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Chapter One

Lana’s apartment was too quiet.

She closed the door behind her, turned the lock, slid the chain across—and still, silence pressed in. Not the heavy, living silence that had followed the biker into the store, but a thin, hollow kind. The kind that filled empty apartments where no one waited up for you.

She kicked off her shoes, let her bag slump to the floor, and drifted to the couch. The place was small, barely more than a box: sagging couch, thrift-store coffee table, peeling linoleum in the kitchenette. The kind of space meant to be temporary, except months had already slipped by, and she couldn’t tell anymore if she was staying out of survival or inertia.

Her hands still trembled faintly. She pressed her palms together, tried to steady them, and told herself it was nothing—that the drunk had just rattled her. That was all. But when she shut her eyes, it wasn’t the drunk’s face she saw. It was the black visor, tilted just slightly, reflecting her face back at her like a warped mirror.

She shifted restlessly, pulling her knees up to her chest. Who was he? He never spoke more than a handful of words. He never took off the helmet, not even under the blinding wash of fluorescent lights. And yet, the moment he stepped into the store, the air had thickened, her skin prickling as if her body recognized something her mind couldn’t.

She thought of the way he had stood between her and the drunk. He hadn’t touched the man. He hadn’t needed to. The sheer weight of him had been enough, like gravity had bent itself around him. He’d looked terrifying—inhuman even. But when she had thanked him…

Lana smiled faintly despite herself, burying her face against her knees. He had practically come undone. Stammering, fumbling over his own words, like a boy caught off guard. For someone so imposing, it was absurd. Endearing, almost.

Almost.

Her chest tightened again, remembering the way he had paused at the door, visor reflecting her face back at her. That hadn’t felt endearing. That had felt… different. Like being studied. Like being kept.

Lana shook her head, forcing a laugh into the stillness of the apartment. “Get a grip,” she muttered to herself. “He’s just a guy. A weird, awkward guy who rides a bike and doesn’t know how to talk to people.”

The words felt thin.

She stretched out on the couch, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette echoing faintly through the walls, and tried to convince herself that was the end of it. That she would never see him again, that he had just been passing through.

But in her chest, she already knew the truth.

Tomorrow, at 2:07 a.m., the bell above the door would chime.

And he would be there.

---

Chapter Two

The rain hadn’t stopped all night.

It came down in sheets, hammering the pavement, splattering against the neon sign above the Mad Dog until the red glow bled across the wet asphalt like a wound that never closed. Water pooled at the curb, spilling over in waves every time a passing car sliced through, though none slowed enough to notice the girl shivering beneath the crooked awning.

Lana hugged herself tighter, the thin jacket clinging damply to her arms. Her hair hung in dripping strands that clung to her cheeks and neck, cold as fingers. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, teeth gritted against the chill that had settled deep into her bones.

Her co-worker was late. Again. And not just a little late—so late it felt deliberate, like they knew she had no way inside until they arrived. The thought made her jaw tighten, but the exhaustion pressing at her ribs softened it to resignation.

She tried her phone again, thumb swiping across the cracked screen. Her manager’s number rang, clicked, then cut, busy with someone else. She tried again. The same. Useless. With a low groan, she shoved the phone back into her pocket, pressing herself closer against the locked glass doors as if the thin barrier might lend her warmth.

The rain was so loud it drowned out the world. Which was why she didn’t hear the approach—only felt it.

The air shifted behind her. A heaviness, a presence that bent the space around her, stretching shadow across neon. She froze, every nerve strung taut, and in the same breath something heavy dropped across her shoulders.

Lana startled, breath catching. Leather. The smell of oil and faint smoke. The weight of it was immense, swallowing her frame whole. Oversized, warm.

Her hands clutched instinctively at the jacket, fingers digging into the slick leather, as she turned her head.

He was there.

The biker.

Rain streaked down the black armor of him, dripping off the helmet that gleamed with distorted red light. The visor reflected her face back at her—small, pale, wrapped in a jacket too big, as if she had been folded into his shadow.

“…Why are you standing out here? Soaked like this.”

The voice came low, almost swallowed by the storm. Awkward, hesitant. But sharp enough to cut through the rain and slice into her chest.

Lana’s lips parted, fumbling for words. She pulled the jacket tighter, feeling its warmth soak into her chilled skin. “I… don’t have the key,” she said finally, the explanation spilling with a half-laugh. “My co-worker’s late again. I was trying to call the manager, but—” she lifted her hand helplessly, rain dripping from her sleeve—“no luck. Guess I’m stuck.”

He didn’t move. Just stood there, helmet tilted, the storm sliding off him like it couldn’t touch him. And though she couldn’t see his eyes, she felt them. Felt them lingering on her face, her hair plastered wet to her cheeks, the way she hugged his jacket around herself as if it were the only barrier between her and the storm.

When he finally spoke, the timbre had shifted. Still quiet. Still clipped. But softer, with a thread of something dangerous in its vulnerability.
“You’ll get sick.”

The bluntness startled her. She let out a laugh, sharp and breathless. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

He shifted slightly, gloves fidgeting at his sides. His voice came slower this time, like he was unpracticed, like each word had to be pried loose.
“You shouldn’t be out here. Not… like this.”

