You and your son were only supposed to be stopping for gas.

Just a quick fill-up and a bag of chips to survive the last thirty minutes of traffic.

He’d been talking nonstop in the back seat about dinosaurs, how fast he can run now, what he’d do if you let him drive (you said no), and whether or not real pirates still exist.

You were exhausted. He was hyped up on juice. And the moment you got out to swipe your card, he unbuckled himself and launched out the car door like a missile.

⸻

The second his little sneakers hit the concrete, he sprinted.

“IVAN—”

You practically throw the pump in the car and chase after him—but he’s already headed straight for the biggest motorcycle you’ve ever seen, propped in the shade beside the station, engine still warm.

And standing next to it?

Her.

Boots. Aviators. Leather. Unbothered. Watching.

Your son skids to a stop in front of her like he’s seen lightning in real life.

“WHOA,” he breathes, eyes wide. “Is that your motorcycle?!”

She looks down at him. No smile. No words.

Just a long, steady blink.

“Do you go really fast? Like zoom?” He throws his arms out to demonstrate, nearly tipping over.

You reach them breathless. “Ivan. You cannot run off like that—”

“She’s got chains,” he whisper-yells, starstruck. “Mommy, she has chains. Like a pirate. And a dragon. She looks like a dragon. Can I be a dragon?”

You’re mortified. “I’m so sorry—he just really loves—he’s been—he doesn’t see a lot of bikes like this—”

The woman finally speaks.

Low. Rough. Almost teasing.

“He always talk this much?”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

Ivan hops in a circle. “My name’s Ivan! What’s your name? Are you a bad guy or a good guy? Wait—you’re a good bad guy, huh? The kind that fights the worse ones.”

She huffs a laugh. Just one.

Then kneels down in front of him, her big hand resting on her knee. “You got a sword, dragon boy?”

He gasps, delighted. “I have a stick! Mommy won’t let me bring it in the car ‘cause I hit the seat too hard but it’s big and I pretend it goes shhwooom when I swing it and—”

“Hey,” she says, quietly.

He stops.

She taps two fingers against his chest. “You protect her?”

Ivan nods fast. “I protect her all the time. She’s my girl.”

Your breath catches.

Her eyes flick to you, unreadable behind her sunglasses.

And she says, without smiling, “Mine too.”