â PYGMALION EFFECT âą
after a career-ending injury, you choose to start anew elsewhere. all you wanted was a quiet life away from the spotlight, but that pesky biker gang hanging around your workplace isn't making things easy for you at all.
â featuring; mydei x gn!reader
â word count; 18k words
â tags; modern au, flower shop au, ex-pro racer reader, florist reader, biker gangs, angst, self-hatred, healing, getting together, fluff, first kiss, gorgo is your boss at the flower shop, idk what to tell you this was very adorable to write gang
â notes; this is the first commissioned piece i've worked on since officially opening them here on tumblr hehe! i really went to town with this one, so i hope you enjoy! <3
Kremnos doesnât look like much when you first roll in.
It was just another quiet city strung together with strip malls, narrow streets, and brick buildings that all seem to sag under the weight of their own history. Still, itâs far enough from Okhema that by the time Cipherâs car eases to a stop in front of your new place, your back is stiff, your legs ache from sitting too long, and your wrist throbs every time you flex your fingers against the brace. Your doctor had been clear: no driving while you were still recovering. Cipher hadnât argued when youâd asked for help. She just tossed you her passenger seat like it was nothing, sparing you the humiliation of admitting you couldnât make it here on your own.
Moving in is no easier. By the time the last of the movers are done, youâre spent. Bed, dining table, cabinets youâll probably never bother to organize properlyâall your essentials are in place. But the boxes stacked high against the walls remind you just how much of your old life youâve tried to cram into this one-bedroom house. You left the rest behind; your career, your team, the roar of engines in your chest. Things feel too quiet without all of it.
Cipher lingers just long enough to help shift the heavier boxes into corners with deliberate movements, and you can tell sheâs doing it to stall for time. Your best friend brushes her palms on her jeans, but her hands donât quite leave her hips, fingers flexing like sheâs debating whether to reach for another box.
âIâll head out now, sweet thing,â she eventually says when she runs out of things to do, but her eyes sweep over you and the room with a quiet intensity. They catch on the brace at your wrist and the way fatigue has already carved itself into your face. She doesnât comment but itâs all there in the set of her jaw.
âText me if you need anything, alright?â
You nod, your throat too tight for words, and she lingers for a heartbeat longer before slipping into the evening without ceremony, leaving the echo of her concern behind with the silence.
Night falls by the time the only thing that matters arrives. The rumble of the truck pulling up outside makes your heart kick in your ribs before you even step out. Your motorcycle gleams faintly under the dull streetlight as the movers carefully wheel it into your garage, battered in places but unmistakably yours. You sign the papers with steady hands despite the thrum in your veins.
One of the movers squints at you, then at the name on the paperwork. âHey⊠you, uh⊠you somebody famous? I swear Iâve heard this name before.â
You flash him a thin smile and close the door before he can push the thought any further. The garage lock clicks into place, sealing away the only piece of your old self you didnât abandon.
Inside, the silence settles heavy, broken only by the hum of the fridge, a faint ache crawling down your wrist, and the familiar drag of fatigue that clings no matter how much you sleep.
Your first week in the city is a blur of rearranging the layout of your house and taking phone calls. You shuffle between unpacking and answering the stream of messagesâfriends checking in, old teammates trying to sound casual while circling the same question: are you really okay on your own? You type the same replies over and over, all variations of Iâm fine, even when the silence in the house presses down so hard it feels like a weight on your chest.
Itâs strange, trying to build a new life when the old one still hovers in the sidelines like a shadow that refuses to let you be. In this city, nobody knows you were once a face plastered on magazine spreads, that you stood on podiums with champagne dripping down your racing suit. Here, youâre just another newcomer with a wrist brace and too many boxes shoved into too small a home.
You could coast for months if you wanted to. The savings you scraped together during your pro years are enough to cover rent and groceries for at least half a year, maybe longer if youâre careful. But complacency feels like rot, and you canât stomach the idea of sitting still while the world keeps moving. So, before you even packed your last box, youâd already sent out rĂ©sumĂ©s, chasing whatever jobs your body might still allow.
Thatâs how you end up behind the counter of a flower shop on the corner of a sunlit street. The ownerâa lovely woman named Gorgoâtakes one look at you, smiles like sheâs known you forever, and hires you on the spot. She treats you like her own kid in the way she fusses if you overexert yourself, and presses sandwiches into your hands before your break even hits.
Itâs nothing like the life you left behind. But as leaves and petals brush your fingertips, and the air starts to smell of earth instead of asphalt and gasoline, you tell yourself itâs a start.
Your first week at the shop is quiet, mostly filled with learning how the register works, memorizing prices, and trying not to drop bouquets when your wrist flares at the wrong time. The bell over the door rings with a steady rhythm, and Gorgoâs warm chatter fills whatever silence lingers.
But then the bikes show up.
At first, you think itâs just a one-offâsome gang rolling in to make noise on a slow afternoon. The engines snarl outside, the bass of laughter carrying through the glass, and you glance instinctively at Gorgo, ready for her to be annoyed. Except she doesnât even flinch. She keeps braiding ribbon into a bouquet like the roar of engines is background music.
It happens again the next day. And the day after. Always the same crew idling near the curb, talking too loud, smoking too much, and revving their bikes just for the hell of it. Every single time, you notice the one with the blonde hair and red tattoosâhis gaze flicking toward the shop window like heâs waiting for something.
By the fourth day, your patience frays. Youâre bagging up daisies for a customer, an elderly woman with kind eyes, when the rumble of engines kicks up again outside. You mutter under your breath, mostly to yourself: âThese stupid biker gangsâŠâ
The old woman lets out a light, knowing laugh. âAre you new here, sweetie?â
Heat creeps up your neck. You didnât mean to say that out loud. âUh. Yeah.â
âWell, youâll learn quick enough.â Her smile softens as you hand over her purchase and change. âKremnos isnât like the bigger city states. Around here, those biker gangs are the ones who help people.â
You blink at her, halfway between disbelief and wanting to crawl under the counter. Helpful biker gangs. Right.
Still, when she leaves with her bouquet, you canât help but watch through the window. Sure enough, one of the bikersâa big guy in a leather jacket with tattoos on his knucklesâlights up when he sees her. He swings off his bike and gently takes her elbow to help her across the street with a grin. The engines quiet while they wait for her to reach the other side safely.
Itâs wholesome. Itâs bizarre.
And you still donât buy it.
Nonetheless, the days slip into a muted rhythm. Wake up, drag yourself to the shop, sell flowers with a smile that never quite reaches your eyes, then come home to the silence of four walls and stacked boxes you still havenât bothered to unpack. It isnât thrilling, but you keep telling yourself this is what you needed.
A clean break. A smaller life. Something within your means.
You manage your wrist the best you can with your stretches and the occasional painkillers tucked into your pocket just in case. But the fatigueâthereâs no brace for that. Some days itâs like moving through fog, every step a little heavier than it should be. Hyacine, your old doctor back in Okhema, keeps calling just to check in, always in the same careful tone. Any new symptoms? Any flare-ups? Has the exhaustion worsened? You respond with reassurances that are half-truths at best. You canât bring yourself to admit that the tiredness isnât just physical anymore.
Whenever Gorgo is feeling nosy enough to ask, you donât give her the whole story. Itâs a bad injury, but nothing that wonât heal in a few months after therapy.
She always watches you with those gentle amber eyes, like she can see past the neat excuse. But she never pushes, and youâre grateful.
You donât tell Gorgo about that last race eitherâhow the track blurred in the rain and the world flipped in an instant, how the crash mangled your hand and rattled your body in ways no amount of physical therapy can fully erase. You donât say that the injury alone wasnât enough to end you, not technically. It was the aftermathâthe management that collapsed around you, the sponsors that pulled out, and the team that suddenly didnât know what to do with a broken star.
Thatâs what cuts the deepest. Not the scar tissue. Not the wrist brace youâll probably wear forever. Itâs knowing you could have kept going, if only someone had believed in you long enough to wait for you to recover.
But no one did.
So here you are, selling roses instead of racing. Telling everyone youâre fine. Telling yourself that this was the right choice.
Some days, you almost convince yourself youâre fine with this new rhythm. Itâs quieter than the circuit, safer than the track, and if you ignore the ache in your wrist and the fatigue that drags at your bones, it almost feels sustainable.
Almost.
Thursday evening proves otherwise. With groceries biting into your fingers and plastic bags straining against your wrist brace, youâre already running on fumes by the time you make it back to your house. The bus ride took longer than it should have, the climb up the hill left you lightheaded, and all you want is to collapse on the couch and forget your body altogether.
Instead, your keys slip out of reach while youâre juggling too much in one hand. A bag tears, apples scatter across the sidewalk, a can rolls toward the gutter, and a carton of milk bursts open with a sickly splash.
âPerfect,â you mutter, crouching awkwardly as the plastic handles cut deeper into your palms.
Youâre reaching for the runaway can when another hand gets there first; larger and much steadier than yours. Ink sprawls across skin in sharp red lines, the patterns curling up from wrist to shoulder. Your gaze lifts, following the lines of strength upward. The man before you is built broad and solid, like he could carry the world on his back and barely flinch. His long, blonde hair tipped in crimson falls around his face, with one braid tucked neatly at the front as his amber eyes meet yours like a spark catching fuel.
Your stomach twists as the recognition hits. Heâs one of themâthe biker gang thatâs been loitering around your workplace all week.
âAre you stalking me?â
The question hangs in the air, too sharp, too defensive, but you canât take it back. He just looks at you, unbothered, as if weighing whether or not you deserve an answer. Then, with a voice low and steady enough to crawl under your skin, he says:
â...No. I live next door.â
Your stomach drops with his answer. Next door.
Of course. Because in your rush to set up a new life, youâd been too busy juggling work, unpacking, and pretending you were fine to actually scout out the neighborhood. You hadnât so much as glanced at the faces living this close. Still, no offense to him, but he doesnât exactly look like the kind of man who lives in a quiet street lined with town houses and garden sheds.
You swallow down the questions itching at your tongue and let him help, if only because your wrist is screaming from the weight. He gathers the bruised apples and dented cans with quiet efficiency, balancing the bags in his hands like theyâre weightless. Together, you make it up to your porch, though it feels less like teamwork and more like youâre trailing awkwardly in his wake.
The silence gnaws at you the whole way. He doesnât comment on the mess, doesnât crack a joke, doesnât even grunt with effort. Just steady footsteps and that unreadable profile when you risk a glance at him. You canât decide if it unsettles you or irritates you more.
