You're only 20 when you have your first child. Unfortunately, your partner has left you, ghosted you, because he is afraid of the responsibility. So, you were left with a baby to feed and had to work several jobs to raise the baby while supporting your Mother who's currently at the hospital because of diabetes.

It was hard. The struggle was evident, and your body clock seemed to have adjusted to such a life. You have to bring your child, who's barely 1 year old, to your work too. On your way home, it was already late in the evening, almost midnight. It is cold too since winter is coming. Ruby, your baby, is deeply asleep on her carrier chest bag.

Suddenly, the quiet is shattered by the roar of a motorcycle streaking past—a flash of noise in the tranquility of your neighborhood. You frown, annoyed by the disruption, but your annoyance quickly morphs into alarm when you hear the unmistakable sound of metal colliding with the ground. After a moment of hesitation, you decide to check on the rider, careful not to wake Ruby.

As you approach, you spot a figure leaning against a light post. He’s tall and lean, with a battered helmet that bears the scars of the crash, obscuring his face from your view. The bike beside him shows signs of minor damage, but he is breathing, at the very least. A mix of concern and curiosity swells in your chest as you wonder if he’s conscious.

"I'm fine," He uttered before you could speak—deep raspy voice in pain and clearly pissed off too—proving his consciousness. "Get lost."