Her chest warmed despite the cold still prickling her skin. She tilted her head at him, studying the black visor as if she could see through it. A smile pulled at her lips, soft, mocking, but curious. “You really don’t talk much, do you?”

The helmet dipped, a subtle motion—embarrassment. “Don’t… usually need to.”

Something inside her stirred, a thrill winding tighter. She drew the jacket closer, inhaling the scent of leather and faint smoke, and let her smile widen. “Well, I like it. Hearing you talk, I mean.”

The rain roared. The neon flickered.

And then—silence.

Not the silence of distance, but the silence of something fragile cracking open. She swore she heard the faintest hitch in his breath, the smallest disruption inside the helmet. His visor stayed fixed on her—too long, too heavy—until her heart stuttered and she had to look away before it unraveled her completely.

She hadn’t realized how close he’d stepped until the heat of him radiated through the storm. The jacket wasn’t enough anymore; the storm wasn’t loud enough to hide the pulse in her throat. His presence filled the space, stretched it thin, until there was only him, the storm, and the neon bleeding red across both of their faces.

“Why… do you keep doing that?” she murmured, almost to herself.

“…Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

A pause. His gloved hands twitched at his sides, his shoulders taut. When his answer came, it was so low she almost thought she imagined it.
“Because I can’t stop.”

Her breath caught.

The storm kept roaring, indifferent, but under the awning it felt like the world had narrowed to a knife’s edge. She tightened her hold on the jacket—his jacket—and for the first time, Lana wasn’t sure if she wanted her co-worker to show up at all.

---

A pair of headlights turned the corner, slashing across the rain-slick pavement and scattering their fragile stillness. Lana blinked against the sudden glare, instinctively pulling the jacket tighter as the familiar rust-bucket sedan pulled into the lot. Her co-worker’s car. Late. Too late. The spell was already breaking.

The engine coughed before cutting off, and a figure stumbled out, hunched under a plastic umbrella that did little against the storm. Keys jingled somewhere in the dark, and Lana felt a low pang of irritation before her heart twisted in something else—panic. Not panic for herself, but for the sudden awareness of the man still beside her.

She turned toward him quickly, as if she could hide him with her eyes alone. But he was already shifting. The presence that had leaned close, that had lingered too long, that had admitted too much—retreated. His shoulders drew back, his body turning rigid. The concern that had softened his words vanished, replaced by the stiff silence that had defined him before.

His visor, which only moments ago had seemed fixed on her, angled toward the approaching figure instead. Unreadable. Cold. The storm hissed across the black of his helmet, dripping down like a second skin. He looked enormous again, untouchable, as if the small fragile world they had shared had been nothing more than her imagination.

Her co-worker trudged up with a muttered apology, fumbling with the keys, the umbrella bumping against Lana’s shoulder as though she weren’t even there. “Sorry, sorry—I overslept. Boss isn’t gonna kill me, is he?” They chuckled nervously, as if the storm itself could be laughed off.

Lana didn’t answer. She was too aware of the silence standing beside her. Too aware of the way the biker boy hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t reclaimed his jacket.

When the key finally scraped into the lock, the co-worker glanced past Lana—eyes widening, posture stiffening when they registered the looming figure under the awning. For a second, no words came, just a startled blink as if they’d walked straight into something they weren’t meant to see.

“Uh—friend of yours?”

Lana opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the biker boy’s voice cut low and flat. Different. Stripped of warmth. “No.”

The single word dropped like lead between them.

Her co-worker forced a laugh, muttered something about “creeps in the storm,” and hurried inside, shaking off the umbrella as if that could dispel the tension. The fluorescent lights flickered on, humming their cheap buzz, spilling white across the glass doors.

Lana stood in the red glow and rain-dark shadow, caught between worlds. She wanted to say something, anything, to pull him back to the fragile warmth he’d shown her only moments before. But when she turned to him, his visor was already angled away, the storm reflected in its black surface instead of her face.

The jacket hung heavy on her shoulders, the only proof it hadn’t all been a dream.

And then, without a word, he stepped back into the rain. No hesitation, no pause. Just the solid rhythm of boots against wet pavement, fading into the roar of the storm until the night swallowed him whole.

Lana’s throat tightened. Her co-worker called her name from inside, impatient, but she didn’t move. She stayed there beneath the awning, jacket clutched tight around her, staring into the rain long after he was gone.

Because part of her knew—what she had just lost in those few stolen minutes was something she might never be able to get back again.

---

The fluorescent lights inside the Mad Dog were too bright, too sterile. They hummed above Lana like a nest of electric hornets, stripping away the storm’s intimacy with their merciless glare. The storm still pounded against the windows, but in here, the world smelled of floor cleaner and stale coffee, not rain and smoke and leather.

And yet, she couldn’t shake him.

The jacket still clung to her shoulders, oversized and heavy, swallowing her in folds of warmth that didn’t belong to her. It smelled faintly of oil, faintly of fire, faintly of him. Even as she sat perched behind the counter, her hands curled tight into the sleeves, dragging them close like a secret she wasn’t ready to give up. Her co-worker had already thrown themself into routine—unpacking snacks, sweeping up rainwater tracked in from the floor tiles—but every so often they’d glance at her. At the jacket. At the way she seemed a little too still.

