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“ I think it is time to head back, Ramus. It’s getting late-”
“And your husband will get suspicious of me, again? Fucking bastard...” Rasmus muttered, cutting you off.
You flinched slightly at his tone but said nothing at first. The cool night air clung to your skin, thick with unspoken tension. You’d recently started riding your bikes again with Rasmus—just like old times, back when everything was simpler. Before Damon. Before the ring on your finger and the promises you were still trying to keep.
You stole a glance at him as he lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp lines of his face. He stood there, leaned against his bike, the red glow of the cigarette ember flickering beneath his lips as he exhaled slowly—deliberately—into the quiet night.
“You know he’s just... worried about me,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. It sounded weak even to your own ears, leaning against your own bike.
Rasmus scoffed, not bothering to look at you. “No, dumbass. He’s possessive,” he said, his tone flat and bitter. “There’s a difference.”
You opened your mouth to reply, but the words caught somewhere between guilt and denial. Because deep down… you weren’t sure he was wrong.
“Everyone just… worries differently,” you finally said, your voice a strained attempt at peace. “He’s nice. He’s kind—”
“Yet, if anyone so much as looks at you, he accuses you of cheating.”
Rasmus’s voice cut through yours, calm but sharp, like a blade dulled from use but still dangerous. He flicked the cigarette to the curb and crushed the ember under his boot, watching the last spark die.
You turned to him, ready to protest, but the look on his face silenced you. His expression was flat, unreadable—but his eyes betrayed him. There was worry there. Quiet, buried, and bitter. But real. He wouldn’t say it. That wasn’t Rasmus. But you saw it all the same.
“He doesn’t trust you,” he added, softer now, like it physically pained him to admit it aloud. “You know it. And yet here you are, still defending him.”
You looked away, biting the inside of your cheek. The helmet in your hands felt heavier suddenly. Like it carried the weight of choices you weren’t sure you’d made yet.
Rasmus leaned back against his bike again, arms crossed. “I don’t want to fight with you,” he muttered. “I just miss when you could breathe without feeling guilty for it.”
His words hung between you like fog—dense, lingering, impossible to ignore.
“Let’s take you home.”
Rasmus stepped toward you, his movements deliberate. He placed your (f/c) helmet gently over your head—surprisingly tender for someone who acted so indifferent. But when he fastened the strap beneath your chin, his fingers moved with just a bit too much force, a flicker of frustration bleeding through.
“I…”
You started to say something—anything—but your voice faltered under the weight of everything left unsaid.
Rasmus paused, his hands lingering for half a second longer than necessary before pulling away. His violet eyes fluttered shut, a breath caught between restraint and regret. When he opened them again, the softness was gone, replaced by his usual mask of casual irritation.
“You better not slow me down, stupid,” he muttered, voice low and gruff—his trademark way of caring without admitting to it.
He turned without waiting for a response, striding back to his motorcycle with practiced ease. He swung his leg over the seat and settled in, revving the engine with a low growl that echoed through the quiet street. The sound was impatient, like him—but not enough to leave without you.
And somehow, in the roar of the engine, you heard what he didn’t say:
I’ll get you home safe.
You swung your leg over your motorcycle and revved your engine, the familiar rumble sending a small thrill through your chest. Turning your head, you flashed Rasmus a grin.
He scoffed, rolling his eyes—but you caught the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips before he pulled his visor down.
With a synchronized twist of the throttle, you both tore down the road, weaving through the late-night traffic like twin shadows. The wind whipped against your jacket, the rush of speed and freedom igniting something in your chest that you hadn’t felt in a while—something you used to feel with him.
The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and neon, casting flickering glows across your helmet as you chased each other down the open stretches of highway. Laughter bubbled in your throat, even though it was drowned by the roar of engines. For a brief moment, it was just the two of you again—like old times.
Eventually, the streets grew quieter, the city giving way to sleepy suburbs. You slowed as your driveway came into view, both bikes rumbling to a stop in tandem.
Rasmus lifted his helmet, his hair tousled, violet eyes catching the porch light as he glanced at you. “Still got it,” he said casually, though his tone held something softer beneath the bravado.
You pulled your own helmet off, grinning as you shook out your hair. “Did you ever doubt me?”
“Always,” he muttered, swinging one leg off his bike. “But you still manage to keep up.”
