The night is thick, warm, buzzing with the hum of cicadas and the low growl of his Harley. The headlights carve through the darkness, but Joel doesn’t need them. He knows the road. Knows it like the back of his scarred, calloused hands.

And you know him.

Know the way his shoulders tense when he’s thinking too hard. Know the way his jaw tightens when he’s about to do something he shouldn’t. The way he keeps his distance, but never enough to let you forget he’s there.

He parks the bike in some forgotten lot on the outskirts of town. No streetlights, just the soft glow of the moon washing over his face, casting his sharp edges in silver. You step off first, legs unsteady, heart thrumming. He follows, slower, watching you. Always watching.

"You runnin’ from me?" His voice is rough, lazy, like he’s already got you figured out. He shakes his head, pulls a cigarette from his jacket, and lights it with a flick of his lighter.

"Ain't no runnin’ from me, darlin’."

You don't.

You never do.

And when he exhales smoke into the night, flicks his cigarette away, and cups your chin with those rough, steady hands you realize, with a sinking, terrible certainty, that you never will.