Finally, they couldn’t help themselves.
“So… who was that guy?”

Lana looked up, blinking as though she’d been somewhere far away. “What?”

Her co-worker smirked, leaning on the mop handle. “The biker boy. The one who looked like he eats people for breakfast.” Their tone was half-joking, half-nervous. “I mean, you let him put his jacket on you? That’s… something.”

Heat crept up Lana’s neck, though the store was cold. She shifted in her seat, tugging the jacket closer around her as if it could hide the flush in her face. “He’s just… a customer.”

“Uh-huh.” The teasing stretched, their smirk widening. “A customer who shows up at two in the morning on the dot, never talks to anyone, and—what? Plays knight in shining armor just for you? Yeah, sure. Just a customer.”

Lana opened her mouth, then closed it again. The denial wouldn’t come. She stared down at the counter instead, her reflection warped in the scratched glass. Just a customer. But the words rang hollow even in her own head. Customers didn’t look at her like that. Customers didn’t linger like shadows. Customers didn’t press warmth into her skin that still hadn’t faded.

Her co-worker chuckled, shaking their head. “You’ve got a stalker, girl. Creepy as hell. Bet if we checked the cameras, he’s been watching you all night.”

Lana’s chest tightened, the words hitting too close to the truth. She should’ve laughed, should’ve brushed it off—but instead, her fingers dug deeper into the leather, her knuckles pale where she clutched it. Stalker. Maybe that was what he was. But the memory of his voice, awkward and low, replayed in her skull. You’ll get sick. The way it cracked when she teased him. The way he admitted, raw and unguarded—Because I can’t stop.

Her co-worker went back to mopping, humming tunelessly, their laughter lingering in the air. But Lana didn’t hear them. She was somewhere else, trapped in the storm again, visor-locked, drowning in the knowledge that she didn’t want him to stop.

The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the silence he’d left behind.

And still, the jacket clung to her like a second skin.

---

The storm outside had dulled to a steady downpour, the windows streaked with silver lines that caught the red glow of the Mad Dog sign. Inside, the world was quieter now, just the hum of coolers and the squeak of a mop dragging across tile. But Lana still couldn’t steady herself. The jacket on her shoulders weighed too much, smelled too strongly of him, and every time she shifted, it was like pressing against the memory of his body.

Her co-worker finally abandoned the mop, leaning lazily against the counter. Their gaze flicked between her and the jacket, amusement curling their mouth.
“You know, you looked pretty cozy out there.”

Lana snapped her head up, startled. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me.” The grin widened. “Big scary biker shows up in the rain, puts his jacket on you, stands there like he’s guarding a princess in a tower… Tell me that’s not straight out of a romance novel.”

Lana scoffed, too sharp, too quick. “He’s not— It wasn’t—” She shook her head, fumbling. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Her co-worker raised a brow, clearly enjoying this. “Am I? ‘Cause from where I was standing, he looked pretty damn into you. Couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

Her stomach flipped. She forced a laugh, too thin to sound convincing. “You didn’t see anything. His helmet—his visor—you can’t even see his face.”

“Yeah, but you can feel it, can’t you?” They leaned closer, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Come on, Lana. You’ve got a thing for him, don’t you?”

The words hit too directly, too carelessly. Lana’s breath caught, heat prickling across her cheeks before she could stop it. “I don’t,” she snapped, clutching the jacket tighter around her as though that denial meant something when she was still wrapped in it.

Her co-worker let out a low whistle, chuckling. “Oh, that’s cute. You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” They tilted their head, smirk widening. “You’re red all the way up to your ears.”

Lana turned away, pretending to shuffle papers on the counter, though her hands trembled. Her reflection in the glass showed the truth she didn’t want to admit—cheeks flushed, lips pressed too tightly together, eyes shining with something restless.

“I said I’m not,” she muttered, quieter now, as if volume could make it real.

Her co-worker laughed, full and easy, the kind of laugh that scraped along her nerves. “Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

Lana bit the inside of her cheek, the jacket collar brushing her chin, the phantom weight of his voice still echoing in her head. Because I can’t stop.

And no matter how hard she tried, her heart was already betraying her.

Her co-worker finally dropped into the chair across from her, arms crossed, grin still lingering. They studied her like she was a puzzle they’d already solved. “You know…” they started slowly, voice tilting sly, “guys like that? They’re not just mysterious. They’re trouble.”

Lana stiffened, hugging the jacket closer. “You don’t even know him.”

“Neither do you,” they shot back. “He’s a walking cliché, Lana. Big, silent, leather-clad. Never shows his face, always shows up in the dead of night. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s hiding something.” Their smirk curved sharper. “Hell, maybe he’s killed someone.”

The words hit like ice water, crawling down her spine. For a split second, she imagined it too vividly—the stains on his gloves, the frayed cuffs, the way his silence carried weight heavier than words. The thought flashed quick and cold: what if he really had?

Her throat went dry, but she forced a scoff anyway, shaking her head. “That’s—no. Don’t be stupid.”

“Stupid?” They leaned forward, resting their elbows on the counter. “Come on, Lana. You’ve seen the news. Weirdos out there all the time. A guy like him? He could snap you in half if he wanted. And you—you’re out here acting like it’s some fairy-tale meet-cute.”