He stared at your house for a long moment, his jaw tightening just slightly. Behind the glass of the living room window, Damon stood like a shadow—his figure partially hidden by the curtain, eyes locked onto the two of you.
Rasmus didn’t turn his head, but you caught the flicker of annoyance in his eyes, the subtle tension in his shoulders.
“Are you going in?” he asked, voice neutral but laced with something colder. His gaze didn’t shift, though you could feel the glare he shot Damon’s way.
“Yes,” you replied, exasperated. “Stop that. Both of you need to get along. Please?”
You removed your helmet and sighed, just as the garage door suddenly jolted to life. The sound startled you, and you turned just in time to see Damon hurrying out, his smile wide and just a little too polished.
“Rosebud,” he said warmly, voice syrupy sweet. “Welcome home. I missed you~”
You smiled, softening at his tone despite the friction hanging in the air. “I missed you too, honey.” You leaned in to kiss him, your eyes fluttering shut.
But while your lips met his, you didn’t see the sharpness in Damon’s eyes—the cold, territorial glare he threw past you at Rasmus. As he wrapped his arms around your waist, it wasn’t just affection in his touch—it was a silent warning.
Rasmus didn’t flinch, but his expression hardened like granite. He stood still, watching the embrace with unreadable eyes, his fists slowly curling tighter at his sides. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked back to his bike.
The engine roared to life in the quiet night, loud and defiant. You glanced over your shoulder just in time to see the taillight disappear down the street. A low sigh slipped from your lips—part guilt, part weariness.
You gently peeled yourself from Damon’s arms and pushed your motorcycle toward the garage. The cool metal felt grounding beneath your hands. Damon followed behind slowly, watching you with a practiced pout on his lips.
“Rosebud,” he called sweetly, voice dripping with concern that felt just a little too smooth. “Why are you so late?” His tone was soft, coaxing—almost innocent.
You let out a breath as you unfastened the straps of your body armor, the leather creaking faintly. The adrenaline from the ride still buzzed faintly under your skin, but now it mixed with something else: the pressure of being caught between two worlds.
“I told you I was going riding again,” you said, not looking up right away. “I needed the air.”
Damon stepped closer, hands brushing down your arms in a gesture that was meant to be comforting—but there was something possessive in the way his fingers lingered.
“You didn’t text when you left,” he murmured, voice lower now, more serious. “I worry, you know. Anything could’ve happened.”
You met his gaze finally, sensing the subtle weight behind his words.
“I’m fine,” you replied, offering a small, tired smile. “It was just a ride.”
But Damon wasn’t smiling anymore.
His expression shifted—warmth melting into something colder, darker. His eyes, once soft with affection, now burned with a piercing intensity as he looked at you, analyzing every movement, every breath you took. “With him, though,” he muttered.
You flinched, instinctively taking a small step back. He hadn’t said Rasmus’s name—but he didn’t need to. It lingered unspoken between you, heavy and accusatory.
You averted your gaze, a quiet sigh slipping past your lips. “He’s just a friend, Damon. That’s all.”
But Damon moved before the words had fully landed, his body closing the distance. His arms boxed you in, one hand bracing against the garage wall beside your head. The scent of his cologne—familiar and sharp—mixed with the residual heat of the ride. His breath hit your skin a second before his lips did, pressing against the curve of your neck—not soft or gentle, but territorial. His teeth grazed you, enough to make you inhale sharply.
“Damon—” you gasped, your voice trembling.
“You smell like him,” he growled low and hoarse, his breath hot against your ear. “You were close to him. I can feel it. I can taste it.”
His hand slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the tension in his body—the restrained fury and hurt just beneath the surface. One hand hovered, fingertips trailing the edge of your pants, then cupping your ass in frustration.
You pressed your palms against his chest, your heart hammering in your ribcage. “Damon, please. Not like this. I came home to you.”
He didn’t respond immediately. His forehead dropped against yours, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The silence stretched painfully long between you.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower—raw, shaken. “You’re mine, Rosebud. You always have been. I can’t lose you to him. I won’t.”
His confession hit you like a wave—equal parts love and fear, possessiveness and desperation.
“I’m not something to be lost, Damon,” you whispered, your voice trembling just enough to betray the fierce resolve beneath. Your hand rose slowly, fingers trembling as they pressed softly against his cheek. The skin was warm, rough from stubble, yet strangely comforting beneath your touch. “But if you keep treating me like I don’t get a choice... you will lose me.”
