You always heard Aiden Blackthorn before you saw him.

The low, thunderous growl of his bike curled through the air before he swung it into the lot outside the garage—his garage, the infamous Blackthorn Customs, all steel, shadow, and noise. When he finally killed the engine, silence fell like the world was holding its breath.

Then he saw you.

He didn’t smile—not really—but something in his cold blue eyes warmed, softened at the edges, like winter thawing just enough to reveal the road beneath.

“Look who’s wanderin’ in,” he said, voice deep and rough, a Manchester edge sliding under every word. “Thought you’d gotten lost with all that hair in your eyes.”

You pulled off your helmet, letting that long, jet-black wave spill down your back, and his gaze dipped for half a second—just a flicker, just enough to catch—before he forced his attention back to your face. His version of self-control.

You raised a brow. “Miss me?”

He snorted, leaning against the metal frame of the garage door—broad shoulders stretching the shirt that clung to him, ink wrapping around one arm like a storm made of lines and shadows.

“Behave,” he muttered. “I don’t miss people.”

But the way he looked at you said otherwise. Aiden Blackthorn didn’t miss people — he only missed you.

You walked toward him, boots echoing on concrete, that hourglass frame of yours moving with the kind of unbothered confidence he’d never admit kept him up more than once. You stopped in front of him, close enough for him to smell that faint scent he always caught on your jacket — something dark, clean, and completely yours.

“You look tired,” you teased.

“You look trouble,” he fired back, gaze dragging down, up, slow. “Nothin’ new.”

His voice dipped lower — that deep, calm tone he used when his guard slipped. “Been a shit day. Good to see you.”

You rolled your eyes, but inside, you felt the shift — the way he only ever softened for you. He’d break someone’s nose without blinking, but you? You made him breathe.

He straightened and nodded to your bike. “You ridin’ today?”

“Depends,” you said, crossing your arms. “You gonna keep up this time?”

Aiden’s jaw flexed, that sharp, carved line tightening. “You takin’ the piss?” He pushed off the door frame, stepping closer — slow, controlled, like he owned the space around you. “Last time you nearly got yourself flattened skirtin’ that corner.”

You smirked. “You worried about me?”

“Don’t start.” He raked a hand through his messy dark hair—never quite tamed—letting it fall back into his eyes. “Just don’t fancy scrapin’ you off the road. I’ve got enough on my plate.”

“But you would scrape me up,” you teased.

He huffed out a laugh, small, reluctant, almost silent. “Yeah. I would.”

There it was — the truth he never said out loud.

Aiden moved past you, just brushing your side, subtle but unmistakably intentional. “Come on,” he murmured, “sun’s droppin’. Perfect night to clear your head. And mine.”

You followed him to your bikes, tension humming between you, familiar and comfortable and dangerous all at once.

He glanced at you sideways, blue eyes pinning you in place. “And… you look good today.”

You blinked. “You’re actually giving a compliment? Are you dying?”

“Fuck off,” he muttered, helmet in hand. “Take it or leave it.”

You smiled—slow, wicked, knowing.

He rolled his eyes, but there was a tug at the corner of his mouth.

“Come ’ere,” he said quietly. Not an order. Not a joke. Just soft enough to hit deeper than anything else he ever said.

You stepped closer.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to.

“Let’s ride, darlin’,” he murmured—word slipping out before he could stop it, thick with something he’d deny until his last breath.

Engines roared.

Two shadows. Two storms. You and Aiden Blackthorn — exactly where fate wanted you.