Chapter Text
It was pitch black. Only the faint yellow lines on the road stood out, illuminated by the red taillights of the car in front of him. Tyler was close—too close. It was dangerous, reckless even. But that was the thrill of it, wasn’t it?
His fingers flexed on the steering wheel, keeping his grip firm but loose, feeling every vibration pulsing through the car. It coursed through his veins like the race was happening inside him, not just out on the road. But this wasn’t exactly a race. Not in the traditional sense.
This was a test. A show of control.
Loop after loop, down the winding mountain road, they chased the thrill rather than each other—drifting, weaving, taunting the edge of disaster. None of them knew each other’s real names. Safety. Anonymity. It was part of the code.
Spectators lined the barriers, a blur of dark figures lit by the ghostly glow of headlights. They had their own thrill—the kind that came from standing too close, knowing any car could rip through their world in an instant. The trust they placed in the drivers? Insane.
Tyler exhaled sharply, his focus razor-sharp as he hit another steep turn. The wheels of the car ahead spat out smoke, burning rubber against asphalt. He knew this road like the back of his hand. He had no doubts. No hesitation.
But then—something happened.
Something that shouldn’t have.
His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. A dark, slick figure. A black motorbike weaving through the cars like it was nothing, slipping through gaps that shouldn’t exist.
What the hell?
Tyler clenched his jaw, forcing his attention back on the road. He steadied his speed, keeping everything controlled. Whoever that was, they were insane. If they miscalculated by even a fraction of a second—
The biker shot past him, close enough that Tyler felt the rush of displaced air. He barely had time to register it before the biker dipped into the next turn, low—so low Tyler swore he saw their knee scrape the ground.
Then, as if that wasn’t crazy enough, the biker sat up. Looked back.
And signaled.
Cops.
Tyler’s blood turned electric. How the hell had he not heard anything over the walkie-talkie? A quick glance in the mirror confirmed it—blue and red lights, faint but closing in. The cars ahead were already scattering, vanishing down exits or slipping into shadows. He needed to do the same. Fast.
If they caught him—he’d lose everything. His license. His car. More money than he even had.
The biker was gone by the time Tyler spotted the flashing lights rounding the bend. No time to think. He yanked the wheel and veered off onto a narrow dirt path, disappearing into the blackness of the forest. It wasn’t a real road. Hell, it wasn’t even meant to be driven on. But it would have to do.
He didn’t stop until the darkness swallowed him whole.
The second he killed the engine, the silence roared in his ears. His heart pounded, adrenaline still flooding his system. His hands were locked on the steering wheel, knuckles white. He forced his eyes shut, taking slow, deep breaths.
He was okay. No accident. No cops. He was safe.
Over and over, he repeated it, trying to settle the trembling in his limbs. But his brain wouldn’t shut up. And when he finally opened his eyes, one thought stuck like a thorn in his mind.
The walkie-talkie.
He grabbed it, flipping it over in his hand. It was off.
How could he have been so stupid?!
With a sharp click, he turned it back on. Static, then voices. Updates on police movements, scattered warnings. They were still in the area. Great. Looked like he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
He let his head hit the back of the seat, dragging in a slow breath. His mind flickered back to the biker.
Who the hell was that guy?
And how goddamn crazy did you have to be to slalom between street racers with zero fear? Any slight misstep, and they’d be smeared across the asphalt.
Yet… without them, Tyler wouldn’t have known about the cops in time. A few more seconds, and he would’ve been caught.
Still, something about it felt off. And it bugged him more than he wanted to admit.
He pulled into the parking lot of Jacob’s garage with years of practiced ease. The moment he stepped out of the car, he smiled. Faint music crackled from Jacob’s old radio. Tyler had stopped asking him to change the damn thing that sputtered white noise half the time.
He moved through the workshop, sidestepping tires and wrenches, scraps of metal that belonged somewhere on a car. Jacob was in the back, half his body swallowed under the hood of a Civic.
“Hey,” Tyler called.
Jacob looked over his shoulder, then immediately straightened up. He grabbed a white towel that hadn’t been white in a long time, his hands already greasy, covered in black mess. The same mess Tyler would have all over his own hands and face by the end of the day.
“Look who’s showing up,” Jacob said, a dad-joke smile tugging at his lips. “Did someone not get much sleep?”
Tyler snorted. “Yeah, sorry. I raced last night. Kinda lost track of time.”