Her heart thudded hard enough to make her chest ache. “He wouldn’t,” she said, too quickly, too firmly, and she hated the way her voice cracked on the last word.

Her co-worker laughed again, but this time it was edged with disbelief. “Listen to yourself. You don’t even know him, but you’re already defending him. That’s how girls end up on the six o’clock news.”

Lana turned away, heat flooding her cheeks, shame biting through her nerves. The jacket was suffocating now, too heavy, too warm, but she couldn’t take it off. Her fingers clutched the leather tighter, nails digging into the seams. Every instinct screamed she should feel afraid, that her co-worker was right, that this man was a threat.

But the memory of his voice still lingered, rough and awkward, cracking when he told her not to stand in the rain. The way he’d looked at her—like she was the only thing anchoring him in that storm. She couldn’t shake it.

Her lips parted, words tumbling before she could stop them. “He… saved me.”

Her co-worker’s brows rose, surprise flickering. Then they chuckled, shaking their head. “Or maybe he’s just making sure you feel like you owe him.”

The idea should’ve chilled her. Should’ve made her peel off the jacket and shove it away like it burned. Instead, her pulse kicked higher, heat crawling into her chest until she could hardly breathe. She lowered her gaze to the counter, unable to meet their eyes.

Because the terrifying truth was this: even if he was dangerous—even if he was a monster—part of her didn’t want him to let her go.

The rain hadn’t eased by the time Lana’s shift finally ended. It was the kind that blurred the world into watercolor streaks, swallowing up sound, leaving her footsteps small and fragile against the wash of water pouring down the streets. She tugged the oversized leather jacket tighter around her, its weight clinging to her shoulders like a secret she wasn’t supposed to keep. The smell of it—smoke, oil, and something sharper she couldn’t place—wrapped around her, as intimate as a touch. It wasn’t hers, it shouldn’t have been hers, yet here she was, walking through the storm with it pressed to her skin like a claim.

The streets were empty, hushed in that peculiar way only the dead hours of the night could be, when even the stray dogs and taxis vanished, and the world seemed to hold its breath. Neon signs flickered in the distance, their light bending through sheets of rain, red and blue and yellow bleeding into the puddles at her feet. She found her way to the bus stop and sat beneath its shallow plastic awning, though the wind pushed the rain sideways so droplets still spattered her legs and face. She hugged the jacket closer, knees pulled in, chin tucked, waiting. Waiting for the bus that never came.

Minutes stretched into long, wet silence. She closed her eyes and listened to the downpour, her breath fogging the cool air, until she felt the shift in the night. A sound, deep and guttural, crawling up from the dark street like something alive. The low rumble of an engine. It rolled closer, filling her chest with its vibration, and something in her body already knew before she looked. Her pulse tripped over itself, heart lodging high in her throat.

The motorcycle cut through the storm, its black bulk gleaming under the fractured glow of a streetlight. It slowed, heavy tires slicing through water, until it stopped right at the curb where she sat. The engine’s growl died away, but the silence it left behind wasn’t empty—it was weighted, full, pressing down on her until her lungs felt too tight.

And then he was there.

The biker dismounted, boots thudding on slick pavement, the rain pouring down his helmet and the soaked cling of his compression shirt. Even stripped of his jacket—his jacket that she was wearing—he looked formidable, his shadow filling the small bus shelter before he even stepped into it. He stopped just in front of her, visor reflecting the halo of the streetlamp, her own face thrown back at her in warped glass.

“What are you doing out here?” His voice was low, rough, and far too intent, as though the question mattered more than it should.

Lana blinked up at him, her lips parting, a laugh threatening to spill despite her chest tightening. “What does it look like? I’m waiting for the bus.”

He stilled, as if her answer had disarmed him. For a long beat he said nothing, just stood in the rain, helmet angled down at her like he was memorizing the shape of her, like she was something fragile and foreign he couldn’t bring himself to touch.

She smirked faintly, tilting her head, letting the edge of her voice curl playful. “You know, for someone who barely talks, you ask the strangest questions.” She patted the bench beside her, the plastic slick with water. “Sit with me, biker boy.”

The nickname slipped out again, soft and teasing, but this time it seemed to hit him differently. His whole frame went taut, a ripple of tension running through him as though the word itself was too much. For a moment she thought he might refuse. Then, slowly, with the stiffness of a man walking into a trap he wanted but feared, he lowered himself onto the bench.

The seat dipped under his weight, his frame crowding the small space until heat radiated from him in waves, damp fabric clinging to his chest and arms. He sat rigid, shoulders squared, hands resting stiffly on his thighs. Lana leaned back, watching him from the corner of her eye, and nearly laughed out loud at the way he carried himself, like proximity to her was something he had to endure.

Her gaze lingered on his chest, on the damp shirt stretched across muscle, and then she saw it—just barely visible even through the dark fabric. A flush, creeping up from his collar, spreading up the line of his throat. The smallest crack in his armor, but enough to make her grin.

“You’re nervous,” she murmured, voice low but bright with amusement.

His head turned toward her, visor shifting, his voice dropping rough as gravel. “I’m not.”