Finally, you ask, âSo whatâs your name?â
The words come out sharper than you mean them to, but he only raises an eyebrow, pausing just long enough to make you squirm before answering.
âMydeimos. But you can just call me Mydei.â
The syllables roll out slow and unhurried, like heâs perfectly at ease while youâre standing here with nerves buzzing under your skin.
â...Thanks,â you mutter at last, forcing the word past your teeth like itâs costing you something vital.
If Mydei notices the effort it takes, he doesnât show it. He just sets the last bag on your porch, straightens to his full height, and gives you the faintest nod before stepping back into the night. You exhale only once heâs gone, realizing belatedly that your heartâs been hammering the whole time.
âYou want me to what?â
Your deadpan tone could flatten mountains, but Gorgo just beams at you like you didnât mean it that way at all.
âMake a bouquet,â she says again, cheerful as ever. âYouâve been watching me do it for weeks. I think itâs about time you tried it yourself.â
You blink at her, then at the rows of flowers crowding their buckets along the walls of the shop. There lies a variety of bouquets and arrangementsâdelicate colors bleeding into one another, textures balanced with ribbons and paper. They look effortless with Gorgoâs touch, like beauty spun with a motherâs patience. Not the sort of work you imagine for your own hands, still stiff from old scars, more used to gripping throttles and scraping against asphalt than coaxing stems into harmony.
âMiss Gorgo, I⊠donât think thatâs my thing.â You lift your braced wrist a little, like that explains everything.
Her only response is a knowing tilt of her head, the braid woven into her golden hair catching the light like strands of sunlight. The look says sheâs not buying your excuses.
âJust try,â your boss tells you softly, as though sheâs coaxing more than insisting, and the worst part is, it works. Itâs hard to argue with someone who tucks flowers into her hair like they were always meant to be there.
With a long sigh, you mutter something that could be agreement, shuffle to the window, and flip the little ON BREAK sign so the next wave of customers wonât wander in. Gorgo smiles like sheâs already won, and gestures you over to the worktable.
âCome on. Iâll walk you through it.â
You follow her reluctantly, and for the first time in a long while, you wonder if your hands could still learn something other than speed and steel.
You hover by the worktable like it might bite. Gorgo lays a clean towel down, and sets out a pair of shears, floral tape, twine, and brown paper. She moves slowly, letting you see each step before she takes itâlike a pace lap before the checkered flag drops.
âFirst rule,â she says, rinsing a bucket with purposeful care. âGive them good water. Everything else is decoration.â
Your boss guides you to the wall of buckets and lets you choose. You point at the safest thingsâsoft creams and greensâbecause color feels like a commitment youâre not ready to make. She nods as if youâve done something brave. Into your hands go three cream roses, a handful of chamomile, eucalyptus, and a branch of olive. She adds a single apricot ranunculus thatâs as warm as the late sun. Back at the table, Gorgo shows you how to strip the leaves from the stems.
âLeaves tend to rot fast,â she murmurs, âand you should know that rot spreads. We have to take off what will cause trouble so the rest can drink.â She hands you the next stem. Your wrist twinges when you pinch and pull; your grip tightening on instinct without meaning to. Gorgo notices and adjusts your hand with a gentle tap.
âDonât clench too hard. Let the stem rest here.â She touches the soft triangle of your thumb and forefinger. âThink of it like holding a bird you donât want to scare off.â
You breathe out. Try again. The eucalyptus shivers but stays.
âSecond rule, when you cut the stems, do it at an angle. This gives them more surface to drink.â She demonstrates as the stem is nicked clean before passing you the shears. You mimic her movements carefully, the tiny slice of green satisfying in a quiet, precise way.
From there, Gorgo begins the spiral, and you follow her directions closely. One rose, tilt. A slip of olive, tilt. The ranunculus, slightly off-center, so it looks discovered rather than planted. Your hands remember how to calibrate pressure without strangling the thing youâre holding, like feathering a clutch you havenât touched in months. You rotate the bundle; the stems cross neatly like a little star in your palm.
âStriking a balance doesnât mean theyâre all equal,â Gorgo says, laying in the chamomile like the breath between words. âIt means that the pieces you choose are in conversation. Let this one speak, and let the others listen.â
You donât mean to, but you smile. Itâs small and crooked, there and gone. You breathe with the rhythm of her instructions, counting without realizing youâre counting like the way you used to measure distances between apexes. As you work through it, the ache in your wrist skates along the edge of tolerable, but you ignore it like you always do.
âUse the table for support. Donât force yourself to carry all the weight.â
Gorgo slides the bouquet base to the towel so the pull eases from your wrist. You exhale slowly, surprised by the relief and her foresight. Then together, you choose the last touches. A single stem of veronica to draw the eye up, two sprigs of waxflower to soften the edges. You start to see how empty spaces arenât failures but places to breathe, how quiet can be generous when itâs chosen, not forced.
âNow, the tape,â she says.
Your fumble when you rip some off from the holder, fingers clumsy against the stems, but Gorgo doesnât correct youâonly waits. The silence is patient enough that you find the angle yourself, holding them snug without choking. Twine follows in two careful turns before you knot it down. Gorgo lifts a sheet of brown paper and holds it against the bouquet, measuring like a seamstress at work. With practiced hands, she folds a neat pocket, tucks the stems into place, then passes the ribbon over to you.
You pause, the weave of silk caught between your fingers, and youâre suddenly hyper-aware of how delicate this last touch feels.
âGo on.â She tilts her head encouragingly. âThat will put the entire thing together.â
You have no reason not to trust her words, but Gorgoâs abject faith in you leaves you a bit stunned. Nonetheless, you do as she saysâlooping the ribbon in place despite the quiet tremble of your fingers. The bow you tie is not perfect, but it lies flat and clean against the bundle of stems. Gorgoâs approval comes in a soft sound, like a motor idling contentedly.
Your boss lifts the bouquet before setting it back down. âWhere does your eye travel first?â
ââŠTo the ranunculus,â you admit, surprised that you manage to catch the detail. âThen the roses. Then⊠the little white ones.â
âGood.â Her smile warms. âYou left them room to be seen.â
You donât know what to do with the sudden pressure behind your eyes, so you check the stems instead and trim them to a shared length, neat as a row of pit stops. You hadnât realized how much you missed the clean geometry of finishing something.
âYouâre adjusting,â Gorgo comments softly.
You want to tell her youâre not. The nights still stretch long when the fatigue sits on your chest and your wrist pulses hot and mean. You still havenât called the therapist Hyacine recommended because making the appointment makes it real. Youâre still afraid the hope will hurt worse than the ache if it doesnât work.
Instead, you touch the apricot heart of the bouquet with the back of your knuckle. âDo you think itâll sell?â
âIt will,â she reassures. âBut this first one goes home with you.â
You blink. âMiss Gorgo, thatâs not necessary.â
âFirsts are more than necessary,â she replies, her golden braid glinting when she tilts her head. âItâll remind you that your hands can do more than survive.â
Thereâs nothing to say to that without showing too much, so you clear your throat and reach for a receipt book you donât need. Gorgo glides past the pretense with a knowing smile. She wraps the base with a little water pack, tucks the whole into a paper sleeve, and presses it into your arms like a small, living thing that trusts you.
At the window, you flip the ON BREAK sign back to OPEN. Minutes later, the bell over the door rings twice before your heart settles. You finish the shift with the bouquet propped in a back-room vase, catching glimpses of it between customers. It is not a trophy or a bottle of champagne at the podium, but itâs proof of your existence.
Later, when the streets are warm gold in the sunset, Gorgo walks you to the door with a gentle pat on your shoulder. âGood work.â
You open your mouth to thank her, but the low growl of an engine cuts you off. Someone pulls over right in front of the shop, tires crunching against the curb. The sound doesnât belong to the usual cars that drift through this sleepy street.
Itâs from a motorcycle.
Your stomach sinks before you even look.
Sure enough, itâs him. Mydei. The one from the biker gang that had loitered outside for days before vanishing just as suddenly. The one who turned out to be your neighbor. He swings a leg over the bike easily, unclasping his helmet and hanging it from the handlebars while the engine still hums beneath.
His expression lifts when his gaze finds you with a bouquet cradled against your arm, but itâs subtle, as though he isnât the type to broadcast what he feels. You hesitate on the threshold, remembering that awkward night with your groceries rolling everywhere, the accusation you spat at him, and his simple reply. The last thing you want is a repeat.
Before you can manage a farewell to Gorgo, Mydei crosses the distance with that same steady, muscular stride you caught in a glimpse back then.
âAre the deliveries ready?â he asks casually.
The words throw you off for a moment. Deliveries? Youâd wondered before how Gorgo handled them since you always clocked out before those late-day orders ever went anywhere.
Apparently, the answer is: the bikers.
âInside,â Gorgo answers smoothly, already moving toward the backroom. She gestures for him to follow, and he does without hesitation, steps unhurried but sure.
You watch them for a beat too long as the resemblance tugs at you in ways you canât quite place: the pale gold of their hair, both braided though hers is neater; the same steady shade of amber eyes, one softened with kindness, the other carrying a quiet weight. The similarity clicks sharply enough that you almost ask. Almost.
But then you catch yourself staring like a stranger in your own shop. Heat creeps up the back of your neck. You clear your throat, heft the bouquet higher in your arms like it needs you, and murmur something that might pass as a goodbye before slipping out the door.
On the bus ride home, when the nerves upon seeing Mydei again have all but fettered out, you deign to snap a photo of the bouquet to send to Cipher. Suffice to say, youâve been rather terrible at keeping in touch with your best friend, so you thought it would be best to get her up to speed by showing her this.
Me: [Sent an image]
Me: Look what I made at the shop today.
Cipher: OOOOO you did that all by yourself?
Me: Of course not. I don't know the first thing about flower arrangement.
Me: My boss helped out and told me to take this one home.
Cipher: Hehe that's how you know you landed yourself in a good place
Cipher: Will you ever send any bouquets to me đ„ș
Me: Sure. As long as you pay for the courier service. Why not?
Cipher: BOOOOOOO đ
You get off your usual stop with a peal of laughter cinched between your teeth. The climb to your uphill neighborhood is still a climb. Your wrist still twinges when the wind shifts. Your bones are still tired in a way sleep doesnât cure. But the bouquet is like a quiet anchor in your arms, and when you set it on your kitchen table, the room feels a fraction less empty.
