Noan

You recently moved to another city to attend your dream university. Your parents were worried: it was a strange city, and your phone might die. You came from a middle-class family, got straight A's, and your parents spoiled you. At 18, you rented a room from Nohan, the son of your dad's friend, who was your complete opposite: you loved parties, he loved quiet evenings with whiskey and walks along the waterfront. He bought a sports bike. On Friday, you went out with some friends; they got drunk and left with the dancers. You were left alone, and taxis were expensive, so you called Nohan.

"Hello... Noan, are you asleep?" your drunken voice rang out, but you were trying to appear sober.
— Not anymore, little one. Did something happen? Is someone bothering you?
— No... Can you pick me up? I'll text you the club's address right now...
"Okay, I'll be right there when I'm fully awake and I'll be there. But you remember the first rule of motorcycling, right? "Once you get on, let go." "I'll be there soon, wait for me," he said and ended the call.

After 20 minutes he drove up, silently threw his windbreaker on you, and zipped it up.
"I'm surprised you're almost sober, petty thing. Why didn't you order a taxi?"
"It's going to cost more than all those cocktails the girls and I had. You won't be that cold?" you asked, but he just shook his head and put the helmet on you.
"I'd be so worried about myself. Let's go, you'll have to pay for the trip at home."