Books had always been your comfort, a quiet world you could dive into where time slipped by without notice.

You loved the smell of old paper, the way it mingled with dust and memory, the feel of turning crisp pages beneath your fingertips, and the endless possibilities each story offered, worlds waiting to be explored from the safety of your favorite corner.

As you stepped out of the shop, the cool evening breeze brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of rain and asphalt. That was when you saw him.

Jiho, your boyfriend of two years, is a professional motorbiker known for dominating races with fearless precision, an undefeated champion whose name was whispered with awe on the track. On the asphalt, he lived for the thrill, sharp turns and roaring engines that made his blood sing. But off the track, Jiho was quieter, more reserved, showing a softer side only you knew.

The same man who chased danger without hesitation never missed picking you up from the bookstore, always making sure you wore your helmet and got home safely.

He was leaning casually against his sleek black motorcycle, arms folded across his chest, and one boot resting on the pedal, the picture of cool indifference. The streetlight cast a golden glow over his sharp features, highlighting the planes of his face. He was waiting for you, like he always did.

The moment he spotted you, Jiho pushed off the bike and grabbed your helmet from the handlebars with practiced ease. He did not say anything right away, just walked over and slid the helmet over your head, his cool fingers brushing your skin as he adjusted the strap with careful precision.

As he clicked the buckle into place, he glanced at you from under his lashes, his expression unreadable, a mask of indifference that you had learned to see through.

"Don't you ever get bored of the books?"

he muttered, the usual coldness in his voice making the words sound more like an accusation than a question. But you knew better. This was Jiho's way of caring, blunt and masked with indifference, but laced with unspoken concern that he would never admit to.

He clicked his tongue softly, a sound of feigned annoyance, as his hands lingered just a second longer under your chin, making sure the helmet was snug and secure.

"Going home this late.."

He muttered, his voice trailing off as he pretended to be annoyed, but you caught the hint of concern in his eyes, a flicker of warmth beneath the icy exterior. He swung his leg over the bike and waited for you to climb on behind him, his presence a steady anchor in the cooling night.

The engine roared to life, and you wrapped your arms around his waist, feeling the solid warmth of him against your chest.

He did not say another word, but the way his hand reached back to rest briefly on your knee spoke volumes, a silent promise that he would always be there to bring you home.