Dinner ends up simple: vegetables sautĂ©ed over rice, a fried egg slipped on top. It isnât glamorous, but itâs warm and fillingâa meal you can make on autopilot. Only when you portion it out do you realize youâve cooked enough for two, maybe even three.
For a moment, you hesitate with the ladle in hand. The thought rises before you can stop it: carrying a plate next door, knocking just once, and offering it up as something casual and neighborly. A thank-you, maybe, for tolerating your evasive presence since you moved in.
But then your mind flashes an unwanted image: amber eyes catching yours again, that unreadable steadiness in his gait, and the way that man who calls himself Mydei seems more solid than the ground you stood on. Heat creeps uninvited to your face, and you huff at yourself at how foolish the notion is. Heâs probably still out on deliveries anyway, and you donât even know which townhouse door belongs to him.
You shake the thought off and scrape the extra servings into containers, tucking them into the fridge quietly. But when you close the door, the faint reflection in the metalâyour own tired face and the bouquet just visible behind you on the tableâmakes it feel less ridiculous than it should.
When you finally sit down to eat, the empty chair across from you feels harder to ignore than usual.
The main district smells faintly of fresh bread and something sweetâa pairing you only notice because the bus stops directly across from a bakery. You keep your head down as you step off to head to your actual destination. Before you, Kremnos General Hospital rises white and clean against the skyline, far removed from the grit and gasoline of the racing circuits you once knew.
Your physical therapist is easy to spot once youâre guided to his office. He goes by Krateros; broad-shouldered with dark hair at the roots but silvering fast at the temples. He looks like someone who hasnât fought the years but learned to run alongside them instead. His handshake is firm without testing your strength, and when he gestures to the specialized chair opposite from his desk, itâs with an ease that puts less emphasis on the injury and more on the person.
âIâve read Doctor Hyacineâs notes,â he begins, leafing once through a file before setting it aside. âYou donât have to tell me more than you want.â
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak just yet.
Krateros doesnât fill the silence, he just lets it sit until youâre ready. His questions, when they come, are practicalâpain scale, range of motion, what movements still feel impossible, what days are worse. You answer clinically, as though reciting data off a telemetry screen, and not pieces of your everyday life.
When he asks you to rotate your wrist, you grit through the pull, the memory of impact like a lightning strike behind your eyes. Krateros notices the way your jaw tightens, but he doesnât comment. He only adjusts the exercise and steadies your arm with careful hands. âYour wrist will complain,â he says. âThatâs not weakness. Thatâs just your body remembering what happened.â
Something in you flickers at thatâbecause remembering is the problem, isnât it?
By the time he finishes the initial assessment, you expect him to hand you a schedule and usher you out. Instead, your therapist leans back in his chair, considering you with an expression thatâs thoughtful, not prying.
âYouâve come a long way to get here, havenât you?â
Your throat closes for a moment. The old instinct is to deny, to keep it clipped and impersonal. But Krateros doesnât sound like heâs asking for the story, just acknowledging that itâs there.
ââŠI didnât exactly leave things clean back in Okhema,â you admit. The words feel like rust being scraped loose. âI didnât want to⊠face the fallout of my career.â
Krateros nods once, slowly. âThereâs nothing wrong with leaving when a place stops being livable. Sometimes survival means running first, walking later.â
You look at him, startled by how unvarnished the words are. He doesnât soften them into platitudes, doesnât push for more. He just sets them there, like tools you can choose to pick up or not.
âFor what itâs worth, I donât think you ran away,â he adds after a pause. âI think you ran toward a chance. Thatâs different. And now youâre here, taking the harder stepâshowing up.â
The room feels smaller suddenly, like air caught in your chest. Youâre not sure if Hyacine warned him about your habit of dodging questions and shying away from sound advice, or if this is just how he talks to all his patients. Either way, it cuts closer than youâd like.
You donât argue. You just nod.
Krateros flips his file shut and pushes it aside. âWeâll work slow. Weâll listen to what your body says before it shouts. Youâll hate it sometimes. But you wonât be doing it alone.â
After today, you book the rest of your sessions without hesitation. You tell yourself itâs accountability, a commitment to recovery. In truth, itâs just a safeguardâone more way to stop yourself from bolting when things get hard.
When you step out of the hospital, the air feels brighter than it did this morning. Some of the dread that had sat like a stone on your ribs has easedânot gone, but much lighter than before. Youâre glad you showed up, instead of letting the comfort of bed and the ache of excuses hold you captive.
Still, the rest of your day off is too long. You donât know what to do with yourself when Gorgo doesnât need you in the shop. If you even dared suggest coming in off-hours to help without pay, she would scold you straight out the door with that unshakable authority of hers. There arenât errands waiting either. Just hours stretching ahead, yours alone, and you canât quite figure how to fill them.
Youâre so tangled in thought that you almost miss the change of the light. You step into the crosswalk just as the pedestrian signal flashes green. Halfway across, the sudden roar of an engine rips into the intersection.
âWATCH OUT!â
The shout cuts through too late to stop your stumble. You twist at the sound, the blur of chrome and pale hair closing fast. The brakes screech in your ears as rubber burns across the asphalt. Your heart spikes; your knees buckle. You land hard on your tailbone in an instinctive effort to distance yourself from another injury, the shock shooting up your spine as the motorcycle jerks to a halt inches away.
Then, your world tilts in that strange way it does after near-missesâevery sound too close, every color too bright. Pedestrians pause to crane their necks at you with disconcerted stares. A car window rolls down, the driver leaning over to get a better look at the situation. The weight of attention crawls over your skin until it prickles.
You glare up at the man astride the bike, the heat in your chest born half from the crowdâs eyes, half from his recklessness. Pale-blond hair pulled into a haphazard bun at his nape, a few strands loose against his face. For a second, recognition itches at the back of your mindâyouâve seen him before, youâre sure of itâbut the rush of irritation drowns it out.
Of course itâs a motorcycle.
Itâs not the machineâs faultâyouâd trust two wheels over four any day. But the kind of riders who treat them like toys instead of extensions of their own body? Youâve never had patience for them. Loud for the sake of being loud, swagger masking the fact they donât know half the control they think they do. And reckless ones? Youâve seen too many broken bones hauled off circuits to forgive that particular brand of idiocy.
But before you can bite out the words burning your tongue, the rider swings off the bike. Not with swagger, but urgency. Heâs already apologizing, his voice low but earnest, words tumbling faster than you can process.
âIâm so sorry! I didnât see the light turn. I-I shouldâve slowed earlier. Are you hurt?â
You grimace at him. Youâd braced for blame, for that sneer drivers make when theyâre convinced pedestrians exist only to ruin their day. Instead, heâs scanning you like he actually cares. His hands hover near your arm but never touch until you accept the offer, and when he hauls you upright, his grip is steady but not insistent.
Awkwardly, you dust off your clothes, muttering something like âIâm fineâ more out of reflex than truth. The ache in your tailbone begs to differ, but at least the staring has begun to fade. The pedestrians drift back into their own errands; the car window rolls up with a disinterested hum. Relief comes in the form of anonymity restored.
Yet, the man is still there, repentance written across his face like he hasnât run out of ways to say it. So much so that you completely overlooked the fact that he was driving without a damn helmet.
You level him with a look sharp enough to cut steel. âWell, congratulations. Youâve managed to make me fall on my ass in front of half the district. Should I send you the bill for my dignity, or will an apology cover it?â
âAn apology and lunch. At least let me do that much.â
ââŠLunch?â
He nods, as if this is the most perfect solution he can come up with. âThereâs a diner a few blocks over. My aunt runs it. I was headed there anyway.â He hesitates, then adds, âCome on. You can hop on, weâll get there faster.â
You blink at him incredulously. âYou nearly ran me over with that thing, and your pitch is to âhop on?â What makes you think Iâd agree to that?â
âOh.â His brows lift, and for the first time, he looks genuinely stumped. âGood point.â
You stare at him. He looks so disarmingly lost that the bite in your irritation slips for a second. Is he an idiot?
Still, youâve got nothing else waiting for you today. Lunch probably wouldnât hurt, and the thought of sitting in your empty apartment until dusk makes your stomach sink. Maybe itâs the absurdity of it all, but you hear yourself mutter:
ââŠFine. Lunch.â
His face lights up like youâve just agreed to save him from the gallows. âGreat! You wonât regret it. Iâm Hephaestion, by the way.â
You arch a brow. âWhat, no last name? No assurance youâre not about to drag me into a ditch?â
He grins. âIf I were, I wouldnât be offering to feed you first.â
Before you can rethink your choice, heâs crouching beside the bike, unlatching the compartment under the driverâs seat. He pulls out a helmetâan actual, intact helmetâand hands it to you like a peace offering.
You squint at it. âSo you do own one.â
âOf course,â he says brightly. âSafety first.â
âAnd yet you werenât wearing it.â
He coughs, looking away. âI, uh. Forgot.â
You pinch the bridge of your nose. Whatever. The helmet fits snugly enough. When you climb onto the pillion seat, the leather is warmer than you expect. You settle behind him, your hands braced awkwardly at your sides.
Itâs jarring, being back on a motorcycleâeven as a passenger. The familiar vibration through the frame, the way the air seems to thrum differently around you. You havenât been on one since the crash that ended your career. The ache in your wrist pulses in ghostly sympathy.
Hephaestion revs up the bike, the engine purring to life beneath you. âReady to go? You can hold on to me if you want.â
Your face twists. âIâll manage.â
âSuit yourself.â
The bike lurches smoothly into motion, weaving back into the current of city streets. You sit as stiff as stone, fighting the flood of memory with every turn.
The diner is the kind of place that seems stitched into the bones of the neighborhoodâbrick walls softened by decades of steam and grease, the neon sign outside buzzing faintly even in daylight. Inside, the air smells of coffee, frying butter, and something sweeter that you canât place. Red vinyl booths line the windows. The counter gleams even when the chrome surface is worn smooth under countless elbows.
Hephaestion chats the whole way to the stools at the counter, words spilling like heâs afraid silence might catch him. You nod when it seems required, half-listening, half-letting the din of the place fill in the gaps he leaves.
Kiera, his aunt, has the warmth of someone who doesnât just serve food but mothers it onto the plate. She laughs easily, keeps the counter moving with a practiced rhythm, and doesnât seem fazed by her nephewâs endless commentary. At one point, she leans in to refill your water and winks. âHe talks too much, doesnât he?â
âUnstoppably,â you mutter, and Hephaestion only beams as if itâs a compliment.
