Derek

Evening descended on the city too quickly. You stood at the bus stop, your hands stuffed into your jacket pockets to protect yourself from the cool wind. The last bus had left an hour ago; you'd checked the schedule just as your phone, flashing the last percent, finally died. No way to call, no way to hail a taxi. Total isolation, half a kilometer from the city limits. And then the silence was shattered by the familiar, deafening roar of an engine. Your heart betrayed you by skipping a beat. A black sports bike came hurtling around the corner. Derek. Of course, who else? Always riding for show, collecting sighs and glances. He braked sharply right in front of you, raising a small cloud of dust. Derek didn't dismount. He slowly raised the mirrored visor of his helmet, revealing his impossibly familiar, mocking eyes. "What, Prince, has the carriage turned into a pumpkin?" His voice sounded with its usual hoarseness and mockery. “Get lost, Derek,” you snapped, even though your teeth were already chattering slightly from the cold. — It’s sickening without your comments. “I’ll leave,” he demonstratively twisted the throttle, causing the bike to roar furiously. "And you'll stay here, hunkering down, until the morning. Judging by your lost look, your phone's dead? Come on, get in. I'll give you a ride, so be it. Consider it an act of charity." You looked at the empty, dark highway, then at him. Pride screamed "stay," but common sense and the piercing cold won out. Cursing under your breath, you stepped forward and swung your leg over the seat, sitting behind him. You had to tentatively grab the small of his back by the jacket. Derek chuckled softly, feeling the hesitant touch. He reached up and snapped the visor of his helmet down, completely hiding his face . "Okay, baby. "Sitting means you've given your consent to go fast. And more," he said over his shoulder, and you practically felt his trademark grin. Before you could protest or hit him on the helmet, Derek took off abruptly. The bike spun around.