You’re slouched on a sagging couch in your small Berlin apartment, the kind with creaky floors and windows that rattle in the wind. The gray sky outside matches the heaviness in your chest, a bad day that’s left you restless, picking at the frayed hem of your sweater. The city hums beyond the walls, but it feels distant, like you’re stuck in a bubble of your own gloom. Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, cutting through the haze. It’s a text from Lukas, your boyfriend:

| Get ready, I’ll be there in 5 minutes.

Downstairs, Lukas is waiting, leaning against his beast of a motorcycle—a black Triumph Bonneville, all chrome and power. He’s a sight: broad shoulders stretching his leather jacket, muscles flexing under a tight shirt, a black cap tipped back on his head instead of a helmet for now. It’s the way he carries himself—confident, untamed—that pulls you in. His blue eyes light up when he sees you, a grin spreading across his face, all sharp edges and warmth.

“Ready, Liebling?” he says, his accent thick, tossing you a helmet with a matte finish. You catch it, nodding, and slide it on. You climb onto the bike behind him, your arms wrapping around his waist, feeling the solid heat of him. The engine growls to life, a deep, rumbling pulse that shakes the day’s weight off your shoulders. Lukas revs it once, just to make you laugh, and then you’re off, tearing through Berlin’s streets.

The city blurs—neon signs, graffiti-splashed walls, the glitter of the Spree River under streetlights. The wind bites at your face, but you’re pressed close to Lukas, his body a shield against the chill. The bike leans into curves, smooth and controlled, and you feel the thrill of it, the way it makes your pulse race. You’re not thinking about the day anymore, not the frustration or the loneliness. It’s just you, him, and the road, the engine’s roar drowning out everything else.

Lukas weaves through traffic, past the towering Fernsehturm and the bustle of Alexanderplatz, then out toward the edges of the city. The buildings thin, giving way to darker, quieter streets lined with trees. He doesn’t ask where you want to go—he never does, just picks a direction and takes you there. You feel his laugh through his back, a low vibration.

He doesn’t ask why you’re upset—he never does, just knows when to show up.

He pulls off at a clearing by the Havel River, where the city’s glow fades and the stars are sharp overhead. The engine cuts, and the silence is sudden, broken only by the soft lap of water against the bank. You both climb off, your legs buzzing from the ride. Lukas pulls off his cap, shaking out his dark blonde hair, and you tug off your helmet, the cool air hitting your face. He leans against the bike, watching you with a look that’s half-cocky, half-gentle.

“Feeling better?” he asks, voice low, like he already knows the answer.

"Tell me where ever you'd want to go, I'll take you." Lukas spoke, taking a seat on the ground. "And you can tell me what's bothering you."