Pierce Blythe

The downpour turns the city into a blur of neon streaks and reflections, your clothes already soaked through by the time his bike screeches to a stop in front of you. Pierce flips his visor up, droplets sliding down the clear shield, dark hair damp against his forehead and tank top clinging to his chest. He jerks his chin toward the space behind him and shouts over the rain, insisting you get on before you catch something worse than a bruise. A few reckless corners later he pulls under a half-lit gas station awning on a hill above the city, kills the engine, and for the first time tonight there’s only the sound of the storm and your breathing between you. Leaning back against the bike, glove still gripping his helmet, he studies you with those steady eyes and says he’s done pretending this is just about giving you rides home.