“You are,” she pressed, letting her shoulder brush against his arm, deliberate and feather-light. The contact made him go stiff as stone. “You get all tense whenever I’m close. It’s cute.”

For a long time he didn’t move, didn’t speak, his helmet fixed forward as though he could hold himself together if he just stared hard enough at the rain. But when he finally answered, his voice cracked faintly, betraying him. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

Lana’s grin widened, her chest tightening with the rush of having found the thread that unraveled him. “Why not?”

The rain roared around them, the night pressing closer, the shelter too small for the space between them. She watched his gloved hands twitch against his thighs, his breath rasp shallow through the helmet. And then, in a voice so raw it felt like it had scraped its way out of him, he said, “Because I can’t stop.”

The air between them snapped taut, so thin it felt like it might break with one more word. Lana’s pulse thudded in her ears, her breath catching sharp. She searched the dark visor, desperate to see what burned behind it, but all she found was her own reflection staring back—flushed, trembling, alive.

The bus didn’t come.

And sitting there, drenched in his shadow and his jacket, Lana realized she didn’t care if it ever did.

The silence stretched between them, thick with the storm, and Lana couldn’t help but fill it. Curiosity pulsed through her, sharp and restless, impossible to tamp down. She turned toward him, chin tilted, eyes glinting with mischief that was half genuine, half an attempt to peel back the endless wall of his silence.

“So,” she began, voice lilting, “do you always skulk around in the middle of the night like this? Or am I just special?”

His helmet angled slightly toward her. A pause, long enough to make her grin before he finally muttered, “Just… here.”

“Just here?” she echoed, feigning shock. “You mean I’m your only midnight pit stop? Wow. I feel honored.” She hugged his jacket tighter around herself, biting back the laugh that wanted to escape. “Alright then, biker boy, riddle me this: why the helmet? You allergic to fresh air or something?”

That one landed. He stiffened, his gloved fingers flexing against his thighs. For a second, she thought he might ignore her completely. But then his voice came low, hesitant, like every word had to claw its way out. “…You wouldn’t like my face.”

Her brows shot up. “Wouldn’t like your face?” She leaned closer, eyes narrowing as though she could see through the visor if she tried hard enough. “That’s the dumbest excuse I’ve ever heard. What, do you have a third eye? Horns? A missing nose?”

Silence. Then, finally, a gruff, almost defensive: “It’s… not worth seeing.”

Lana laughed, unable to help it. The sound bounced off the hollow bus shelter, too bright against the rain. “You’re ridiculous. Everyone’s face is worth seeing. Unless you’re secretly a lizard. Or—wait—are you Batman? That’s it, right? You can’t reveal your identity because Gotham needs you.”

She caught it then, the faintest sound from inside the helmet, almost like a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh, wasn’t quite a laugh either—something caught between irritation and amusement. It only made her bolder.

“Fine, if you won’t give me that, give me something else.” She tilted her head, green eyes sharp with mischief. “How old are you?”

Another long pause. “…Old enough.”

She barked out a laugh, shaking her head. “Old enough? That’s not an answer, that’s what creeps say when they don’t want to admit they’re thirty-five and lurking around college kids.”

“I’m not—” he started, but cut himself off, shoulders tightening as though even that much was too much to give away.

“You’re terrible at this,” she teased, grinning. “What’s next? If I ask your name, you’re going to tell me it’s John Doe?”

“…Could be,” he said, deadpan, and that—finally—made her double over with laughter.

“Oh my god. You are impossible.” She swiped at the rain dripping down her cheek, smiling so wide her face hurt. “You realize you just gave me less information than if you’d said nothing at all, right?”

He shifted beside her, the helmet tilting down, gloved hands twitching faintly. “Better that way.”

“Better for who?” she shot back quickly, her grin softening as she searched the reflection of her own face in his visor. The answer she wanted wasn’t there, but the silence that followed was heavy, full of something unsaid.

Lana exhaled, leaning back against the slick plastic wall of the shelter, jacket pulled snug around her. The storm pressed on, relentless, but here—crowded close with him, teasing at the edges of his armor—she felt warmer than she had all night. She smiled to herself, quiet but unshakable.

It wasn’t just that he showed up. It was that he stayed.

The laughter between them faded, but the echo of it lingered in the small shelter, warm against the storm outside. Lana tugged the jacket tighter around herself, cheeks flushed, chest buzzing from the way she’d managed to pry even the smallest cracks in his armor. He hadn’t given her his face, his name, his age—but he had given her something more fragile: the way he fumbled when pressed, the way silence stretched too long before he spoke, the way his shoulders twitched like she’d struck somewhere vulnerable.

And then it was quiet again, the two of them pressed close while the rain hammered against the roof. Minutes slipped by. The bus still didn’t come.

She opened her mouth to tease him again, but before she could, his voice came—low, unsteady, too abrupt, as if he hadn’t planned to say it until the words broke loose.

“…Let me take you home.”

Her brows lifted, amused. “On your bike?”

He shifted beside her, posture stiff, helmet dipping in the faintest nod. “It’s better than waiting here. You’ll be waiting all night.”

Lana tilted her head, studying him. The visor reflected her face back at her, pale and wet, lips curved sly. “What, worried about me?”

