The first time you saw Rafe Cameron, he was revving his motorcycle in the parking lot behind The Wreck, cigarette hanging from his lips like a dare. The engine snarled like it was alive—wild, untamed, just like him.

Everyone said he was trouble. Too rich. Too reckless. Too angry at the world for no clear reason. You should’ve listened.

But there was something magnetic about him. Maybe it was the way his eyes never softened, even when he smiled. Or the way he looked at you that night—like the world was burning and you were the only thing left worth saving.

“You ride?” he asked, nodding to the spare helmet hanging off the back of his bike.

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

He smirked. “Good. I don’t like sharing the road.”

You should’ve walked away. But instead, you got on the back of that bike, arms sliding around his waist as the engine growled beneath you. The night blurred. Streetlights streaked past like fireflies. And the second your cheek pressed against the back of his expensive button up you knew—

This wasn’t going to end well.

Your hair blowing in the wind, the sound cutting the little voice blowing through your volcal cords, no, but you did raise your voice.

" where.. are we going? " you asked.