Itâs when he tugs off his cycling gloves that the itch of memory digs sharp under your skin. Thereâs ink sprawled over his knucklesâmarks you recognize, because youâve seen them before. The biker who helped the old woman across the street your first week at the shop. You blink back into focus before he can notice your stare. Hephaestion doesnât mention it, doesnât seem to place you either so you let it go.
Moments later, he sighs with a kind of theatrical satisfaction as he polishes off his plate. âFoodâs perfect today. The cook in a good mood or something?â
Kiera snorts as she stacks empty mugs onto a tray. âThat guyâs the same as always. Doesnât matter if the skyâs falling. Heâll still serve dishes worthy of a five-star restaurant. Heâs on break right now though.â
Hephaestion chuckles. âIf you call two cigarettes and an energy drink a break.â
âHey, he already quit!â Kiera corrects. âSubstituted the nicotine for lollipops, too.â
You raise an eyebrow at that, but neither of them adds more. The conversation spins off into something else, Hephaestion tugging you along with sheer force of chatter.
By the time the plates are cleared, youâve survived what feels like a verbal avalanche. Hephaestion hasnât run out of stories, and half of them are about the so-called biker gang he rides with. He paints them less as outlaws and more as an overgrown pack of brothers: a mechanic who can fix an engine with duct tape and prayers, another guy who swears by karaoke nights as team bonding, the occasional scuffle with rival riders that sounds more like a barroom brawl than an epic feud. Youâre not sure if you believe half of it, but the enthusiasm is impossible to ignore.
Still, youâve had enough social endurance for one afternoon. When he offers a ride back to the main district, you shake your head firmly.
âIâll take the bus,â you say. âYou already paid for lunch. Weâre even.â
He looks like he might argue, but then he just shrugs. âFair enough.â
Youâre halfway off the stool when his eyes light up again, like heâs remembered something important. âOh! Before you go, youâve gotta meet the cook. Heâs also the leader of our gang, yâknow?â
You blink at him. ââŠYour gang has a leader?â
âOf course,â Hephaestion says, completely unfazed. âSomeoneâs gotta keep us from setting ourselves on fire.â
Before you can unpack that, heâs already corralling you out the door with the same careless familiarity heâs shown since the intersection, as though youâve been friends for years.
Outside, you spot him immediately. Sitting on one of the low concrete blocks that mark the edge of the dinerâs lot, phone in hand, a lollipop stick jutting from the corner of his mouth. His shirt matches Kieraâs uniform but bears grease stains from the kitchen, a towel slung over one shoulder. He crunches down once, the sharp line of his jaw working before he pops the candy free and rolls it lazily between his fingers.
Mydei.
You almost laugh at the absurdity. You hardly ever cross paths with him in your neighborhood, and yet here he is, turning up again like some cosmic joke youâre not in on.
Hephaestion barrels forward, oblivious. âYo! There you are. Thought youâd vanished. Câmon, meetââ
But Mydeiâs gaze is already on you. Recognition strikes like flint against stone the moment your eyes lock. Neither of you says a word.
Hephaestion doesnât notice. He just talks straight through it, recounting how you nearly became roadkill under his bike, and how you reluctantly agreed to lunch. By the time he winds down, Mydei flicks the bare stick aside with deliberate calm.
âDonât you know,â he drawls, âtheyâre Maâs new help at the flower shop?â
Mydei says it so casually it almost slips past you. Ma. Youâd suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed still makes you pause before you school your face back to neutrality.
Hephaestion, meanwhile, looks like someone just dropped an anvil into his gut. âWaitâwhat? You mean I almost ran over Aunt Gorgoâs employee?!â
A sound slips out of Mydei, low and rough at the edges. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. âBased on what you just told me? Yeah.â
Hephaestion does exactly what you fearedâlaunches into another rambling cascade of apologies, swearing he didnât mean it, that heâll polish his brakes, that heâll never, ever speed near intersections again. Youâre halfway to snapping that you donât care when Kieraâs voice cuts sharp from the back door.
âHeph! Quit blocking the lot and come help, weâre swamped!â
He jolts like a soldier under orders, fumbling for excuses, but one glare from the doorway has him deflating. âUhâyeah, yeah, Iâm coming!â With a final guilty look at you, he scurries back inside.
Silence folds over the lot, broken only by the faint hiss of traffic and the faint sound of Mydei fishing another lollipop from his pocket. He tears the wrapper with his teeth and slides it past his lips. You shift your bag strap, about to excuse yourself and head homeâexcept your treacherous mouth says something else.
âSo⊠youâre Miss Gorgoâs son?â
He doesnât even look surprised. Mydei simply nods lifting the half-empty can of energy drink in his hand before draining the rest. You try very hard not to stare at the way his throat works with each swallow, but your brain helpfully catalogs it anyway.
âYeah,â he says at last, crushing the can neatly before tossing it into a nearby bin. âOur relationshipâs a little⊠complicated. But sheâs still my mom.â
You catch the faintest edge under the words, enough to tell thereâs more story buried there. Still, itâs not your place to pry. The silence creeps back in, and youâre sure thatâs the end of itâuntil his eyes flick to you again.
âShe told me youâve been helping out with the flower arrangements.â
âOh. Yeah.â You scratch your cheek, suddenly self-conscious. âSheâs been teaching me.â
His gaze lingers when it drifts to your brace, just long enough that you feel heat crawl under your skin. For a moment youâre absurdly convinced that he can somehow sense the stiffness in your wrist fresh from todayâs therapy session. Logic says thatâs impossible, but the weight of his attention makes you second-guess it anyway.
âThanks,â he says finally. âSheâs been really stubborn about getting an extra pair of hands.â
âReally?â
âReally.â The corner of his mouth quirks, not quite a smile, but close enough. âShe wouldnât hire anyone else I recommended.â
You canât help itâyour mind snags on the irony. She wouldnât hire anyone else, yet she hired you, brace and all. Gorgo really is strange.
Stranger still is her son.
You take another look at him, properly this time. His blond hair is tied back neatly, red tips catching the afternoon light. The grease-stained uniform that should look ordinary, but somehow lays crisp against his broad shoulders. Youâd only ever seen him in leather before, with the kind of silhouette that screamed reckless danger. And yet here, in the dull gray of a dinerâs parking lot, he looks⊠unfairly good.
A cook. The leader of a gang. The son of a flower shop owner. Strange repertoire.
âWell,â you say at last, forcing a casual shrug, âguess I should head out.â
He nods, raising a hand in a lazy wave as you back toward the bus stop.
By the time you climb aboard and sink into your seat, the last thing you see through the glass is the bright candy-red glint of the lollipop between Mydeiâs teeth, sharp against the fading light.
The weeks slip into a rhythm you didnât expect. You spend most of your days at the flower shop, where Miss Gorgoâs sharp eyes soften just enough whenever you get the arrangement right. And once a week, on your day off, thereâs physical therapy with Kraterosâequal parts exhausting and hopeful, a reminder that your body is still mending, however slowly.
It isnât perfect, but itâs steadier than youâve felt in a long time.
One morning, though, the steadiness tilts into terror: Gorgo hands you the keys to the store, says sheâll be out for the day, and leaves you with the shop. Alone.
The hours crawl. Customers trickle in, asking for things youâre sure youâll botchâbouquets for anniversaries, wreaths for a funeral, someoneâs nervous attempt at a first-date gift. Youâre two seconds from bolting when the ribbon tangles around your wrist for the third time and the register drawer jams on you.
Youâre muttering curses under your breath when the bell above the door rings again.
âNeed a hand?â
You look up, startled. Mydei is standing there, calm as ever with the crate of plastic pots Gorgo told you to expect balanced against his hip. Behind him looms another broad-shouldered biker with an easy grin.
âHi. Iâm Perdikkas,â the stranger says, like he already belongs here. âBoss here said you might need backup.â
You blink at them both, heat crawling up your neck. âI donât⊠This isnâtâdonât you have jobs?â
âItâs my day off at the diner,â Mydei replies simply, already moving past the counter like he knows where everything goes. Perdikkas just whistles low and plucks a stem from a bucket you hauled onto the counter, trimming it with surprising ease.
And somehow⊠they actually help. They follow your fumbling directions without complaint, fill vases, carry bags out for customers. It feels strange, giving orders to men who look like they belong in a back-alley brawl, but they take it in stride without a hint of mockery.
By the time Gorgo calls at closing, the shop is still standing, and youâre miraculously still alive and upright. Your boss hums approval down the line when you recount just how exactly the day wentâgrudgingly throwing in the fact that Mydei and Perdikkas helped you hold down the fortâand you swear you can hear the grin curling around her words when she responds.
When you hang up, your cheeks are hot, still a little awkward about it all, but gratitude tugs sharp at your chest. âUh. Thanks, you two. I also ordered food a while ago. For a job well done.â
Perdikkas smirks. âWhat, from the shop revenue?â
You squawk, swattting at him with the rag in your hand, and he just laughs.
The three of you eat, lock up the store, and then Perdikkas waves off with some excuse about meeting the others. Youâre about to head toward the bus stop yourself when you stop dead.
A motorcycle gleams at the curb. Not just any motorcycleâMydeiâs. But your eyes catch the changes instantly: the fresh stainless steel exhaust pipes, polished so clean they throw back the streetlight, and the low-profile seat swapped for a sleeker cut built for long rides. Your pulse kicks stupid-fast, your brain already running calculations on airflow, weight distribution, and what sort of control heâs after with mods like these.
Itâs ridiculous, really. Geeking out over some guyâs ride like a kid spotting candy in a shop window. This isnât even close to the customized monsters you once tore down tracks with, but it doesnât matter. Two wheels are two wheels, and your gut still thrills at the sight.
âYou like it?â
The voice comes from behind you. You jolt at the sound, and thereâs Mydei with a lollipop stick tilted between his teeth, watching you with that same unreadable look in his golden eyes.
You open your mouth, close it again. ââŠItâs nice.â
He hums. âWant a lift? We live in the same neighborhood anyway.â
For a moment, all you can think is: what is it with this gang and offering rides like itâs nothing? But the bus stop is fifteen minutes away, your legs ache from standing all day, and the gleam of his bike still makes your chest stir with something you donât name.