His gloves flexed against his thighs, the silence he left hanging enough to tell her the answer even if he wouldn’t say it. Finally, his voice came rough, almost defensive: “Yes.”

That pulled the smile right out of her and replaced it with something heavier in her chest. She swallowed, blinking, before the grin crept back, softer now, threaded with heat. “You’re really bad at hiding that, you know.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just sat there, huge and silent, the storm dripping from his shoulders. But she saw it—the twitch in the way he angled his helmet toward her, the smallest give in his rigid frame. He wanted her to say yes. He needed her to.

She let him squirm for a beat longer before pushing to her feet, water spattering from her shoes on the slick pavement. “Fine,” she said lightly, tugging his jacket closer around herself. “I’ll let you play chauffeur. But you’d better not crash, biker boy. I’d hate to find out what kind of roadkill you make.”

He rose immediately, too fast, like he’d been waiting for the words and couldn’t trust himself not to ruin it by staying seated. Towering beside her, he gestured awkwardly toward the bike, boots splashing through puddles. “It’s… safe.”

Lana smirked, following him out into the rain. “Safe? You ride a death machine for fun. That’s not exactly convincing.”

He froze for half a second, then glanced back over his shoulder. The visor gave nothing away, but his voice cracked rougher than before: “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Something in her chest tightened at that, sharper than she expected. She covered it with a laugh, shaking her head. “You really don’t know how to flirt, do you?”

At the bike, he fumbled with the extra helmet strapped to the back, gloved fingers stiff as though even this simple motion carried too much weight. He held it out to her, awkward and hesitant, almost reverent, as if handing her a crown instead of a scuffed piece of gear. She took it, brushing her fingers deliberately against his, watching the way he flinched at the touch.

When she pulled the helmet over her head, she caught the last flicker of him turning away too quickly, as though the sight of her wearing part of his armor was too much for him to bear.

And then came the moment—the inevitable moment—when she climbed onto the bike. Sliding up close behind him, her thighs brushing against his, her arms wrapping tight around his solid frame. She felt the hitch in his breath through the contact, the way his whole body stiffened beneath her touch before slowly, reluctantly, giving into it.

The storm blurred the city into streaks of color, but here, pressed flush against him, heart pounding against his back, Lana realized this was the first time she had really touched him. And it felt dangerous—not because of the speed of the machine, but because of how much she already didn’t want to let go.

The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural growl that vibrated straight through her bones. Lana tightened her hold on him instinctively, her arms locked around his middle as the bike shuddered beneath them. Even through the soaked compression shirt, she could feel the hard planes of muscle under her palms, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the tense coil of his breathing. He was too warm, too solid, and the storm only made the heat of him more unbearable.

When the bike surged forward, water spraying from its tires, she pressed closer without thinking, her cheek brushing against the damp leather of his shoulder. The city around them vanished into streaks of color—neon reds and washed-out blues smeared across wet asphalt, shopfronts shuttered, streetlights blurred by rain. It was as if the world had collapsed into nothing but speed and contact, her pulse syncing with the machine’s relentless rhythm.

Every movement of his body was magnified—when he leaned into a turn, she leaned with him, thighs clenching against his, arms tightening around his chest. She could feel the flex of him beneath her grip, the ripple of muscle braced against the storm. And when her hands, slick with rain, slid slightly lower across his stomach toward his chest, she felt him falter. Just for a breath. His body stiffened under her, his head tilting as though the simple slip of her touch had cracked something deep.

She almost laughed into the helmet, the thrill of it buzzing sharp in her veins. Even now—this figure who seemed untouchable, unreadable, invulnerable—he couldn’t hide the way her closeness wrecked him. She could feel it in the tremor of his chest, the subtle quickening of his breath, the flush that crept hot beneath the damp fabric of his shirt.

The rain lashed against them, biting and cold, but Lana didn’t feel it. All she felt was him, every inch of him, her body molded against his as the bike devoured the slick streets. The storm was nothing. The city was nothing. It was only this—the suffocating closeness, the way she could sense the war raging inside him with every mile they cut through the dark.

And for the first time, she wondered if she had gone too far. Because if he was this undone by a hand, by her leaning closer, what would happen if she pushed harder? If she didn’t let go?

The thought made her grip him tighter, made her lips curve into a smile no one could see beneath the helmet.

Because part of her already knew: she didn’t want to let go.

The bike slowed as the streets grew narrower, the storm softening into steady drizzle, headlights dragging across puddles that glowed with pale reflections. Lana felt the shift before she saw it—the way he straightened, the way the vibration of the engine softened beneath them. And then the realization struck her like a jolt: they weren’t just anywhere. They were already in front of her building.

Her arms tightened instinctively around him, a flicker of unease beneath the heat that still buzzed from the ride. She hadn’t told him her address. She hadn’t even told him her street.

The bike rumbled to a stop at the curb, rain dripping from the edges of his helmet, steam curling faintly from the machine. Lana slid her hands away slowly, feeling the damp fabric cling to her palms before she pulled them back. She stepped down onto the slick pavement, legs unsteady, heart louder than the storm.

For a moment, she just stood there in the rain, holding his jacket close to her body, staring up at the faceless giant who had just carried her home. The air was thick with what she didn’t say. Then she forced a small smile, trying to cut through the silence.

