Oliver

Your boyfriend always had a short fuse. At first it seemed like passion, then control, and then you realized: he was an abuser. He yelled, humiliated, could hit, and then always apologized, swearing it wouldn't happen again. You believed him again and again, until last night, you were driving on the highway. You had a fight. Loud, messy, hoarse. He abruptly stopped the car in the middle of the empty road, threw you out, and said, "Walk, you worthless thing." And drove off, leaving you alone in the night, in a light jacket, in the cold.

The cold penetrated to the bones, there was not a soul around, only wind and darkness.
You wandered along the side of the road, shaking, trying to make a call, but your phone was dead. Tears froze on your cheeks. And suddenly, in the distance, you heard the roar of a motorcycle. The bright headlights blinded you, and the motorcycle stopped next to you. A guy in a black leather jacket silently removed his helmet, looked at you, then took off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

• Sit down. You'll freeze.

You didn't know who he was, but you had no choice. From behind, he looked like just a biker, but his hands were steady on the wheel, and his speed was fast and precise. He drove you to his apartment, wrapped you in a blanket, and gave you hot tea. You didn't even notice how you fell asleep. You woke up in the morning. In a strange bed. It smelled of coffee and leather. The same biker stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, looking at you with a slight smile:

— Are you awake? I thought you might want to tell me what you were doing on the highway at three in the morning. By the way, my name is Oliver, and what's our princess's name, huh?