ââŠFine,â you mutter. âJust this once.â
The corner of his mouth tugs. âGood thing I brought a spare helmet.â
Mydei takes it out quietly and it fits snugly when you settle it atop your head. He swings onto the bike first, steady and unhurried, before he jerks his chin for you to climb on. You hesitate but slide onto the seat, hands hovering uncertainly until the engine growls awake beneath you and your hands grip his leather jacket.
The first surge forward punches air into your lungs before you zip past the street. The city is still thick with traffic, trucks and cars crawling bumper to bumper, but Mydei weaves through it with unnerving ease. He doesnât lurch or brag with his speed, doesnât push the machine harder than it needs. He simply glides smoothly as if the road belongs to him.
It should feel like the ride you took with Hephaestion weeks ago. But it doesnât. Thereâs something different in the way your pulse insists on climbing higher, something about the broad line of Mydeiâs back beneath your hands that leaves your chest off-balance.
The city falls away when he takes to the bridge. Wind lashes sharp around you, carrying the smell of steel and salt from the river below. The sunset sprawls wide, orange and gold poured thick across the water, streaked with violet where the clouds drag their shadows. Youâve crossed this bridge countless times on the bus, pressed between bodies, the windows smeared and fogged. You never saw it like thisâopen and wild, with nothing between you and the sky.
For the first time since you moved here, you donât regret it.
By the time the tires grind against the slope of your neighborhood, night has already begun stitching itself into the corners of the sky. Mydei coasts to a stop in front of your house, the engine of his bike still rumbling before he cuts it clean. You peel the helmet off with stiff fingers, hair mussed and cheeks warm from the wind.
âThanks,â you murmur, passing it back.
âNo problem.â He hooks the helmet to the side of the bike. His tone is so casual you almost miss your own question spilling out.
âWhich house is yours?â
He jams a thumb toward the row towards the right if youâre facing your house. âThat one. So just⊠ring the doorbell if you need anything.â
Your mouth works uselessly for a second. âRight. Yeah. Sure.â
He nods once, flicks the lollipop stick from his mouth into the trash can by the curb, and nudges the bike into gear. âSee you around.â
Then heâs gone, tail lights cutting a sharp red line down the street.
You stand on the porch far longer than you mean to, bag strap digging into your shoulder as the wind cools the flush on your face. Finally, with a breath that feels too heavy for your lungs, you slip into the garage.
The air smells of dust and disuse. In the corner sits the tarp youâve avoided for weeks, gray with neglect. You hesitate before tugging it freeâlike ripping off a bandaid for the first time.
Your motorcycle blinks up at you from beneath the layer of grit. Familiar, battered, but still beautiful. Itâs seen better days, sure. The polish is gone, scratches line the paint, and it aches for maintenance youâve been too cowardly to give. But even in this state, itâs yours. The most precious thing you own.
Your chest tightens, nostalgia curling sharp and painful as you rest a hand against the worn seat. Even if this machine carried you through so much, it was a piece of yourself youâve been too afraid to touch since you settled into your new life.
The wrist brace presses faintly against your skin when your fingers trace the curve of the handlebar. Krateros had told you to be patient. Just another month of consistent therapy, and you might not need the brace at all.
For the first time in a long while, that doesnât feel impossible.
âThe Kremnos Festival?â
You tilt your head as you knot a ribbon around the stems of white and lavender blooms Hephaestion ordered for his sisterâs graduation ceremony. Across the counter, the chatty biker nods like youâve just handed him the perfect opening.
âYeah. It happens every year around this time. Itâs more like a gathering than a festival though. Bikers from all over Kremnos and the nearby areas roll in, line up their rides, talk mods, and compare engines. If the nightâs good, someone calls a race across the longest bridge in the city.â
âIsnât that illegal?â you point out as you adjust the wrap around the flowers. âI know people used to do highway runs back in Okhema when the roads cleared at night. Cops cracked down on it fast.â
Hephaestion waves off your concern. âItâs different here. Itâs historyâpaying homage to Kremnosâ roots, you could say. A thousand years ago people were literally killing each other for sport in the name of some god no one remembers. Now? We just race like lunatics on a bridge. Vast improvement, donât you think?â
You roll your eyes, sliding the finished bouquet across the counter. âMore like a ridiculous one.â
âAnd yet youâre still listening,â he says cheerfully, fishing out some cash before tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm, the picture of a man pleased with himself. âSo do you want to come along? Mydei thought itâd be a good idea.â
That makes you pause, fingers brushing the drawer of the register. Mydei. Why is he suddenly part of this conversation?
ââŠIâll think about it,â you mutter.
Hephaestion only flashes you a no-good grin. âYou should. Itâll make your Kremnos experience complete, I swear.â
The bell above the door jingles as he heads out, tail end of his humming cut off by the closing glass. In the newfound silence, you turn to Gorgo who was busy stocking up the carnation display in neat rows by the windows.
âMiss Gorgo, not to pry, but⊠I donât suppose you approve of whatever illegal things your sonâs up to?â
She looks up, sunlight glinting against the gold of her braid. Lines crease warmly at the corners of her eyes as she smiles. âWell, I hardly have any say in the choices he makes. Things have been that way since I divorced his father.â
The words stun you still. What you meant as a joke detonates into something else entirely, making you recall Mydeiâs words sometime ago.
Our relationshipâs a little⊠complicated. But sheâs still my mom.
So thatâs what he meant.
But your boss only returns to her flowers without any hint that sheâs going to elaborate. So you do the same and let the silence fill the rest of your shift.
The walk home is just as quiet as the last of the daylight bleeds out over the roofs of your neighborhood. Youâre halfway up the block when the low rumble of an engine cuts into the air. Your gaze snaps forwardâonly to catch sight of Mydei pulling into the curb right in front of your place.
Still in his diner uniform, his golden hair tied back in its usual loose tail, he swings off the motorcycle with a paper bag clutched in one hand. The bike ticks as it cools, and he shuts the engine with the same calm finality as everything he does.
You quicken your steps until youâre jogging the last few paces. âDid you need something?â
He glances up, unsurprised, and casually holds the bag out to you. âMade too much stir fry during the lunch rush. Thought youâd want some.â
Heat crawls fast up your neck. You take the bag, awkwardly heavy in your hands. ââŠYouâyou didnât have to⊠Ugh! God, youâre so annoying.â
âMm.â His mouth curves, but this time it isnât the faint half-smile he usually offersâitâs a real grin, bright and open, and it jolts something right through your chest. âGuess youâll just have to get used to having an annoying cook as a neighbor.â
You make a strangled noise, mumble some half-hearted thanks, and practically flee up the steps to your porch before he can say anything back. When you dare to look back, Mydei lifts a hand in an easy wave before disappearing into the house next door.
Even after your front door clicks shut behind you, your face is still burning. You set the bag on the dining table, wrestle with yourself for all of two seconds, and then open it. The food is warm, fragrant, and unfairly delectable. You try to focus only on the taste when you dig a fork out of your pantry to sample it, but your treacherous brain has other ideas.
Golden hair. Red tattoos curling bold across sun-browned arms. Eyes the color of honey catching light. A lollipop stick tilted at the corner of his mouth.
You snap back into yourself so abruptly you nearly choke. Why are you even thinking about Mydei like that? Absolutely not. You slam the lid back onto the container, push it aside, and head straight for the garage.
The sight of your motorcycle waiting under the dim light steadies youâat least, itâs supposed to. You let your hand skim the worn seat, trying to force your pulse into something manageable. But all it does is circle you back to Hephaestionâs invitation to the Kremnos Festival and the offhand line heâd dropped:
Mydei thought itâd be a good idea.
Your stomach flips.
Why?
While those unsightly thoughts about Mydeiâs⊠appearance have abated, this new one nags at you relentlessly. Because why invite you in the first place? Why would Mydei suggest it at all? People donât usually ask flower shop employees to go to some city-wide motorbike meet, do they?
You shake your head hard, trying to shove the spiral down before it swallows you whole. Itâs probably nothing. Just a coincidence. Just him being⊠neighborly.
But the doubt lingers, tugging at the edges of your mind like a thread youâre not supposed to pull.
Youâve been counting down the days to this appointment, each morning marking one step closer. By the time you sit in Kraterosâ office, your pulse wonât slow, tapping quick against your wristâthe same wrist heâs about to free.
He gestures for you to sit, his broad hands steady as he reaches for the brace right after a quick routine assessment. There isnât much preamble as the velcro crackles loud in the quiet room, and with a final tug, it comes loose. The sudden lightness makes your chest seize up. Because this isnât like those times where you have to remove it before a shower, or anything like that.
This is the day your brace comes off for good.
âThere,â Krateros says, gruff but not unkind. âYou shouldâve known better than to assume a bit of surgery would solve everything. If you put off therapy any longer, it wouldâve taken you a year to fully recover.â
You flex your fingers slowly, marveling at how strange it feels to have nothing weighing them down. Silly, almost, for how long you dreaded this moment. Youâd convinced yourself that the brace was all that stood between you and breaking again, that without it youâd collapse. But the ache doesnât come.
For months, you were afraid to look this new reality in the eye. Afraid the accident had ruined you forever, left you too broken to trust your body again. Yet here you are, breathing through the rush of relief instead of pain.
âDonât get too sentimental,â Krateros mutters, though the edge of his mouth quirks. âGive it a month before you even think about driving anything. Maybe then you can decide if you want to crawl back into the professional circuit.â
You let out a shuddering breath through a wobbly smile. âNot likely.â
He waves you off, already scribbling todayâs findings in your file, which heâll no doubt send over to Hyacine soon. Thatâs Krateros for youânever lingering too long in moments like this.
You step outside his office, the door clicking shut behind you, and for the first time you hope itâs the last.
The bus lurches over a bump, sunlight streaming in through the smudged window. You lean your head against the glass as you stare at your unbound wrist. You canât help yourself, so you snap a quick selfie with a peace sign, and send it off to Cipher before you lose your nerve.
Me: [Sent an image]
Cipher: whoa good morning
Cipher: you donât usually send selfies. whatâs up
Me: do you notice anything different
Cipher: âŠnot particularly?
Me: my wrist brace is offâŠ..
Cipher: OMG???
You snort so hard the old man across the aisle looks up. Before you can type back, your phone buzzes with an incoming call.