“Thanks for the joyride,” she said, her voice light but her pulse betraying her. “I’d forgotten how alive it feels—being that close to dying.”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, visor tilted toward her. The silence stretched until she had to fill it again. Her smile sharpened, playful but laced with challenge.

“So… tell me, biker boy. How’d you know where I live?”

There it was—the faintest twitch in his posture, the smallest give in his towering stillness. His head jerked slightly, and when he answered, his voice was lower than usual, almost stumbling over itself. “I—just. Followed the road. Saw you before. Once. That’s all.”

The excuses came clipped, messy, defensive. His gloves flexed against the handles like he wanted to throttle the words back into silence.

Lana tilted her head, wet strands of hair clinging to her cheek, green eyes sharp beneath the soft glow of the streetlight. “Saw me before?” she repeated, her tone teasing, dragging out the pause. “Sounds like you’ve been keeping tabs, biker boy. Should I be flattered? Or freaked out?”

He didn’t answer. Just sat there, shoulders rising and falling with a restrained rhythm. She could almost hear the storm inside him, louder than the rain.

Lana chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You’re terrible at lying, you know that?” She took a step back, toward the building, hugging his jacket closer. “But hey, thanks for the ride. I’ll see you when I see you.”

She had just turned, her foot lifting toward the first step, when his voice broke through the storm.

“Wait.”

It wasn’t the low, clipped growl she had grown used to. It was rougher, deeper, threaded with hesitation and something that sounded almost like fear. The single word held her in place, freezing her mid-step. Slowly, she turned back, rain dripping down her temple, eyes narrowing.

He shifted on the bike, massive frame stiff but betraying cracks in the sheer presence he carried. When he spoke again, his voice came softer, almost strangled, the sound of a man dragging something raw from his chest.

“…Give me your number.”

The request hung there, vibrating between them. Too quiet for his size, too desperate for his aura. His gloves fidgeted on the handlebars, his helmet tilted slightly down as if ashamed of the words even as he forced them out.

For the first time since she’d met him, Lana saw him not as a shadow or a towering figure in leather—but as something far more dangerous. Someone who wanted. Someone who needed.

And the storm raged on, as if holding its breath, waiting to see what she would do.

For a long moment, Lana just stared at him through the silvered visor, the words still echoing in the air. Give me your number. From a man who rarely spoke at all, who carried himself like a fortress—there was something almost shocking about how naked the request sounded. It was too direct, too raw. She should’ve laughed. She should’ve said no.

Instead, she tilted her head, a smile tugging at her lips, sharp and deliberate. “Wow,” she murmured, folding her arms under his jacket, “the big, scary biker finally asking a girl for her digits? What’s next—flowers and chocolate?”

He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. But his stillness wasn’t calm this time—it was tense, vibrating like a string pulled too tight. His gloves flexed against the handlebars, his shoulders shifting slightly, betraying nerves he couldn’t hide. The sight made her laugh softly, the sound almost cruel in how amused she was by it.

“Why?” she asked suddenly, stepping closer, forcing his hidden gaze to stay locked on her. The rain ran in rivulets down her hair, dripping from her lashes, but she didn’t blink. “Why do you even want it? So you can… what? Text me at 3 a.m. with more of your one-word answers? Or maybe just to make sure I’m not talking to anyone else?”

Her tone was playful, but the words carried weight, slicing closer to truth than she meant. For the briefest second, she thought she saw him flinch.

She took another step, close enough now to feel the heat radiating off his damp body, close enough that the rain bouncing off his helmet hit her skin. “C’mon,” she whispered, eyes glinting. “You don’t actually think I’m just gonna give it to you, do you? You haven’t even told me your name.”

The silence that followed stretched sharp and thin. She could practically hear his pulse thundering under that armor of leather and steel. Her own heart wasn’t much quieter.

Finally, he spoke, voice gravelly, caught between restraint and desperation. “…Please.”

It was just a word, but it snapped something inside her. The way it broke from him—hesitant, low, almost unsteady—was the exact opposite of everything he projected. It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t a threat. It was a man begging, in the only way he knew how.

Lana’s smile softened, just barely. She let the silence stretch a little longer, savoring the way he squirmed under her gaze, before finally sighing. “Alright,” she said, as if she were granting him some dangerous privilege. “But you’d better not make me regret it.”

She dug into her bag for a crumpled receipt and a pen, scrawling the digits with quick strokes. When she pressed the slip of paper into his gloved hand, she let her fingers linger just a fraction longer than necessary, enough to make him jolt, enough to make him feel it.

Then she pulled back, stepping toward her building, the smile curling sharper once more. “Don’t blow up my phone,” she tossed over her shoulder, voice teasing. “I like a little mystery, remember?”

She didn’t wait to see if he answered. Didn’t wait to watch him react. But as she slipped inside the front door, jacket still clutched around her shoulders, her pulse was wild, her skin alive. Because she knew, with a certainty that unsettled her, that she had just handed something dangerous over to him—something he would never give back.

