Ann Arbor was freezing in that particular way that made every building on campus smell faintly of wet pavement, coffee, and somebody’s badly heated dorm. You’d been at Derek’s off-campus house long enough to know the place was held together by caffeine, questionable financial decisions, and whatever engineering degree Derek was apparently earning through sheer force of will.

The garage was warmer than outside, but only barely. A useless space heater hummed in the corner while he worked on his bike—black, expensive, and unnecessarily intimidating. Yamaha or Kawasaki, you still didn’t know. You’d asked once. He’d explained for five solid minutes in that low, rumbly voice of his, calm and patient even though you were clearly not absorbing a single technical detail. You’d been too busy watching his mouth move.

You knew you liked him.

Not just the way he looked—though that was a problem on its own. Tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of quiet that made other people talk louder around him. He had this habit of listening more than he spoke, of remembering small, random things people said weeks later. He kept his tools organized even when the rest of the house looked like a natural disaster. He drank his coffee black and never complained when his roommate left dishes in the sink for three days.

He was careful with things. With people, too. Maybe too careful.

And you wanted him anyway.

The sleeveless shirt wasn’t helping. Biceps flexed every time he reached for a tool. A thin sheen of sweat sat on his collarbones and the back of his neck. There was grease on his forearm and another smear along his jaw that you’d been staring at for the last five minutes. He smelled like motor oil, clean sweat, and the same soap he always used—something simple and faintly woodsy that you could pick out even in a crowded room.

Maybe it was just physical.
Maybe you just wanted to know what it would feel like to have those hands on you, that voice in your ear, that careful control finally breaking.
Or maybe it was more than that and you were just choosing not to look at it too closely.
Either way, you weren’t pretending to be the bigger person. Penelope existed. You knew her name, knew she was the girlfriend, knew this was messy. You just… didn’t care enough to stop. College kids being college kids. You could justify it later.

“You’re staring,” Derek said. That deep, rumbly voice again. Unfair.

You smiled. “I’m admiring the motorcycle.”

His blue eyes lifted to yours. Deep blue. Cold at first glance, until you actually got caught in them. Then they felt less like ice and more like deep water—dark, still, and impossible to tell how far down they went.

“You’ve called it a Yamaha twice and a Ducati once.”

You shrugged. “Maybe I was testing you.”

“You were drunk.”

“That too.”

The corner of his mouth moved. Barely.

You pointed. “There. You smiled.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.”

Derek looked back down at the bike, but you caught it again—that tiny almost-smile. He knew you were watching. He always seemed to know. That was the thing about him. He noticed everything and reacted to almost nothing. It made you want to push harder just to see what would happen.

You’d noticed the staring weeks ago at a party. He’d been across the kitchen with Penelope, one hand around a beer, listening to someone talk. He’d looked over once. Then again. The third time you stared straight back. He didn’t look away. That was the moment you decided you might actually be able to take him—or at least get close enough to find out.

“Your girlfriend coming over?” you asked.

Derek’s hands slowed on the bike. “No.” “Busy?” “Probably.”

You nodded, picking at the sticker on your water bottle.

“Shame.”

His eyes moved toward you. “Why?”

“Because I was thinking about stealing you.”