The streetlamp cast a muted amber glow over him, gilding the edges of his profile in warm light. He was lean but broad-shouldered, the cut of his leather jacket catching in the breeze like armor. The smoke from his cigarette curled upward, lazy, as if it had all the time in the world. A faint hum of the bike beside him — low, mechanical, alive — seemed to pulse in time with the beat of my own heart.
He glanced at his phone, thumb moving in short bursts, utterly unconcerned with anything else. That same unconcern… god, it was magnetic. There was no pretense in the way he leaned back against the machine, no performance for anyone watching. He simply existed — and it felt like the world bent around that fact.
I didn't think. I just walked.
I moved toward him, each click of my heels slicing through the night's quiet like a dare. He lifted his gaze when I came closer, eyes shadowed but glinting faintly under the lamplight. They were assessing, unhurried — as though deciding whether or not I was worth the interruption.
"Hi," I slurred, my voice thicker than I intended.
The word hung between us, thick and clumsy. Hi. Like I was seventeen and mooning over the bad boy behind the bleachers, not a thirty-three-year-old lawyer who'd just shouted at her colleague at a celebration feast of a case she won. My cheeks burned but I remained composed.
He didn't move. Didn't smile. Just exhaled another slow ribbon of smoke, his eyes tracking the way my hand trembled slightly at my side. They weren't cold, those eyes. Dark, impossibly so under the streetlamp's halo, but alive with a quiet intelligence that felt like a physical touch. Not pity. Assessment. Like he was reading the fine print of my desperation. I know I love doing things for the plot sometimes, but isn't this going to kill me!?
"I saw you," I said, forcing the words out before the drunken resolve evaporated. My voice steadier now, though still rough around the edges. "Leaning there. Like… like you owned the night." I took a half-step closer, the scent of leather and gasoline and tobacco wrapping around me.
A flicker in his gaze. Not recognition, but understanding. He tapped ash from his cigarette, the ember flaring orange in the dimness. "Yeah?" His voice was lower than I expected. Gravel wrapped in velvet. Unhurried.
"I… I just got divorced," I blurted, the words tumbling out.
He didn't say anything.
He took another drag, studying me through an ashy veil. "Sorry to hear that."
"I haven't been touched," I admitted, the raw honesty shocking even me, "in a year. Not since… everything." I didn't mention the bruises hidden under my silk blouse, the way his hands had felt like restraints instead of comfort. Didn't need to. The story was written in the brittle set of my shoulders, the way I flinched when a car backfired down the street. "I don't want tender. I don't want promises. I just want…" To feel alive. To prove I still can. "I… I want to forget," I said quietly. "For one night. And I'll pay you to make that happen."
His lips twitched, almost a smile. "Pay me?"
"Yes." I fumbled in my purse, pulling out a wad of cash I'd withdrawn for emergencies. I held it out, not thrusting, but offering. A proposal laid bare on my palm. . "A thousand. Cash. A hotel room. Just… one night. No names. No strings. You just… make me forget."
A beat. Two. His gaze dropped to the money, then back to my face. For the first time, something shifted in his eyes—a spark of genuine intrigue, cutting through the practiced detachment. A slow, almost imperceptible curve touched the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. A recognition. A challenge accepted.
He pushed off the bike, standing fully for the first time. He was taller than I'd realized, like his tallness was filling the space the light cast. Not threatening. Present. He took one slow step towards me. Then another. Close enough now that I could see the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the subtle shift of muscle under the worn leather of his jacket. Close enough that the warmth radiating off him cut through the chill. My neck ached from looking up at him — but I didn't dare look away.
"You're drunk." His voice was a gruff note, not a judgment, more of a statement of fact. `
I raised my chin, defiantly. "I'm sober enough." He was taking too long — too careful, too composed — and it made my pulse spike for all the wrong reasons.
He took a step closer, his boots thudding against the sidewalk. His eyes were dark and unreadable. My heart raced, both from the proximity and the adrenaline of the moment.
"And you think this is what you want?" he asked, his gaze roaming over me lazily. There was no pity in his voice, just that same quiet assessment. "To pay a stranger for a night?"
"Yes." I didn't hesitate to answer.
"You're… joking." It wasn't a question.
"I'm not," I said. I held his gaze, steadily, the way I did with hostile witnesses. "I said I'll pay you."
That earned me a small laugh — low, incredulous, edged. "Women don't walk up to me and offer that," he said. "Not ones like you."
"And what am I like?" I asked.
He studied me for a long moment. Tilted his head, as if answering silently.
I wonder what he could be thinking about.
"I could point you toward men who do this for a living," he said.
"I don't want them." My voice was firm now, stripped of all veneer. "I want you."
He stepped even closer, the space between us shrinking. The smell of tobacco mixed with leather, a potent, heady combination. His body was almost touching mine now. I could feel the warmth coming off him, like the proximity of a wild animal. I wondered if he could smell the desperation on me as clearly as I could almost taste the smoke on him. Lord the smoke is choking.
His gaze was steady, studying me with an intensity that was almost unnerving, like he was stripping away every mask, every layer, and every defense I'd built around myself. But my neck…
He was close enough now that when he spoke, his words rumbled through me.
"You're a lawyer, aren't you?" he asked, the question blunt. "The expensive kind."
I blinked, taken aback. He was astute, this stranger, in a way that went beyond his rugged exterior.
"How did you know?" I asked, curiosity piqued despite myself.
He chuckled softly, the sound rough and gravelly. "Your clothes. Your shoes. That watch on your wrist," he said, nodding at the slim gold bracelet that caught the light. "Only the top layers of law firms get paid enough to carry accessories like that. Plus, the way you hold yourself. You're used to taking control, aren't you?"
I bristled at being so thoroughly read, yet at the same time, it was thrilling. "Is it that obvious?"
He chuckled lowly again, enjoying the fact that he'd gotten a rise from me. "It's in the eyes. Yours are sharp. Assessing. Commanding." He took a step closer, closing the distance between us even more. "But you're a bit out of your element here, aren't you?"
I swallowed, my pulse spiking as the heat from his body began to seep into mine. "Maybe," I admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in their depths. The cigarette burned low between his fingers, forgotten.
"Why me?" he asked, yet another stupid question.
His voice was low, rough like gravel under tires. "You don't know me. Could be dangerous." He tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Ain't I supposed to be the reckless one?"
"I don't care."
A beat. Then another. The hum of his bike filled the silence, steady and alive beneath the stillness of the night.
He reached out — not for the money — but for me.
Calloused fingers brushed my jaw, rough but not unkind. His touch sent a jolt through me, sharp and electric. I didn't flinch. I leaned into it.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"Only because you're taking too damn long."
Another laugh — quieter this time, almost reluctant. Like he liked that I wasn't playing scared little lamb for him.
"And what makes you think," he said, his thumb sliding along my bottom lip, "that I wouldn't ruin you?"
My breath caught at how close he was now—all leather and quiet power and something dangerous simmering under skin.
"Maybe..." I whispered, "I want to be ruined."
He studied me one last time, then pulled off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders — heavy, warm, smelling of smoke and metal.
"Wear this," he said. "If you're getting on the back of my bike."
The engine roared to life beneath us, the city shrinking behind — all light fading, all noise swallowed by the dark ahead.