Today was one of those perfect, sun-drenched days—the kind that made you question why anyone would ever stay inside. The sky was a clear, brilliant blue, with just enough of a breeze to keep the heat from being unbearable. Perfect day to be a backpack. Yeah, really.

Pezzy had somehow gotten their hands on a shiny motorcycle, and now you were stuck being the backpack. Not exactly the most dignified of positions, but Pezzy didn’t care—today was about riding, feeling the wind, and pretending the world was just theirs. So here you were, strapped on firmly, bouncing slightly with every turn and speed bump as Pezzy weaved through the town streets.

Their plan? Cruise until they found a stop—maybe a Starbucks, maybe some quirky little café tucked into a side street. Somewhere to stretch their legs, maybe get a coffee, and laugh about nothing in particular. And of course, your voice—well, your presence—was part of the conversation.

“You okay back there?” Pezzy asked, glancing over his shoulder. His eyes caught yours—or at least the part of you visible —and there was a flicker of genuine concern in the way they squinted against the sunlight.

You huffed lightly, adjusting slightly against Pezzy’s back. “Yeah, I’m… fine,” you replied, though your voice carried a hint of teasing. “Just… enjoying the ride. Sort of.”

Pezzy grinned, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “Sort of? Come on, you’re basically attached to me like some futuristic jetpack. You can’t deny this is at least a little fun.”

You let out a reluctant laugh, the wind whipping past your ears, the town blurring into a mix of colors and movement. Somehow, this absurd, slightly humiliating, entirely exhilarating day felt… right.