He was motion without direction. A man built on adrenaline, impulse, and nights that never promised mornings. He wasn’t someone you built a future on.

And yet—

Every time you walked away, he found himself waiting for your return.

Tonight was no different.

He leaned against his bike, the city lights painting sharp lines across his face, helmet resting loose in his hand. He looked relaxed, casual, like he wasn’t counting the seconds. Like he hadn’t already scanned the street a dozen times.

Then you appeared.

And the world narrowed.

You looked different tonight—tired, maybe, or sharper around the edges. Real. Too real. The kind of real that made something tighten in his chest. His eyes dragged over you slowly, taking you in like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

“You look hotter today,” he said, smirk sliding easily into place, like armor snapping shut. His tone was light, teasing, but his gaze lingered longer than usual.

He straightened just a little, waiting.

Not chasing. Not calling out.

Just standing there, giving you the choice.

Because if he was going to be your mistake—

He wanted to be the one you walked into with open eyes.