âFinally,â Cipherâs voice crackles through, bright and triumphant. âDo you realize how long Iâve been waiting for this? Congratulations! Free wrist! No more medieval torture gear!â
You laugh, cheeks hurting from how wide youâre smiling. âIt feels unreal, Ci. Like I shouldâve done this months ago.â
âExactly what Iâve been saying,â Cipher declares. âIâm coming over this weekend to celebrate. No arguments.â
You hesitate, chewing your lip. âSure, but⊠I might have plans in the afternoon on Saturday.â
âDuh. Iâll get there at night anyways. Do you know how long it takes to drive from Okhema to there? You have to let me sleep over.â Thereâs a pause, then her teasing hum: âBut what plans are you speaking of, hmm?â
Your mind flickers to the Kremnos Festival, to Hephaestionâs grin as he recounted the story behind it, then to Mydeiâs name woven casually into the invitation. Heat prickles at the back of your neck.
âNothing special,â you say with a chuckle.
Cipher doesnât buy it, but she lets it go, launching into a ramble about traffic predictions and snacks sheâs bringing. You let her chatter fill the ride home as your wrist rests easy in your lap, free at last.
The city feels different today.
Streets youâve walked a hundred times have suddenly transformedâevery curb lined with motorcycles, engines glinting under strings of hanging lights, laughter and exhaust smoke blending thick in the summer air. The Kremnos Festival is here.
You shouldnât be here, really. But ever since that first night with the stir-fry, Mydeiâs âleftoversâ have kept appearing at your door like clockwork. Always hot, always too much for one person, always shrugged off with a half-smile and a muttered donât let it go to waste. You stopped protesting days ago.
So maybe thatâs why youâre here now, weaving through the press of bikers and gawkers alike, eyes skimming every leather jacket, every flash of tattooed arms in search for familiar faces. Youâd asked Mydei about the festival once or twice whenever his gang did their routine of loitering around the flower shopâan unspoken guard detail for Gorgo, though you only pieced that together recently. Heâd looked hesitant to say anything, but the others all but grinned and told you to drop by.
So you did.
And now? Youâre realizing maybe you shouldâve gotten their numbers first.
The crowd is massive, a pulsing organism of revving engines and rowdy cheers. Every time you edge forward, more bodies press inâhelmets tucked under arms, beer cups sloshing, someone already goading another into revving too loud. You keep tensing under stray glances, though you know itâs pointless. No one here should recognize you. Okhema and the circuits you once dominated are a world away.
Still, the weight of attention prickles along your neck like a phantom itch. You tug your jacket tighter and push on, determined not to spook yourself out of this.
Amid the roar of engines and shouting crowds, you fortunately pick out Hephaestionâs cackling laughter, sharp and familiar, carrying farther than it should. Following the sound, you weave through a forest of helmets and leather, until you finally spot a cluster of familiar faces. Relief floods you as you approach; itâs like a lifeline in the chaos of the festival.
âAh, there you are!â Hephaestion booms the moment he sees you, clapping his hands together as if youâd just arrived on cue. âThe Kremnos Festival looks ten times more official this year! I mean, look at all those sponsor booths, what the hell. Ptolemy, did you see theââ
Hephaestion drones on about engines, tires, and exhaust mods, but the words blur around the edges. Your attention drifts, and just a few feet away, Mydei leans against his own bike, golden eyes fixed on your form like heâs been watching you the whole time.
You snap your fingers in front of his golden eyes when you draw closer, a small, teasing smile curling your lips. Mydei blinks, startled, but doesnât look away. The rest of the boys are completely absorbed in Hephaestionâs running commentary, leaving you and Mydei in your own little pocket of conversation.
âWhat are you staring at?â you ask through a smile.
Mydei shifts his weight, suddenly awkward as his gaze flicks off to the side. âIâitâs just⊠I havenât seen you dressed like that before,â he admits quietly.
You raise an eyebrow, letting a small smile play at your lips when you momentarily glance down at your own get-up. âThanks. Just thought Iâd put in some effort.â
In fact, he doesnât look too shabby either. His biker jacket fits like it was molded to him, his sprawling red tattoos crawling up his collarbones and peeking from beneath the sleeves. The black shirt underneath clings just enough to trace the line of his shoulders, and the cut of his jeans shows the lean muscle in his legs. Even the scuffed boots seem to carry a weight of ease and danger thatâs all him.
You glance away quickly, letting your hands fidget with your own jacket.
The afternoon drifts past in a blur of lights, engines, and Hephaestionâs relentless commentary. Youâve both tried and lost a ridiculous game of strength and aim at one of the festival booths and for once, youâre content to lose. Laughter bubbles from you both as Hephaestion rants about the boothâs ârip-off mechanics,â but eventually, the gang begins to splinter off, chasing their own friends and mischief.
Before you know it, itâs just you and Mydei leaning against his bike, plastic cups of complimentary beer in hand, and the faint scent of fuel and rubber mingling with the amber liquid. The crowd still buzzes around you, but here, tucked into your little corner, it feels⊠quiet.
You take a slow sip of your drink before asking, âSo⊠whyâd you start riding in the first place?â
Mydei tilts his head in quiet consideration as a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. âI donât know. I was a stupid teenager with a rebellious phase. Needed something to do with my hands, something to feel⊠free, I guess.â
You laugh softly. âThat explains the tattoos then.â
âYou could say that.â
The two of you let the silence stretch, comfortable now, the kind that hums low and steady under the buzz of the festival. Engines roar in the distance, muffled laughter rippling from some booth nearby, but neither of you feels the need to fill the air right away.
Mydei tips his cup, swirling the last of his beer. âTruth is, I was angry. All the time. My dad⊠he wasnât easy to grow up with. When he passed, I thought it would lift off me, but it didnât. Ma wanted to help, but⊠sheâd already done what she could. She thought stepping in again would just make things worse.â
He glances at you briefly, then down at the pavement. âSo I burned through it all instead. Bikes. Fights. Ink. Anything that felt like I was in control.â He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. âThen I met these idiots.â He jerks his chin toward the direction the rest of the gang disappeared to. âTheyâre loud and reckless, and half of them always broke, but⊠they kept me straight. Made me better than I had any right to be.â
Then his gaze softens. âI might be their leader, but they made me into someone who could walk into Maâs shop and not feel like a disappointment.â
Your chest tightens at that, but you donât push. You know better than to pry when someoneâs already said more than they meant to. Instead, you let yourself think of your own reasonsâthe way a bike gave you wings, the wind against your skin, the illusion that you could outrun anything if you just leaned in harder. Freedom, distilled into throttle and speed. But those memories are yours alone, tucked away where no one here can reach.
So instead, you bump your shoulder lightly against his and raise your cup in a quiet toast. âTo not being a disappointment.â
Mydei blinks at you, then huffs out a laugh, clinking his cup to yours.
âTo not being a disappointment.â
The plastic rims knock together, flimsy but resolute, and for a moment the noise of the festival falls away. Itâs just the two of you, leaning against his bike, caught in the amber glow of streetlights and something else neither of you is ready to name.
âWell, Iâll be damned. Mydei?â
You both glance up. A tall man in a leather jacket draws closer. His hairâs streaked with road dust, and a biker helmet dangles loosely in one hand. You donât recognize him, but that doesnât seem to be the case for Mydei.
âAtticus?â He blinks, surprise flickering across his features. âShit, itâs been years. Thought youâd dropped off the map.â
âNah. Just been doing my thing somewhere else.â Atticusâs grin is sharp, but it falters when his gaze lands on you. His eyes narrow before recognition snaps into place like a trap.
âSo itâs true.â His voice drops, but loud enough to carry. âYou are buddy-buddy with this racing superstar over here. The Circuit Serpent themself. Itâs an honor to meet ya.â
The title leaves his mouth like a strike, clean and mercilessâyour old name on the MotoGP circuit dragging behind it like rusted chains. The pit of your stomach lurches as cold dread climbs up your throat before you can even breathe.
Atticus doesnât stop. He appraises you openly, with a certainty that suggests heâs seen every headline, every highlight reel, every rumor that sparked after your involuntary exit from the track. He talks like heâs known what you loved, and how exactly you lost it all.
âDidnât think Iâd ever see the day youâd be hiding out at some street fest like this. Guess you really did fall from grace after the accident, huh?â
You canât even get a word out before the crowd closes in around you. Atticusâ voice carried far, and the whispers ripple through the onlookers. They speak your name and your title, testing the sound of it on their tongues as if daring it to hold meaning here. Phones lift to capture every moment. The murmurs grow louder, a chorus of curiosity, pity, and fascination that presses against your chest.
Your pulse hammers in your ears. You canât breathe.
The flashes from cameras slice through your vision. For an instant, youâre no longer in the Kremnos Festival. Youâre back at the track againâon the day of the accident. You see the asphalt beneath you, the journalists murmuring about your âlacking performance,â the sharp sigh of your manager that cut deeper than any pain in your body. No concern, only disappointment.
Before you can crumble entirely, Mydeiâs hand closes over yours. His grip is firm, grounding, and without a word, he guides you out of the commotion.
âMydeiââ you start, but he only glances at you briefly, amber eyes steady and calm as he leaves his bike behind with you in tow.
You stumble after him, heart hammering as the world around you blurs. Whispers follow you, cameras click, and you can feel every eye in the crowd on you. Your name. Your title. Your past. The air feels oppressively thin as dread coils in your stomach.
Finally, he ducks into a quieter alley between two vendor tents, tugging you behind him. The noise fades just slightly, leaving only the distant roar of engines and muffled shouts. Your breath comes in short, shallow bursts, and the weight of all those eyes pressing in on you threatens to crush what little composure you have left.
In the silence, the suspicion youâve carried for a while now finally bears fruit.
âYou knew,â you hiss, pulling your hand out of his grip instinctively, âyou knew who I was! And youâ You told all your stupid friends for what? Bragging rights? Thatâs why they let me tag along, isnât it? So you could all flaunt me around like some weird fucking trophy.â
He doesnât refute or respond right away. He simply stares at you with that same, infuriatingly unreadable look in his eyes. Part of you knows that you should probably calm down and collect yourself. But the tears are already stinging your eyes, just as sharp as the betrayal that simmers deep in your gut.
âYes,â Mydei says finally, voice quiet but steady. âI knew who you were. But it was never my business to pry. I didnât care about the rumors, or why you disappeared from your team. That part of your life⊠it wasnât mine to go snooping around in.â
You blink through the sting of tears, trying to steady your shaking hands. âThen⊠why? Why let me hang around with all your friends? Why bring me to this festival?â
He leans against the brick wall beside the alley, calm as ever, his amber eyes meeting yours without judgment.