Jacob made a face—one that said I’m not thrilled about this, but I won’t say anything . Honestly, Tyler was grateful for that. He grabbed the closest tool and went over to the Subaru he’d been working on the day before. The owner would probably call soon.
That was the reason he stuck around in the first place. Jacob didn’t push too hard. He didn’t ask too many questions. And he sure as hell didn’t fire him every time he showed up late. Tyler felt accepted here. Understood, in a way.
“How’s Sofia?” he asked over the sound of clinking metal and the radio’s sputters.
“Exactly how you think she is: a waddling, four-month nightmare,” Jacob groaned.
Tyler smirked, knowing full well Jacob secretly loved every second of it.
They worked in comfortable quiet for a while, Tyler losing himself in the language of the car. Fixing. Patching. Transforming. Turning a basic WRX into something close to a beast. He thought about the racer who’d get behind that wheel, and—
His mind drifted back to the night before.
The biker.
The one with the killer engine, who looked more like a shadow than a man. He wasn’t even loud. Did he have an electric bike? Tyler wasn’t an expert, but with that kind of horsepower? The mobility? That seamless way his body molded to the machine?
His hands stilled on the bolt he was tightening.
Why had that man been there? Did anyone from the crew know him? Usually, they told each other when someone new was coming around. Being surprised on the road could get any of them killed, and Tyler was pretty sure no one would’ve taken that risk.
A shadow. A hero?
Yeah. Not really.
He had saved them from the cops, that much was true. But if anyone had been just a bit less in control of their vehicle, that biker could’ve easily sent them crashing.
“What’s up with him?”
Sofia’s voice cut through the garage like a whip. Tyler looked up toward the office above the workshop. She stood at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a robe, her growing bump now impossible to ignore. He grinned.
“Shouldn’t you be home resting?” he teased.
Her eyes narrowed. Technically, the garage was part of their home. The workshop sat attached to the house. She probably just came down to grab something—or maybe just to check on him.
She groaned, making a whole show of descending the stairs one step at a time.
“You haven’t answered,” she said. “What’s up with you?”
Tyler shook his head. “Nah, nothing. Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“You ever hear of a biker coming to drift?”
If anyone knew something, it’d be her. Ex-street racer. Married her mechanic. She’d been part of the scene a long time, even if she wasn’t active in it anymore. She frowned.
“Not really. It’s mostly car guys, y’know? Bikers tend to stick to their own—Harley fans, café racers, that kind of thing.” She waved a hand vaguely in the air.
He hummed but didn’t elaborate.
Who was that biker? A lone wolf? Someone without a crew? Or… something else? Why was he there? How did he even know to be there?
“What happened?” Sofia asked, more serious now.
“I was drifting last night,” he started, rubbing his hands over his jeans, “and… there was a biker there. He was literally weaving between the cars, tapping his helmet. Signaling cops.”
Sofia’s eyebrows shot up, then her frown deepened.
“That’s extremely dangerous. Was it your usual spot? The one with the death trap corners?”
“Yeah,” Tyler exhaled. “Nothing bad happened, and we got out before the cops showed up, but—who does that?” he asked, disbelief starting to bubble over.
Sofia nodded slowly, clearly thinking the same thing. Eventually, she sighed.
“Just be safe, okay? Keep out of trouble.”
He hummed in agreement as she stepped away, disappearing back upstairs. But the thought still looped in his head like a skipping track. He didn’t know why it bugged him so much.
He was late.
Late.
So, so late.
His heart thudded against his trumpet case as he climbed the stairs to the conservatory. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t woken up—slept through every one of his alarms.
What an idiot.
He sprinted through the corridors, his body thrumming with adrenaline, music spinning around him with every door he passed. Strings, woodwinds, brass—layers of sound blurring into one vibrating mass in his skull.
He stopped for a second in front of the auditorium doors. He could hear the symphony they’d been working on—loud, rich, seamless without him. He swallowed hard. Tried to rein in his breath. Tried to stop thinking. Swallow everything down.
3, 2, 1.
He slipped inside. Slouched. Walked on tiptoe. He even stopped breathing. Made it all the way to his seat and—
The symphony stopped.
Instruments faltered into disarray like a wave crashing onto rocks. Josh winced and looked up.
The conductor looked displeased , to say the least. Every face in the room had turned toward him. Some were frustrated. Others indifferent. His throat went dry. His face flushed. His gut twisted with embarrassment.
