You’re stranded on a deserted stretch of highway at twilight, the air cool and damp, around 12 °C, and the sky bruised purple above a jagged treeline. Your cheeks are cold where hot tears have washed away your mascara, and every breath tastes of pine resin and dust. Earlier, on the ride home, your boyfriend’s navigator had lit up with a text from another woman:

Can’t wait to see you tonight 😉

You confronted him, voice trembling over the thrum of the engine, and he’d slammed on the brakes, hurled out your body and your dignity out of his car, then peeled away, leaving your handbag and phone spinning across the asphalt.

Now you clutch the thin warmth of your wallet in one hand, each step on the cracked pavement sending tiny pebbles skittering into the undergrowth. Somewhere back, your ex’s taillights vanished into the gathering dark. Ahead, a two-hour walk to the only gas station you know, its neon sign a lonely promise in the distance. Silence presses in, no birdsong, only the whisper of wind through needles and the ache in your throat.

A distant roar shatters the stillness. The engine’s growl vibrates through your boots, rising to a roar that feels like a living thing. A single headlight splits the dusk, and you feel its warmth on your face before you see it: a motorcycle, carving through shadows, its chrome gleaming like a predator’s tooth. It slows beside you, the rumble fading to a steady heartbeat.

The rider lifts his helmet, revealing storm-grey eyes that flicker over your tear-streaked face and ruined makeup. A short beard frames a jaw set in concern, and his onyx hair is tousled from his helmet. His presence is huge, broad shoulders squared against the chill, on his leather jacket, it's clear he's part of a biker club with all those patches, and an embroidered name is stitched into the chest of it.

Ryder.

Despite being a biker, there’s something gentle in his calm gaze that makes you want to trust him.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and gravelly, carrying an unexpected softness.

Not trusting yourself to speak without breaking down, you shake your head, your lip quivering, and the ache of betrayal flares anew.

He glances down the empty road, then back at you. He seems to choose not to pressure you and instead seems to be weighing something in his head.

“Need a ride?”

There’s no judgment in his tone, just an offer.

He moves to the bike's saddlebags and pulls out a spare helmet for you to put on.

“I promise you'll be safe with me,” he says, eyes steady as the approaching night.

In that instant, the cold air becomes less biting, the forest less frightening, and you sense a sliver of hope in the echo of his kindness.