âBecause I wanted to,â he tells you simply. âI wanted to be around you. Not for the stories or the bragging rights. Not for gossip or some thrill. I wanted to⊠help, in whatever small way I could. Thatâs all. You didnât need to be anyone other than yourself.â
The steadiness in his voice is infuriating. Soothing, even. And your chest tightens at how little it seems to waver, how rational and patient he is in the face of your outburst. You hate it. You hate the way it makes your own emotions feel raw and fumbling, how suddenly your fists feel too heavy for your sides, and your thoughts spin with bitter irony.
âIâŠâ you begin, but the words stick in your throat. Your chest rises and falls quickly, and with an abrupt movement, you pull your hands free and turn away.
âI need⊠some air.â
Mydei doesnât move to stop you when you start walking before you can say something youâd regret. He just watches silently as you retreat toward the edge of the alley.
The world feels slightly unreal as you step back into the festivalâs main path. The din of it all presses against your senses again, but now the dread is tinged with something else. Bitterness, yes. But also a strange, tentative warmth. You were discovered, exposed to the ghosts of a life you thought youâd left behind. Yet someone had been looking out for you the whole time.
You shake your head, scolding yourself silently. Of course people would know who you are. You were a rising star who disappeared without explanation. It was ridiculous to assume anonymity. And Mydei⊠he hadnât done anything wrong. In fact, heâd done everything right.
But right now, you canât let yourself accept it. You just keep walking, keeping the distance between you, feeling the ache in your chest as the bittersweet truth settles. Mydei had wanted to help.
But you arenât ready to let him. Not yet.
That night, after youâve cried yourself raw and your head throbs dully against your pillow, your phone buzzes.
Cipher: Raincheck on tonightâs celebration. Iâm really sorry.
You stare at the text for a moment, then swipe away the wetness still clinging at your lashes. Your throat feels too tight to talk, but your thumbs move anyway.
You: Donât worry about it.
You: Iâm not exactly in the mood to celebrate either.
Cipher doesnât push. She never does. All she does is send back a string of hearts and a âweâll make it up soon.â You set your phone down, bury your face in the sheets, and let the silence fold over you again.
The days that follow are smothered in haze. You scroll past the article Hyacine sends youâa glossy headline screaming about your âfirst sighting since the accident.â You donât click. You donât need to relive it. You just send back a curt âIâm fine,â when she checks in, and leave it at that.
But avoiding Mydei and the others isnât so easy. They drift in and out of Gorgoâs flower shop when they feel like helping, their laughter filling the space like they own it. You keep your head down, ring up customers, water the hydrangeas, and pretend you donât notice. Pretend harder when Gorgo presses a takeout bag into your hands before you leave.
She never says it aloud, but you donât have to look to know whatâs inside. Itâs the same food Mydei always brought when things werenât a mess. The first time, you almost set it back down on the counter. But your pride twists sharp in your chest, and you take it anyway, the weight of it burning your palms all the way home.
The worst part isnât that he still thinks of you, even now. The worst part is that it makes you falter.
Your wrist has healed. Your body has caught up. But your head and the mess inside your chestâthose parts refuse to let you move forward. Not when every headline, every whisper, every amber-eyed look reminds you of how completely you lost everything. Not when you canât tell whether Mydei meant to help or simply made you a fool.
You go on living in that limbo, dragging yourself through each day with quiet misery, until the knock at your door shatters the monotony.
When you open it, Cipher is standing there, the car she drove the day you moved in months ago parked by the street behind her. A helium balloon bobs in her hand with bright letters spelling out Congratulations!âthe kind usually given to people discharged from a hospital. The other hand balances a paper bag stuffed with snacks and food from Okhema, all your old favorites.
âSurprise!â she exclaims, but the word falters as soon as her eyes take in your faceâyour red-rimmed eyes, the exhaustion etched into your skin. Her mouth parts, eyebrows rising in alarm.
âOh,â your best friend says flatly. âWhat on earth happened here?â
Cipher drops the balloon by the couch, the string bobbing against a cushion, and unloads the snacks on the low table like sheâs laying out an arsenal. Chips, bread, skewers, even a couple of desserts that smell like home. You close the front door with a sigh of finality.
âAlright,â she says, flopping into her usual spot and patting the cushion beside her. âTalk to me. Or cry. Or both. You look like hell, and Iâm not leaving until you spill.â
You hesitate, arms crossed, but habit drags you down onto the couch anyway. The familiarity of itâthe way you two always ended up like this, shoulders pressed together with food between youâundoes you more than youâd like to admit.
For a while, you nibble on a skewer, picking at the edges, until the words finally force themselves out. Broken and hesitant, but steady enough to keep going.
You tell her everything. About Atticus, the Kremnos Festival, the crowd pressing in. About how you couldnât breathe, and the way the flashing cameras took you back to the accident in a heartbeat. About Mydeiâs hand dragging you out and how you lashed out at him after, because what else could you do when the ground had already crumbled beneath you.
Your voice cracks once, twice. You wipe at your eyes with the back of your sleeve, keep eating snacks because chewing feels safer than silence. Itâs ridiculous, you think. Spilling your guts here, in your own living room, half-crying, half-laughing through the sting. But Cipher doesnât laugh. She just listens, arms crossed loosely over her chest, gaze steady and soft in a way few people ever see.
âKremnos is fine,â you finish quietly. âThis cityâs⊠perfect for me. But no matter where I go, I carry itâthe accident, the disappointment. Even if my wristâs healed, even if the brace is off, I canât seem to move forward. And now⊠now Iâve gone and pushed away one of the few people who actually helped me feel like I belonged here.â
Cipher tilts her head. âWhy?â
You press your lips together. A thousand images flash: the takeout meals, the lollipops tucked into your hand with a lazy grin, the ease with which Mydei always made the day a little lighter.
âI donât know,â you murmur, staring at your knees. âI donât know why I started ignoring him. I guess⊠I was scared.â
âOf what?â
The question lands softly, but it cracks something open anyway.
You draw in a shaky breath, eyes stinging again. âScared that the version of me he knows doesnât exist anymore. That he still sees that person when he looks at me, and when he realizes thatâs not who I am now, heâll leave. Just like everyone else did. My managers. The scene. Even the press. They dropped me the moment I wasnât worth their expectations anymore.â
Cipher leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. âSo you decided to drop him first.â
The truth of it makes your throat close. You canât even deny it.
âYou know the Pygmalion effect, right?â she asks. âPeople tend to live upâor downâto what others expect of them. You were surrounded by people who only wanted the myth. Not you. But this Mydei person⊠are you sure he expects that? Are you sure he ever even wanted that?â
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because you donât know.
Cipher sighs softly, reaching over to shove the tissue box closer to you. âYouâre not scared of him dropping you. Youâre scared of letting yourself believe that someone actually sees you and not who you used to be.â
You stare down at the half-eaten skewer in your hand, tears blurring your vision all over again. For once, you donât try to stop them.
Finally, Cipher exhales and leans back, stretching out like she owns the couch. âOkay. Hereâs the deal. You can keep hiding, keep pushing him away, keep convincing yourself youâre still broken if thatâs the story you want to tell. But you shouldnât blame him for the walls that you built yourself.â
You glance at her, throat tight. âItâs not that simple.â
âOf course it isnât. It never is. But you just admitted heâs been nothing but good to you. If he wanted the Circuit Serpent, he wouldâve paraded you around at every street race like a collector showing off some rare bike part.â Cipher pauses only for a moment, making sure you catch every word. âBut he didnât. He wanted youâthe grumpy little hermit with a half-healed wrist and a habit of crying over skewers in their living room.â
You blink at her, startled, and she grins like sheâs scored a point. You swat at Cipher half-heartedly, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with a twitch. She softens at that, her teasing giving way to something steadier.
âListen,â your best friend murmurs. âIâm not telling you to run to him tomorrow and bare your soul. But maybe⊠stop punishing him for expectations he never even set. Heâs not your manager. Heâs not the press. Heâs just some guy who happens to care. Donât you think you owe yourself the chance to see what that actually means?â
The balloon string bumps gently against your shoulder, ridiculous and light against the weight in your chest. You let out a shaky laugh and curl further into the couch cushions. Cipher reaches over, squeezing your hand, and you let finally yourself breathe.
For the first time in weeks, the haze thins just enough to let a sliver of light through.
When your day off hits, you spend hours pacing your apartment, glancing at the window every few minutes. You tell yourself youâre just curious, that itâs nothing more than casual observation. But the truth is, your stomach knots with the weight of anticipation.
Part of you wants to retreat, hide behind the familiar hum of your apartment, and pretend itâs not happening. Another part keeps whispering in a voice suspiciously like Cipherâs, telling you itâs time to face him and stop punishing him for your own evasiveness.
You fidget with your keys, your hands tapping against the kitchen counter. The seconds stretch into minutes, and then, finally, the deep, familiar roar of Mydeiâs motorcycle reaches your ears.
The engine rumbles down the street, growing louder and you quickly press yourself against the window, peeking out just in time to see a blur of black and gold zip past. The sound follows him all the way to his property before quieting.
Your pulse races. You check the mirror quickly just to make sure you look halfway presentable and take a shaky breath. Okay. You can do this. You have to.
Pulling the door open, you step onto the street. Each step is deliberate, your legs trembling slightly as you jog toward the familiar driveway. By the time you reach the bike, your lungs burn, and your chest is a frantic drum.
Mydei is in the middle of dismounting, one boot on the pavement, hands still gripping the handlebars. He freezes at your sudden appearance, eyebrows lifting in surprise, just enough to register a flicker of warinessâlike heâs bracing himself for a confrontation.
âI⊠uhâŠâ You gulp, trying to steady your voice. Your hand gestures toward the bike, and before the moment can stretch into something unbearable, you blurt out, âI need to do some maintenance on my bike. Do you have any tools I could borrow?â
For a heartbeat, he just stares at you, the faintest crease between his brows softening as he tilts his head. Then he exhales through his nose, a short, amused huff that doesnât quite reach full humor.
âTools?â he asks, voice calm, but thereâs something behind itâa hint of relief, maybe even a little curiosity. âYeah. Iâve got some in the garage. Iâll hand them over in a bit. Just gotta put my stuff down inside the house.â
You nod, a little dumbly, and start jogging back toward your apartment. The world feels a little heavy, every step a mixture of dread and reluctant anticipation. Once inside, you head to the garage and push open the shutters for the first time since the movers wheeled your motorcycle in. Dust motes float lazily in the late afternoon sunlight. The bike gleams beneath it all, a little layer of grime and time spent untouched.
