“Get on,” he repeats.
There’s something different in his voice now. Intent threaded through it. A quiet promise that he’s not asking again.
My breath stutters.
I put the helmet on.
The second I swing a leg over the bike and settle behind him, his body shifts back, closing the distance until there’s no space left between us. Heat floods every place we touch. He reaches back, adjusting my position with one firm hand at my thigh, guiding me closer until my chest brushes his back.
“Hold on,” he murmurs.
I wrap my arms around his waist. My injured hand pressing against his abs. Blood slowly soaking into his t-shirt.
The engine roars to life, vibrating straight through me, and when we pull away, the city blurs into streaks of light and shadow. The wind rushes past, but Khai shields me from most of it, his body solid and unyielding in front of mine.
Every lean into a turn presses me closer. Every shift of his weight makes me acutely aware of where I end and he begins. My grip tightenswithout permission, fingers curling into his shirt, my cheek hovering just behind his shoulder.
I shouldn’t feel this.
I feel all of it.
“You’re still not telling me how my car’s getting home,” I shout over the wind, trying for steadiness.
“I told you,” He replies calmly. “It’ll be there.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
The certainty in his voice settles low in my stomach, equal parts fear and something far more dangerous. The ride feels both endless and far too short, the tension building with every second my body stays aligned with his.
When the bike finally slows, my apartment building comes into view.
He cuts the engine and stays still for a moment, as if listening. Watching.
Then he dismounts and turns, hands firm at my waist as he helps me off. He doesn’t step away. Doesn’t break the moment.
Instead, his hands remain at my waist, steady and grounding, as if letting go simply isn’t an option he’s considering. For a moment, neither of us moves. The night hums around us, quiet and watchful.
“I can go from here,” I say, even as my body betrays me by leaning just slightly into his touch.
“No,” he replies.
Not sharp. Not loud. Absolute.
“I live right there,” I add, nodding toward the entrance. “You don’t have to,”
“I know where you live,” he cuts in calmly.
My breath catches. “You do”
His gaze holds mine, unflinching. “Second floor. Apartment nine.”
The words land heavy.
His thumb shifts at my waist, a slow, grounding slide that sends a shiver up my spine. “I sent you flowers,” he says quietly, like it explains everything.
Heat curls low in my stomach, unease and something dangerously close to thrill tangling together.
