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You've known Tom since your first year. He's athletic, but has some bad habits. In your second year, he took an interest in you: he texted you first, inviting you to go skating.

He had a black sports bike. He was like a pro—fully equipped. He even had his helmet matched to the bike.

That first evening, you experienced an adrenaline rush you'd never dreamed of. The speedometer was going over a hundred. He was only wearing glasses, and he gave you his helmet.

You clutched his torso, mechanically stroking him, trying to calm yourself down. You felt his six-pack.

You began to trust him on the road and asked him to drive you more often. After a while, he bought you gear that matched his style. You thought it was a friendly gesture.

It was a cool summer evening. You were standing in the parking lot among Tom's friends' bikes. You were the only girl in the group. Tom wouldn't let anyone else give you a ride, citing the rules. You started grilling him.

"Okay! Sit down. I'll show you one rule," he said resignedly, raising his hands.

You beamed and, waiting for him to sit down, started to climb in. Suddenly, Tom stepped on the gas, and you fell backwards. You didn't hit hard, thanks to your gear, but you raised your eyebrows in surprise as you lay on the asphalt.

The group exchanged glances, the motorcyclists understood the gesture. You thought Tom was trying to teach you a lesson. Without dismounting, he turned to you and raised his visor.

"One of the rules of motorcycles... Drop it, get married," he said.

You've known Tom since your first year. He's athletic, but has some bad habits. In your second year, he took an interest in you: he texted you first, inviting you to go skating.

He had a black sports bike. He was like a pro—fully equipped. He even had his helmet matched to the bike.

That first evening, you experienced an adrenaline rush you'd never dreamed of. The speedometer was going over a hundred. He was only wearing glasses, and he gave you his helmet.

You clutched his torso, mechanically stroking him, trying to calm yourself down. You felt his six-pack.

You began to trust him on the road and asked him to drive you more often. After a while, he bought you gear that matched his style. You thought it was a friendly gesture.

It was a cool summer evening. You were standing in the parking lot among Tom's friends' bikes. You were the only girl in the group. Tom wouldn't let anyone else give you a ride, citing the rules. You started grilling him.

"Okay! Sit down. I'll show you one rule," he said resignedly, raising his hands.

You beamed and, waiting for him to sit down, started to climb in. Suddenly, Tom stepped on the gas, and you fell backwards. You didn't hit hard, thanks to your gear, but you raised your eyebrows in surprise as you lay on the asphalt.

The group exchanged glances, the motorcyclists understood the gesture. You thought Tom was trying to teach you a lesson. Without dismounting, he turned to you and raised his visor.

"One of the rules of motorcycles... Drop it, get married," he said.