She doesn't scream, but her arms tighten enough to choke me, her face buried against my throat.
We drop fast, a controlled fall, eight stories in six seconds. Her body pressed against mine, every curve, every tremor, the rabbit-quick beat of her heart against my chest.
We hit the alley hard, and I take the impact on my legs, keeping her upright. "You can open your eyes now."
She pulls back slightly, and we're face to face, inches apart. Her pupils are blown wide, breath coming in pants that ghost across my mouth. Time stops for one impossible second, the world narrowing to green-gold eyes and parted lips.
Gunfire erupts from above, shattering the moment.
I grab her hand, and we run.
A motorcycle catches my eye—a matte-black Triumph parked half in shadow, keys nowhere in sight but tempting as sin.
Agile and quick. Exactly what we need.
I crouch beside it, fingers working quickly and sure beneath the console.
Wires spark, the engine growls to life, low and rough like a warning.
She doesn’t ask what I’m doing. Just steps close, eyes steady on mine. When I swing a leg over, she climbs on behind me without a word, her thighs bracketing my hips, palms flattening against my stomach.
The engine vibrates through both of us as I gun the throttle. Her body presses tighter, chest to my back, breath hot against my neck. I don’t look back when we tear down the street—because the sound of her heartbeat against my spine tells me she’s already all in.
"Hold tight." I kick the engine to life.
"Not letting go," she says against my shoulder blade, and something about the way she says it makes my chest tight.
I weave through late-night traffic. Market Street is empty enough to open up the throttle, the Triumph responding like a living thing. Savannah's weight shifts perfectly with mine as I lean into a turn, her body pressed so tight against mine I can feel her heartbeat through my tactical vest.
The SUVs are back there, headlights in the mirrors, but they're heavy and slow compared to the bike.
I cut through an alley between two restaurants, with trash bins on both sides, leaving barely enough room. Savannah tucks her head against my shoulder, making us smaller. Metal scrapes—my boot catching a bin—but we're through. The lead SUV tries to follow, but crashes as it wedges between the bins.
She's plastered against my back, moving with me through turns, and I'm hyperaware of every point of contact—her thighs pressed to mine, her breasts against my shoulder blades, her hands fisted in my shirt.
Red and blue lights flash ahead—SFPD checkpoint, probably watching for us.
I cut hard right into Chinatown, threading between delivery trucks and late-night vendors.
A night market is still active despite the hour, vendors selling everything from live fish to knock-off electronics.
I weave between the stalls, sending a table of counterfeit purses flying.
The vendor shouts in Cantonese—cursing my entire bloodline, probably. Paper lanterns strung overhead tear as the bike passes underneath, falling like burning snow.
An SUV tries to follow our path but clips a seafood stand. Tanks of live crabs explode across the street, claws clicking on asphalt as they make their escape. The second SUV has to brake hard to avoid the mess, buying us seconds.
Grant Avenue is narrower here, more like an alley than a street. I thread between a delivery truck and a parked car with inches to spare, Savannah's grip tightening as her knee nearly clips the side mirror. She doesn't scream, doesn't distract, just buries her face against my back and trusts me to get us through.
Behind us, engines roar—the SUVs have found us.
"Company," she says in my ear, and I feel her shift to look back. "Three vehicles, gaining."
I accelerate through a narrow alley, sparks flying as the handlebars clip brick walls. We burst out onto Grant Avenue, and I see our problem—another checkpoint ahead, boxing us in.
"Building at two o'clock," she says. "Parking garage, no barrier."
She's right. I aim for the entrance, blow past the ticket booth, tires screaming on polished concrete as we spiral up. The SUVs follow, their bulk slowing them on the tight turns.
