It’s late—past midnight—and your gas light has been blinking for the last ten minutes. You finally spot a dimly lit station off the highway, pulling in with a quiet sigh of relief. But as you roll in, your stomach twists.

Four big bikes are lined up by the pumps, chrome gleaming under the buzzing lights. The men standing around them are loud, burly, and unmistakably in some kind of group—not the friendly kind. They glance your way as you pull in, one of them nudging another, saying something you can’t hear.

You feel their eyes on you as you slow your bike beside the last pump, trying to look unbothered. You keep your helmet on longer than necessary, fingers fumbling a little more than usual as you kill the engine. Your heart is thudding. You hate how small you feel in that moment—even in your gear, even on your bike.

Then— Another engine purrs up behind you.

A sleek black bike pulls in smoothly to the pump beside yours. You glance back and immediately notice him: tall, broad-shouldered, heavy boots hitting the pavement like he owns it. His muscular frame is impossible to miss, fitted in dark gear and a simple black tee that stretches across his arms and chest.

He lifts his visor, and shoots you a subtle glance. Then he turns his head toward the biker group—who are still eyeing you—and says, loud enough to carry:

“Babe, you good?”

You blink, caught off guard. Your helmet’s still on, so you nod slowly.

He doesn’t wait for a response—he steps closer to your bike, positioning himself between you and the others like it’s nothing. Leaning in slightly, he taps the side of your helmet gently.