For a second, he wished he hadn’t come at all. But he knew he had no choice—missing this would’ve cost him his scholarship.
“Sorry,” he muttered into the eerily silenced auditorium.
“Save your excuse for the day you actually fail your entire orchestra, Mr. Dun,” the conductor said. His voice was even. Flat.
Like Josh didn’t matter. Not here. Not anywhere.
He swallowed down his pride. His anger. And that strange stinging feeling building behind his eyes.
He was good enough to jump right in. To follow the rhythm. No questions asked.
God , he knew he was good. He just wasn’t the picture-perfect kind of student the conservatory liked. No one ever said anything, but he could feel it. In the way teachers spoke to him. In the way students looked surprised when he said something smart about a symphony. In the way people blinked when he told them he was a conservatory student.
He
saw
it.
He
felt
it.
In his bones.
And it hurt. More than he liked to admit.
That’s why he’d gone looking for something different the night before.
He used to ride alone—just him and his bike, long rides until the morning sun, body melted into the machine, heart beating to the rhythm of the engine. But over time, it wasn’t enough.
So a few nights in a row, he showed up at a spot the car racers liked. Just to see. Just to feel something different.
No one had shown up. Not for days. Then, the night before—boom.
There they were.
He’d watched from afar, not even sure how to approach them. He wasn’t a car guy, wasn’t exactly one of them . But he wanted to be—God, he wanted to follow them into the tight knots of street curves and darkened roads. To be part of something. To belong.
He didn’t move.
He let them disappear into the night, one by one, their machines roaring like beasts. The scent of burning tires thick enough to choke on.
He almost left.
And then he saw the cops.
He moved.
Pure instinct. No thought. Just motion.
He knew what that meant for the racers. What it could cost them. So he weaved through them like a madman chasing his own death, tapping his helmet, signaling, warning them. Car to car.
And they listened. They left .
The road emptied. He rode home, body still buzzing from adrenaline, exhausted but too wired to sleep.
Which led to this.
Late.
Stupid.
The end of the rehearsal couldn’t come soon enough. He didn’t know why. He felt reckless, his body remembering the curves of the road like an old friend.
Yeah, he wanted to get back out there. But they probably wouldn’t show up again soon, and he had no way of contacting any of them.
He carefully packed his instruments, his mind completely outside the conservatory walls. His thoughts circled like sharks. How could he contact them? How could he become part of that world?
“Dun.”
His head snapped up. He blinked at the conductor.
“Stay. I need to talk to you.”
Josh shivered. His breath became ragged, anxiety clawing at his lungs.
The whole orchestra dispersed, leaving the two of them standing amidst the disarray of empty chairs.
“You know you’re good.”
Josh blinked. It wasn’t what he was expecting. He opened his mouth, trying to find the appropriate response.
“Don’t try to be humble. You’re good, and you know it,” the conductor continued, looking annoyed.
“Thanks?” Josh muttered.
The conductor didn’t seem to hear him.
“You already excel in different instruments. You have passion and technique. Not everyone has that.”
It was all compliments, so why did it feel like a death sentence?
“However,” the conductor added, his tone sharp, “your attitude.”
“I promise it won’t happen again,” Josh blurted, cutting him off.
The conductor sighed, crossing his arms.
“Right. Because you’re already not conforming: colored hair, tattoos, piercings.”
Each of those words was like a splinter in Josh’s skin.
“Don’t make it harder on yourself by being late,” the conductor hammered, his eyes fixated on Josh, “or by not buttoning your shirt all the way up.”
Josh shrank in on himself. He tried. He really did. It was just... too hard sometimes. He wore his personality on his body, and he wished he could be proud of it. A member of an orchestra and also so much more.
He was left standing alone, the empty auditorium echoing around him. He gripped his trumpet case so tightly his knuckles turned white. And if his eyes stung a little? It was the remnants of the burning tires.
The cars were roaring around them.
Tyler smiled at the array of vehicles that had shown up for this little contest. No prize money—not for the drivers, at least. They all knew spectators would place bets. No one bothered pretending it was legal.
The usual crew was bigger tonight. Cars he’d never seen before. Models that didn’t normally show up on drifting territory. Outsiders, maybe. Curious newcomers. Or overconfident tourists.
He was circling a Camaro, eyes tracing every detail of the modified frame with expert attention, when someone clapped a hand on his shoulder.
