Y/n's car had given up about a mile back—a tired, sputtering cough, a final shudder, and then nothing. Now it sat in the breakdown lane like a wounded animal, hood still warm, engine ticking in the silence.

The phone died twenty minutes ago.

There was a sound in the distance. Not a car. Something sharper. Closer. A motorcycle cutting through the empty streets, engine growling low and careful, like it didn't want to wake the houses lining the road.

The bike slowed. Turned. Rolled to a stop beside Y/n, idling with a soft rumble.

The rider lifted a hand, pushed up the visor on a matte black helmet. Shaggy dark hair, a glint of metal in his lip, and that familiar lazy grin that somehow always found Y/n no matter how bad the night got.