Felix asks me to join him on his bike. He doesn't say much, just tilts his head toward the motorcycle like it's the most obvious answer in the world. I follow. He picks up the helmet and gently slides it over my head, careful not to pinch my hair. He still does it like he always did—like it matters. Like I matter.
Then I hop on behind him, my arms automatically wrapping around his waist. Muscle memory, I guess. The leather of his jacket is warm under my palms. Familiar.
And then we're off. He's driving like he has a vendetta against the road. The engine roars like it's fueled by emotion, not gasoline. I lean in, gripping him tighter with every sharp turn, every sudden curve we slice through. The city blurs. Cars honk. The wind screams past us.
"Felix!" I yell once, my voice snatched away by the wind. He just laughs.
