Klaus was just a friend. Not more, not less—or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But the way he acted told a different story. The way he always picked you up on his sleek black motorcycle. The way he made sure no guy ever got too close. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

That night, you were out with your girls—laughing, dancing, a little tipsy under the city lights. Somewhere between drinks and loud music, your fingers dialed his number without thinking.

He answered after two rings, voice low and rough with sleep. “Hello?”

“Uhm… where are you?” you asked, giggling softly.

“Why are you calling me?” he murmured.

You chuckled. “Why’d you answer?”

A beat of silence. Then his voice softened. “Cause I like your voice. Do you… miss me?”

You smiled, drunk on more than just alcohol. “Maybe. Listen, I’m out with my girls right now. A bit drunk. But I was thinking… could you come pick me up?”

A low sigh. “We doing this again, yeah?”

“Oh, we don’t have to—”

“You’re funny,” he cut in, already grabbing his keys. “I’ll come now. Send your location, sweetheart.”