Not in the way the world likes to define beauty, polished and posed. In the way that makes you swallow and forget to breathe. In the way that feels like a hit.
Curves that look soft until you realize softness doesn’t mean weakness. Freckles scattered across her cheeks like somebody flicked paint at her. Red hair that catches the smallest hint of light and turns it into something warm. Green eyes that should look alive, bright, defiant.
Right now they look hunted.
And that, more than anything, is what makes me want to tear the world apart.
I keep my speed steady, slow enough to be safe, fast enough to get her off this road.
I’m not much for conversation. Never have been.
My hands are better with engines. With metal and bolts and fixing what’s broken. I can take something that doesn’t run and make it run again.
People aren’t like that.
People leave.
My brain tries to remind me of my rules. Keep distance. Don’t get attached. Don’t bring trouble home.
Trouble is already on my bike, breathing against my spine.
I turn up the drive, trees closing in, and the cabin comes into view, a small shape against the dark. One light on the porch. Another over the garage door. Enough to see, not enough to invite.
I roll to a stop and kill the engine.
She doesn’t move at first.
It’s like her body is waiting for the moment the hit comes.
I’ve seen that too, and it makes something in my chest go hot and violent.
“You’re good,” I say, rough. “We’re here.”
Her breath releases in a shaky exhale.
She slides off the bike carefully, like her legs might not hold.
I want to touch her.
I don’t.
I keep it controlled.
I walk her toward the porch, and she glances back once toward the road, fear in her eyes.
“No worries about your car,” I tell her, because she’s going to ask and she’s too scared to. “It’ll be towed tonight. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”
She nods like she believes me.
She doesn’t.
I can see it in the way her eyes keep scanning the dark.
I unlock the door and step inside first, because habit keeps you alive. Light flicks on. Warmth hits.
The cabin is simple: one main room with a kitchenette, a couch, a small table, my bed tucked into the corner. Bathroom door off to the side. Everything clean but not fancy. Nothing soft except the blanket folded at the foot of the bed.
The attached garage is my real home. Tools, parts, the smell of oil and possibility.