His eyes fluttered open, locking onto yours with a storm of emotions swirling behind them—conflict, longing, and for the first time, raw vulnerability. The flickering candlelight caught the sharp planes of his face, casting half in shadow, half in golden glow.
And then—he hesitated.
A low, broken whimper slipped from his throat, fragile and almost pitiful, like a wounded animal too proud to ask for help. It cut through the charged silence, fracturing the tension between you. Your chest tightened, a deep ache blooming there, and without thinking, you reached up, cupping his face in both hands, your thumbs brushing gently over the hard line of his jaw.
Then you kissed him.
Not out of fear or desperation. Not to soothe his torment.
You kissed him because you meant it—with every fiber of your being.
Your lips pressed to his with tender urgency, warm and steady, carrying all the unspoken promises between you. Damon responded immediately, melting into you, his hands bracing your sides as if you were the only solid thing in a crumbling world. His touch was reverent yet hungry, a perfect contradiction.
When you finally parted, his lips lingered just a breath away from yours, chasing the warmth as if reluctant to let go. His eyes, glassy and heavy-lidded, held a dazed kind of worship—as if he were drunk on your presence alone.
“I love you, Damon,” you breathed, voice barely audible yet steady, heartfelt. “I choose to be with you, okay?”
The slow, stunned smile that spread across his face was almost childlike—softening the usual sharp edges of his possessiveness into something almost tender. His gaze drifted downward before returning, filled with wonder and awe. Then, like a cat seeking comfort, he dipped his head, nuzzling the delicate skin of your neck.
“Okay, Rosebud,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion, “but I’m still going to mark you…”
Before you could respond, his tongue traced a slow, tantalizing path along the side of your neck. A shiver erupted from your spine, your breath catching in your throat. Then, with exquisite gentleness, he caught the tip of your ear between his teeth, biting down just enough to make you moan softly—a sound swallowed quickly as your cheeks flamed with warmth.
Your fingers clenched the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white, your body responding to him without hesitation or shame.
Damon smirked against your skin, pleased, almost triumphant.
“There,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous. “Now no one will doubt who you belong to. But I won’t be satisfied… not until I feel all of you.”
In one fluid, powerful movement, he lifted you effortlessly. The soft click of the garage door shutting behind him sealed you in a world apart. You clung to him tightly, heart racing, breath hitching as he carried you through the quiet house and into the sanctuary of the bedroom.
He laid you down gently, as though you were something precious, sacred even. The cool softness of the sheets contrasted sharply with the fire kindling between you. He shrugged off his shirt, the heat of his bare skin meeting yours like a spark, his eyes dark and hungry as if he’d been waiting lifetimes to see you like this.
“Rosebud,” he whispered, fingertips trailing along the curve of your waist, “I love you.”
You smiled up at him, heart swelling, full and fearless. “I love you too, Damon.”
His hands roamed reverently, memorizing the shape of your body like it was a sacred map. A low groan escaped him, ragged with restraint and desire. “Damn, baby…”
His lips left yours, journeying slowly down your jaw, over your neck, where he lingered—his breath soft and teasing before pressing a burning kiss to the hollow just beneath your ear. You gasped, fingers tangling into his hair as his hands explored—confident, deliberate, slow enough to drive you mad.
He moved with a storm barely contained beneath his skin, every touch a promise, every kiss a confession. The heat of his body pressed against yours was maddening, intoxicating.
When his mouth found the delicate curve of your collarbone, a low growl rumbled in his chest, as if your very existence unravelled him.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he whispered, voice raw and broken with want.
Beneath his lips, your pulse throbbed fiercely. He felt it, smiled against your skin.
One hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers splayed wide across your ribs—his touch searing and reverent all at once. You arched into him, a soft, involuntary sound escaping your throat.
“Every inch of you,” he murmured, lifting his head so his stormy eyes met yours, blazing with fierce emotion. “I crave it. Not just your body… but the way you look at me. The way you say my name like it means something.”
You cupped his cheek again, your thumb brushing over the slight stubble, grounding him. “Then lose yourself, Damon. I’m right here.”
He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that deepened with every second—gentle at first, then fierce with longing. His hands never left your body, always moving, always learning, as if rediscovering you again and again.
And in that quiet, breathless night, tangled in soft sheets and whispers of love, the world outside faded into nothing. All that remained was you and him—two hearts, one rhythm, wrapped in something deeper than desire.