For a long, stifling moment, he didn’t move. The rain slicked off the edges of his helmet, pooling in the seams of his gloves, dripping in steady lines down the broad rise of his jacket. He sat hunched slightly forward, one hand still on the throttle, the other frozen around the scrap of paper Lana had pressed into his palm. He stared at it as though it were some fragile, forbidden relic—something he shouldn’t have been given, something he didn’t deserve. The digits were already blurring in the rain, ink feathering into the damp, but to him, they burned brighter than neon. Her number. Her. A part of her life, handed over willingly, pressed against his skin like a brand.

He curled his fingers tight. The crumpled whisper of paper echoed sharper in his helmet than the roar of the storm. His breath shuddered against the visor, fogging it white, each inhale jagged, too heavy. He had faced worse things than this night, darker things than storms—but nothing had ever rattled him like the weight of those digits. He clutched them like a lifeline, chest rising and falling in erratic, uneven bursts, his body too big to look anything but monstrous and yet too undone to feel anything but small.

Still, he lingered. He didn’t leave. He stayed rooted there in front of her building, visor tilted up toward the faint blur of her figure under the soft glow of the stairwell light. She stood half in shadow, half haloed by rain, watching him with that unreadable expression—half curious, half cautious, all dangerous. He memorized her in silence: the tilt of her head, the wet strands of dark hair plastered to her cheek, the faint curve of her lips that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t a rejection either. He soaked it in, desperate, like he could stitch this image inside his mind and carry it with him forever.

It was only when she lifted her hand—a half-wave, half-dismissal, casual as though she hadn’t just shifted the entire axis of his world—that he forced himself to move. The bike snarled alive beneath him, engine rattling like an animal begging to be unleashed, but even then, he couldn’t tear himself away. His shoulders stiffened, breath harsh, as though leaving her here, in front of him, was a violence he didn’t know how to commit.

And yet, he did. He tore himself free with a lurching roar, the bike spitting water from its tires as it devoured the wet street. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d leave at all. But even as the storm swallowed the sound of his engine, his absence pressed heavier than his presence ever had, and Lana was left standing on the steps with something strange and aching blooming in her chest—because she knew, deep down, she had just fed something dangerous.

Down those slick, empty streets, he kept riding. The city blurred around him, neon and rain and shadow smearing into nothing, but his grip on the number never loosened. The crumpled scrap was already damp, almost illegible, but he could still feel the impression of her touch pressed into it. He could still smell her on his jacket, the faint warmth of her body still clinging to the damp compression shirt beneath his leathers. He rode like a man on fire, each breath a staggered effort to contain what burned through him. He knew he had crossed a line tonight, stepped from shadow into something he could never retreat from—but retreat had never been an option. Not with her.

He glanced once, briefly, at the clenched fist in his lap, knuckles white beneath the gloves, paper crumpled tight enough to snap. It wasn’t just a number. It was permission. It was proof. It was a tether he would never allow to break. And in that single, consuming moment, soaked in rain and neon blur, he understood the truth with terrifying clarity:

He wouldn’t let it go.

The apartment was silent when she stepped in, save for the soft patter of rain against the thin windowpanes. She peeled the damp jacket from her shoulders and let it slide onto the back of a chair, but the weight of it clung to her still—heavy leather, warm with the memory of his body. She stood in the middle of the room, shoes dripping onto the cracked linoleum, heart still rattling in her ribs like she hadn’t stepped off the bike at all.

She tried to breathe, to shake it off, to convince herself it had been nothing more than a ride, a strange man’s misplaced sense of chivalry. But her skin betrayed her. Her hands still remembered the give of his body beneath damp fabric, the heat that rolled off him like a second storm. Her legs still buzzed from straddling the machine, from clinging to him as the city blurred past. And her ears—God, her ears still rang with the sound of his voice.

That voice. She pressed her palms against her face, as if she could smother the echo of it. All night he had spoken in clipped words, measured silence, a man who seemed to ration sound like oxygen. And then, there at her doorstep, he had cracked. She had heard it—the strain, the hesitation, the quiet desperation laced through the single word. Please. It hadn’t been casual. It hadn’t even been careful. It had been raw, dragged out of him like blood.

And she couldn’t stop replaying it. The way his helmet tilted slightly down when he said it, as though ashamed. The way his size and his aura had shrunk in that moment, leaving something far more dangerous behind: a need. The image of him clutching her number in the rain kept flashing in her mind, as vivid as if she were still standing on the steps. She shivered, not from the cold, but from the truth that scared her most—that she hadn’t wanted to deny him.

She moved through her apartment in a daze, flicking on the small lamp by the couch, staring at the weak circle of light it threw against peeling wallpaper. Everything felt too still, too small after the rush of the storm, after being pressed so close to him that she’d felt every breath he took. She wrapped her arms around herself, but the gesture felt hollow compared to the way she’d clung to him only minutes ago.

Somewhere outside, a motorcycle growled faintly before fading into distance, swallowed by rain. The sound jolted her, sent a sharp pulse of heat through her chest. Was it him, still circling? Was it coincidence? She didn’t know. She didn’t want to know.

All she knew was that he was under her skin now, woven into her pulse, stitched into her thoughts. She’d meant to tease him, to test him, to watch him squirm. But now, sitting alone in her apartment with his jacket draped over her chair and his voice still reverberating in her head, she realized she had given him something more dangerous than her number.

She had given him a place inside her. And he wasn’t leaving.