A guy—mid-twenties, smug enough to make Tyler's jaw twitch. He was used to the type: guys who thought they were gods behind the wheel, born to own the road. They were always the first to crash. Tyler preferred the quiet ones. Or the ramblers—the ones who could talk for hours about gear ratios and custom mods.
“She’s pretty, huh?” the guy said, blowing smoke directly into Tyler’s face.
Tyler winced. Not a regular cigarette. Something sharper, synthetic. Chemical.
He glanced down at the joint in the guy’s hand, then met his eyes.
“You drifting tonight?”
“Why else would I be here?” The guy took another drag, slow and showy. “I’m not the type to watch, bro. I’m the type to act.”
Tyler bit down the reply burning on his tongue. Instead, he let out a flat, noncommittal hum.
If this guy wanted to get put in his place, Tyler would be happy to oblige. He looked again at the Camaro—a beast of a machine, yes, but wasted on a moron.
What a damn shame.
He turned away and made his way back to his own car: a black Pontiac GTO, a junkyard corpse Jacob had pulled out of the dirt. Tyler had adopted it, nursed it back from the brink. He’d modified it. Tuned it. Shaped it to his driving style. His rhythm.
His drift.
He’d never let anyone else drive it. Not once. It was his, in every sense. Something broken he’d rebuilt—like himself. And yeah, maybe the pieces still fell off from time to time. But he’d fix it. Add a little more care, a little more time. It always came back ready to run.
Everyone was climbing into their cars now. The tension in the air sparked like a live wire. Tyler checked his walkie—finally alive this time. Lesson learned.
They pulled out in a line, snaking up the mountain. Tyler drifted to the back of the formation. The newcomers rode in the middle, buffered by the veterans—just in case. The front was led by the older drivers. That was the way. Always had been.
It was just another night.
But Tyler already felt it. That tingling in his fingers. The tightening in his chest. The inhale before the scream.
He was losing himself behind the wheel, the roar of the engines ahead fading until it was just his. His GTO. His heartbeat.
His breath deepened. His eyes narrowed, laser-focused on the red taillights in front of him.
One more night of feeling alive.
The moment the car ahead surged forward, so did he—pure instinct. His hands moved without thought. Gears shifted. Tires screeched. The road opened up like a promise, yellow lines glowing like a runway in the dark.
He knew it. Knew every inch.
Three turns.
The first two were cake. Nothing but warm-up.
But the third? That was where adrenaline lit up the nerves. A hairpin curve that demanded everything—skill, control, maybe even a little luck.
Tyler wasn’t worried. The regulars would handle it just fine.
But the new guys?
He wasn’t so sure.
His hands gripped tighter on the wheel. His heart hammered the rhythm of the road.
First turn.
His body leaned into the curve. The machine, the road, his muscles—they were one. He moved seamlessly, tailing the car in front of him. Everything felt perfectly sound.
A gulf of air shoved his GTO sideways for a heartbeat. He blinked.
A car had just shot past—so close he hadn’t even seen it coming. A flicker of shadow, nearly clipping him. One inch to the left and he’d be in the ditch.
What the fuck was that?
That wasn’t racing. That was stupid. Reckless. Deadly.
He forced himself to loosen his grip. The last thing he needed was to tense up and overcorrect. The radio crackled to life at his side—someone barking, telling the rogue driver to “ fucking return to the line. ”
No argument here.
That’s why Tyler didn’t like the street race scene. It was louder. Meaner. The joy of driving smothered under the stink of money and ego. Dollars mattered more than people. Than life.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. Only one car behind him now. He squinted. Not a familiar one.
Second turn. It should—
The car behind rammed into him. Hard.
A deafening thud exploded through his chest, through the GTO. Instinct took over. His world spun. He couldn’t even register what direction he was facing until his tires stopped screeching.
He’d landed sideways on the road. Not off it—thank God—but the jolt still rang in his skull like a struck bell. His breath came shallow. Ragged. His pulse throbbed in his fingertips and toes, as if they were holding on for him.
He should move. He should get the hell out of here.
He should—
He should—
Air. He gasped for it. Fumbled for his seatbelt. Launched himself out of the car, legs scrambling.
He couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
He staggered around the car, his feet moving on instinct. His trunk had a dent. Not bad. Nothing he couldn’t fix.
But—
Why did he feel like he was dying?
He should just get in and drive away. But his knees buckled. He hit the pavement.
