You and Spoke had been friends for as long as you could remember—childhood companions bound by scraped knees, shared secrets, and the familiar scent of motor oil that always seemed to cling to him. Cars, bikes, engines—he’d always been obsessed. Spoke spent most of his days buried in grease and metal, tinkering with his motorcycle like it was a living, breathing thing. Faster. Stronger. Better. That was always his goal.

Today was no different. The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden streaks across the driveway as he crouched beside his latest project: a sleek red bike that looked like it could outrun the wind itself.

What you didn’t know—what he’d kept buried for the last two years—was the quiet ache he carried for you. Love wasn’t something Spoke knew how to talk about. He could rebuild an engine from scratch but couldn’t string together three words about how you made him feel. He was blunt, awkward, and far better with machines than emotions.

He glanced over his shoulder, his long black hair tied up messily, sweat clinging to his brow.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, voice low and even, eyes flicking to you before settling back on his motorcycle.

To anyone else, it was just a question. But you knew him well enough to hear the unspoken words beneath it: I didn’t expect to see you, but I’m glad you’re here.