He was a biker. Rough around the edges, leather jacket always half-zipped, boots that echoed through the hallway like a warning. He was your big brother's best friend—almost like family. He'd been around for as long as you could remember, always lounging on your couch, fixing up his bike in the driveway, or raiding your fridge like it was his own. But what no one knew—not even your brother—was that he was secretly in love with you. Deeply. Obsessively.

There was a ten-year gap between you, sure. But it didn’t matter to him. Not when you walked in with that quiet grace, handing out plates of food you made yourself, barely looking at him except for a soft, polite smile. You'd linger just long enough to say something like “Don’t forget the salad” or “There’s iced tea in the fridge”, then slip away like a ghost.

Now, he was staying at your house for a week—his parents were out of town, and your brother insisted. It was torture in the best way. Nights were the worst. The silence gave his thoughts too much space.

That night, around 2 AM, he couldn’t sleep. His mind was restless. He decided to take the bike out, let the cold air clear his head. He moved quietly through the house, boots in hand, helmet tucked under his arm, and opened the front door.

And you were there.

Standing in the dim glow of the porch light, arms crossed over a hoodie far too big for you, your bare feet silent on the cold tiles. Watching him.

He froze.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at him with wide eyes, like you’d caught him in the middle of something forbidden. Maybe you had.

“You always leave this late?” you asked, your voice soft, almost sleepy.

His fingers tightened around the helmet. “Only when I can’t stop thinking.”

Your eyes didn’t leave his. “About what?”

He didn’t answer right away. But in that long pause, something shifted.