The night was ink-dark, the GTO’s headlights throwing long cones of light up the road. All the other cars were gone. No one had stopped. No one came back.
He shouldn't be surprised. Not with the anonymity. The rules .
He stared at his hands, shaking against the cold cement. Tried to blink away the tears.
Then—
A roar. Different this time.
A motorcycle.
Tyler lifted his head, blinking hard.
A slick, black motorcycle curved into view. The rider didn’t stop—just passed, glancing back once as he melted into the night.
Of course. Even the mystery hero didn’t think he was worth stopping for.
Tyler let out a sharp laugh—unhinged, brittle. It didn’t even sound like him.
Then—
The roar returned.
It came back. Back.
The motorcycle spun around, rolled to a stop a few feet away. Its hazard lights flared orange. The rider got off and crossed the road, visor down, gear dark.
“You okay?” the biker asked. Helmet still on. “Are you hurt?”
He was already pulling out his phone, thumb hovering over the screen—about to call for help.
It broke the spell.
Tyler stumbled to his feet, pride thin as tissue paper.
“I’m fine, it’s just—”
He didn’t know what it was.
Accidents happened all the time out here. His car was fine. He was fine. So why had he freaked out like that?
“It’s fine,” he said again, waving a hand.
He turned, determined to get back in his car, drive it home, crash into sleep. But his fingers froze on the door handle.
He was still shaking.
“You need a ride home?” the biker asked.
Tyler looked up. Stared into the black visor and saw his own reflection—wide-eyed, pale. Like a ghost of himself.
He looked back at his GTO.
He couldn’t leave it.
He couldn’t drive it either.
Swallowing hard, he pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to Jacob:
Crashed the car. Someone’s driving me home. Can you tow it? Here’s the location. Sorry :(
He knew Jacob and his wife would chew him out tomorrow.
He sighed.
The biker was still there. Waiting. He could’ve left—anyone else would’ve. But he didn’t. He stood there like Tyler mattered. Like he was worth the wait.
Tyler took a step back from his car. It felt like a betrayal, leaving it behind. Leaving it out there alone while he went home safe and sound.
“I don’t have a second helmet,” the biker said.
Tyler shook his head. “It’s fine.”
He approached the slick black machine, its engine still rumbling low like a cat’s growl. He’d never cared much for motorcycles. Cool, sure, but never as cool as cars. He could be childish about it. Pick sides, cling to them like they meant something.
But now? Now he was about to be driven home by a shadow of a hero in the middle of the night, and it felt—
It was a lot to process. Something he’d probably unpack in the morning.
He climbed on without a word, unsure where to put his hands.
“You can hold onto me,” the biker said. “I don’t mind.”
Tyler didn’t need to hear it twice. Especially not when the biker revved the engine gently, like he was coaxing the road back into existence.
He wrapped his arms around the man’s torso. Held on tight. Let himself lean forward. Let himself hold onto something for once.
The biker didn’t show off. He drove smooth, calm. Let the hairpin turn slow him down instead of tearing through it. A grace in motion. Neither of them spoke, except when Tyler muttered the name of his neighborhood, low against the helmet.
Then—silence.
Tyler closed his eyes. Let the engine’s vibrations hum through his body, through both of them. He held. And he cried.
Quietly.
Not a sob—just a release. Tears spilled from him without effort. He didn’t know if the biker noticed. Didn’t care. He was too lost in the sensation of being carried .
When was the last time someone drove him anywhere? When was the last time he nearly fell asleep in the backseat, safe enough to drift off?
He choked on the memory. A thread of childhood unspooling in his mind—too fast, too raw.
He didn’t know how to thank the biker. Didn’t even know how to begin .
And yet—
Why was he here? Why again?
The question looped in his head, around and around, even as his fingers traced the shape of the man’s sides. The warmth of a body beneath layers of leather. The comfort of proximity.
When was the last time he’d been held?
The bike slowed.
“Is it okay if I drop you here?” the biker asked, voice muffled through the helmet.
Tyler looked up. They were five minutes from his place, tops.
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
The bike rolled to a halt—not quite stopped. He slid off, his limbs sore, jelly-legged from adrenaline and tension. His neck would be wrecked by morning.
He turned to say something—anything. To give thanks. A name, maybe.
“Thank—” he started, looking up.
But the biker was already gone. Just a blur turning the corner, swallowed by the night.
“You…” Tyler muttered to the empty street.
Why did it feel like that wasn’t the last time he’d see that man?