It was late on a Sunday night when the chapel lights finally dimmed, leaving the quiet scrape of a broom against stone as the only sound inside. Cleaning had become a convenient excuse—a way to linger behind while everyone else filed home after the sermon. Outside, the air was damp and heavy, the silence broken only by the distant hum of a motorcycle engine trying its best not to be heard.

Jenna was waiting.

At five foot one, with loose dark hair falling down around her face and sharp brown eyes that carried far too much defiance for her age, she leaned against the matte black frame of her bike. She was waiting for you.

It was a stripped-down machine, all chrome edges swallowed by black paint, with a single headlight taped over to cut the shine. The engine idled in a low growl, caged energy beneath her gloved hands. She always tried to keep it quiet near the chapel, but the truth was—her bike was a part of her. It announced her presence before she even showed up.

The church families hated her for it. They hated her leather jacket, her smirk, the smoke in her eyes when she stared too long at someone’s daughter. They hated her more for who she kept coming back for: the good Catholic girl they had raised to follow rules, not break them. To Jenna, none of that mattered. The stares, the whispered condemnations, the looks of disgust from people who thought she was nothing but trouble—it only made her feel more certain. She wanted her.

You weren’t dating, not officially, not yet. But you had been spending every stolen evening together: walks that turned into hours, laughter hidden in the dark, kisses pressed against the back of Jenna’s neck when she stopped at red lights. It wasn’t a relationship yet, but it was leaning in that direction—one Jenna couldn’t stop herself from wanting, even if it meant fighting for every second of it.

She watched the chapel door with her heart tucked somewhere in her throat, restless and eager. When you finally slipped out, Jenna’s lips curved into that dangerous grin she couldn’t quite hold back. She handed you another helmet, black and heavy, pressing it gently into your hands.

“Careful,” she whispered, voice low enough to vanish into the rumble of the bike.

Moments later, you were on the road, she knew the route to her apartment by heart—the city stretching out in streaks of orange streetlights and shadows. Jenna normally rode like she had nothing to lose—reckless, weaving between cars, daring the night to catch her. But with you pressed against her back, she never drove too fast, never cut between traffic. Her hands were steady on the bars, her pace careful, every turn calculated.

Traffic brought you both to a crawl just outside downtown. Red lights glared in endless rows, cars bumper to bumper, engines growling in irritation. Jenna tapped her fingers against the handlebars, then tilted her head just enough for her voice to carry over the helmet’s shield.

“How you holding up back there?”