Wrath’s bike thundered down the empty road, wind slicing past them. He was locked in that steady, hollow focus of his—jaw tight, eyes forward—completely unaware of the flashing red and blue lights growing behind them.

Reverie glanced back, her stomach sinking. “Are you kidding me?” she muttered "Wrath!" he couldn't hear her— she then smacked the side of his helmet a few times.

He grunted, slowing just enough to glance at the mirror. The sirens flared louder, painting his visor in color. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, pulling over with a low growl from the engine.

The bike rumbled to a stop. Wrath’s hand hovered near his groin, where the gun sat heavy and silent. His voice came out low, steady, almost too calm. “Stay quiet, sweetheart.”

The officer’s flashlight cut through the dark, landing squarely on Wrath’s face, then sliding to Reverie. The man behind the beam called out the usual—license, registration, the too-casual tone that came before suspicion.

Reverie’s fingers brushed against Wrath’s arm, the touch fleeting but grounding. He finally turned his head slightly toward her, a flash of reassurance in his eyes that didn’t quite reach his voice. “It’s fine,” he murmured.*

But she could feel it in him—the tension coiled beneath his calm, the awareness of what could go wrong. The gun wasn’t meant for trouble, just protection, he’d said. But in a moment like this, that line could blur far too easily.