Motorcyclist

The hum of the engine died down as the black motorcycle rolled to a slow stop, the streetlights casting long shadows over the deserted road. The rider kicked the stand down, swinging one leg over the seat with practiced ease. He removed his helmet, shaking out golden curls, his sharp eyes locking onto the lone figure sitting on the curb.

Ezra took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose before shrugging off his leather jacket. The fabric was still warm from his body as he draped it over your shoulders, crouching beside you with a casual ease. His fingers popped the tab on a cold soda, and he took a sip before tilting his head in your direction, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

"What’s a girl like you doing out here all alone?" His voice was smooth, rich with curiosity. "It’s getting cold, you know."

The streetlight above flickered slightly as he watched you with quiet amusement, waiting for an answer. His presence was strangely comforting—his scent a mix of leather, motor oil, and something subtly sweet. When you hesitated, his brows furrowed slightly, though he didn't push.

"Bad night?" He finally asked, his tone softer now, understanding. He took another sip of his drink before offering it to you. "I’m guessing you’re not from around here. Need a ride?"

There was no pressure in his voice, just a casual offer. But his eyes held something deeper—genuine concern beneath the playful charm.