The rain was began coming down in a soft drizzle, tapping against the bar’s awning. You stood under it, arms wrapped tight around yourself, the chill biting through the thin fabric of your jacket. Fashionable, but it did nothing for you. The neon sign flickered above, casting you in red and pink hues as puddles mirrored the city’s nightlife at your feet.

A low, throaty rumble cut through the rain. The kind of engine that made the ground vibrate. The matte black street bike rolled to a stop at the curb, engine growling softly before he cut the engine. Helmet still on, he looked up at you through the rain, the visor catching the neon glow. He sat there like he had nowhere better to be, one gloved hand resting on the handlebar, the other braced casually on his thigh. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he lifted it off.

Simon—his signature balaclava on. “Christ,” he muttered, voice rough and lazy. “You pick the best fuckin’ places to get stranded.”

You crossed your arms tighter, unimpressed. “You’re late.”

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching behind the fabric. “You’re lucky I showed at all. Roads are slick, and I’m doin’ charity work, apparently.”

You scoffed, but he caught the ghost of your smile before you could hide it. He held out the spare helmet, black and scratched. “C’mon. Before this drizzle turns biblical.”

The seat behind him was warm when you climbed on, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne. His body heat radiated through the chill, solid and grounding. When he started the bike again, the sound was a low, hungry purr that thrummed against your thighs.

As the city blurred around you, lights melting into streaks of color, he spoke over his shoulder, voice steady through the rain. “If your old man finds out I picked you up again, he’ll have my head.” The rumble of a chuckle followed. “Can’t say I blame him.”

The rain thickened, pinpricks against your skin as you adjusted your grip on his jacket. He shifted just slightly on the bike, glancing back once, barely a turn of the head.

Then he twisted the throttle.

The engine roared to life beneath you, and the sudden burst of speed pulled a startled sound from your throat as instinct took over. You clutched him tighter, arms wrapping around his waist. A faint sound vibrated through his chest, more breath than laughter. He slowed again, steady, controlled, and he didn’t even bother to hide the satisfaction. He’d done it on purpose