The sun was brutal — the kind that made the air shimmer above the asphalt and turned every touch warm. Lando kicked the stand down, helmet tucked under one arm, that little smirk tugging at his lips as he looked at you.

“You sure about this?” You crossed your arms. “You’ve been asking that for twenty minutes.” “I’ve been asking because I like living,” he shot back, dragging a hand through his hair. “And because I’ve seen you parallel park.”

You gasped, half offended, half laughing. “That was one time.” “Three,” he corrected. “And one of them involved a bush.”

He was teasing, but there was something softer under it — the way his eyes lingered on you when you reached for the helmet, how he hesitated before handing it over. Like he’d rather risk a lecture from you than see you fall.

When you finally swung your leg over the bike, your heart jumped. It felt too big, too heavy, too… his. He stood behind you, one hand on your waist, steadying the balance. “Alright. Clutch in.” You did. “Good. Now— gently— throttle.”

You wobbled immediately. He caught you immediately.

“See? This is why I said—” “Don’t say it.” “—this is a terrible idea.”

You turned your head, glare half-hidden behind the helmet’s visor. “You love it.” He leaned closer, lips barely brushing your ear through the padding. “Yeah sure,” he murmured. “But I also love my baby right her so be careful.”

The engine purred. The wind smelled like dust and summer. He gave your hand a squeeze before stepping back, letting you try again — his grin saying he trusted you even when his whole body screamed don’t crash my bike.