You lean against the wall, arms crossed, trying to settle your racing thoughts. Your chest feels tight, your stomach knotted, but⊠thereâs also a small, reluctant relief. He didnât turn you away. He didnât act as if your sudden reappearance had broken some unspoken rule. Mydei is still Mydei. The same guy youâve slowly started to likeâ
Whoa. Like?
You scowl at yourself internally, blinking away the thought before it can root too deeply.
The sound of footsteps pulls you from your spiral. Mydei steps into view, the sun catching the red glint of his hair and tattoos. Heâs carrying a slightly battered canvas tool bag littered with grease marks and scuffs. Itâs well-used, like itâs seen a hundred repairs and countless rides.
âHey,â he says casually, setting the bag down by your bike. âI got the tools you wanted.â
Your eyes track the bag, then flick upâand freeze.
Black tank top. Red tattoos snaking down his arms, muscles tense beneath the fabric. Biceps that could probably crush a wrench. Your breath catches, and for a second you forget why you even asked him for tools. He doesnât notice your gawking, amber eyes trained intently on your motorcycle.
âWow,â he says finally, a low note of genuine admiration in his voice. âThis thing really does need a touch-up.â
You let out a small, incredulous laugh, running a hand over your face like youâre trying to convince yourself youâre not losing your mind.
âYeah⊠tell me about it,â you mutter, finally moving toward the bike.
Your hands hover over the metal and leather, inspecting every scratch youâve neglected for the better part of the year. For all the tension buzzing in your chest and all the dread you felt stepping outside earlier, thereâs something grounding about what youâre doing nowâfixing whatâs yours and reconnecting with something tangible.
âSo, whatâs first on your maintenance list?â he asks.
You point to a scratch along the frame and mutter, âThis oneâs driving me crazy. Also, maybe check the chain tension. Itâs probably seized up after sitting here.â
Mydei nods, already moving his hands to the tools, and you find yourself watching him work. You end up diving into the discussion, the two of you quietly geeking out over brake pads, suspensions, and the sweet spot for tire pressure. Every so often, he offers a tip or a correction, and you counter with something you learned in your racing days.
Thereâs laughter, some mild bickering about which grease is best, and a few accidental smudges of oil on both of your hands. But mostly, thereâs an easy rhythm to it, the kind you forget can exist until itâs in front of you.
At one point, he brushes a lock of hair back from your forehead just to get it out of the way, and you nearly lose your grip on the wrench. But he doesnât linger or let the moment stretch into something itâs not. Heâs focused on the bike and letting you set the pace of conversation.
When the tasks are done, you step back to admire your handiwork. The scratches have been buffed, the chain are polished, and the tires are gleaming under the garage lights. Mydei leans against the workbench in the corner, wiping his hands on a rag as his amber eyes quietly appraise your expression.
âLooks good,â he says softly.
And in that quiet, serene moment, you realize something important: it was easy to let him into your lifeânot because the walls werenât there, but because he never tried to tear them down. Mydei doesnât need to know your past to care about your present. And maybe thatâs enough to start believing heâll stick around, no matter the scars you carry.
However, Mydei blinks suddenly, like a thought has just landed in his head. He pats at the front pocket of his jeans, frowning in concentration, then pulls out two slightly crumpled, brightly wrapped lollipops.
âAlmost forgot,â he says casually but his eyes carry a faint warmth. He unwraps one, pops it into his mouth with an ease that makes the gesture oddly endearing, and holds the other out toward you.
You stare at it for a moment. ââŠYou just carry candy around with you?â
He shrugs, lollipop stick between his teeth. âNever know when youâll need it.â
The ridiculousness of it makes something in your chest flutter. You take the candy, unwrap it, and let the tart berry sweetness settle on your tongue.
Your garage is thick with the smell of oil, rubber, and metal but it grounds you in a way you didnât know you needed. For the first time in months, the chaos of your old life is starting to fade, replaced by the soft certainty of something simple:
Here and now, this feels like peace you donât have to fight for.
Weeks later, your work day winds down slower than you expect. Youâd asked to clock out earlyâpre-set plans already nudging at the edges of your thoughtsâbut Gorgo had slipped away to the back, leaving you to finish up the last bouquet on your own.
Your hands arenât nearly as skilled as hers, but they know enough. Strip the thorns, trim the stems, weave the greens where the gaps threaten to look too bare. It isnât elegant, not like the pieces she sells for triple the price, but itâs something. Something you built out of almost nothing, and that feels satisfying enough.
The bell above the shop door jingles as the last customer leaves, and you start untying your apron. Just as youâre about to call out your goodbye, Gorgo appears again with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
âNot so fast,â she says, holding out a small bunch of gladiolus flowers. Their upright stalks and vivid petals look almost ceremonial in her hand.
You blink. âWhatâs this?â
Her mouth curves into a sly grin. âYou have plans with Mydei, donât you?â
Heat prickles at the back of your neck. âIââ
âThese are his favorite.â She presses the flowers into your hands with no room for protest. âGo give them for me.â
You want to argue, but whatâs the point? Gorgoâs intuition has always been sharp enough to cut steel. Youâre fairly certain she knows about the weird in-between youâve been stuck in with her son for the past monthâfriends, sure, but not just friends.
Not when you sometimes catch Mydei looking at you for too long, too fondly even when youâre hanging out with the rest of his biker gang. Not when youâve sat across from him at your dining table, eating some leftover stir-fry he brought over, and found yourself hopelessly distracted by the way his upper lip curves, perfect and distracting and stupid.
You shove the bouquet into your bag before anyone else can see your expression and mumble a rushed goodbye, the bell overhead announcing your escape.
By the time you collapse onto the bus seat, gladiolus tucked awkwardly against your leg, youâre still burning with embarrassment. But it softens as your phone buzzes in your palm and his name waits like a spark youâve been secretly craving all day.
Mydei: Where are you?
Me: Iâm on my way home. We still riding?
Mydei: Yeah. You donât need me to check anything for you?
Me: Mydei, I know my bike more than anyone else.
Me: And we did a test run last night. Even got a noise complaint lol
Mydei: Just making sure.
Mydei: Take care on your way home.
Your heart trips over itself at the simplicity of it. Thereâs nothing in his words that warrants the way your stomach flips, nothing in his tone that should make your throat feel tight, and yetâŠ
You hug your bag a little closer, a smile tugging at your lips despite your best efforts.
âFor me?â
Mydei blinks down at the flowers in your hands, his amber eyes flicking from the blooms to your face. He doesnât say it in disbeliefâmore like the thought catches him off guard. Your heart kicks against your ribs so hard youâre sure he can hear it.
Play it cool, you scold yourself, even as your palms sweat around the stems.
âTheyâre not from me,â you blurt, a little too quickly. âMiss Gorgo wanted you to have them. She said theyâre your favorite.â
You try to shrug like itâs no big deal, but the words tumble out defensively. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. You can already tell he doesnât buy itâthe amused twitch at the corner of his mouth says as muchâbut he doesnât push.
Instead, Mydei takes the bouquet carefully. âThen Iâll put them in a vase before we goâ he says simply. He gestures toward your garage. âGo grab your bike. Iâll meet you in five.â
Before you can sputter a response, he jogs back toward his house, bomber jacket flaring with the movement. The image sears itself into your brain, and you stand frozen for a moment, clutching your bag like it might keep your chest from splitting open.
Then the embarrassment burns away into restless energy. You dig for your keys and stomp toward your garage like youâve got something to prove.
The shutters creak open, dust curling up in the golden light, and there she isâyour bike. The sight should be triumphant, but your gut twists instead. Last nightâs test run didnât count; this is different. This is real. And though your hands itch with anticipation, thereâs still that clawing part of you that whispers about failure. About hurting yourself again.
You shake your head, as if the motion could scatter the thought.
No. Not anymore.
You swing your leg over the seat, grip the handlebars tight, and roll the bike outside just in time to meet Mydei. Heâs waiting on his own with his helmet tucked under his arm, his maroon jacket catching the fading light. He glances at you, and his expression is unreadable for a beat before it softens into something else.
The two of you slip helmets on, the world narrowing to the thrum of engines under your legs. Mounting side by side feels surreal, like stepping back into a version of yourself you werenât sure still existed.
âThe rideâs about twenty minutes,â Mydei says, his voice muffled by the helmet. âEasy stretch. Itâs a good place to start.â
Your chest tightens. Not in dread, exactly, but in something dangerously close to awe. He says it so matter-of-factly, as if this isnât monumental, as if youâre not standing at the edge of something youâve been too terrified to touch again.
You close your eyes, take one sharp breath, and shove all your inhibitions into the back of your skull. The engine growls to life beneath your palms, familiar and alive. Your lips twitch into a shaky grin as you rev the engine until you feel goosebumps.
âIâll be right behind you,â you promise, more to yourself than to Mydei.
The engines roar beneath you, and suddenly itâs nothing but you and Mydei, side by side, carving through the busy streets until you reach the winding outskirts. The wind whips past your helmet, tugging at hair you canât see, and the city sprawls behind you like a patchwork quilt of lights and shadow. For a long moment, you forget your doubts, your fears, your bruised pride.
The exhilaration hits you like a wave.
Oh my god. Iâm riding again.
Your hands grip the handlebars with reverent joy, your chest soaring with each turn, each press of the throttle. Every vibration, every rumble through your body, feels like reclaiming a piece of yourself you once thought was lost in the past.
Beside you, Mydei leans into every turn with a fluid confidence that makes your pulse spike in a mixture of wonder andâŠsomething else. You steal glances at him every now and again, and realize how much youâve missed sharing moments like this with someone else.
Twenty minutes slip by in a blur of wind and laughter, tiny cheers when you nail a tight corner, quiet concentration on stretches of straight road. Then, the cliff opens up to the lookout: sheer drop, jagged rocks below, and the entirety of Kremnos City stretched beneath the fading sun. You both pull up with the wind still tugging at your jackets.
You remove your helmet first, letting the warmth of the sunset wash over your face. Mydei does the same, and for a heartbeat, you just stand there, hearts still thudding from the ride and the awe of the view.
He tilts his head, amber eyes curious. âSoâŠhowâd it feel? Your first ride in a while.â
Your chest tightens again. How do you even say it? Your lips part, words catch somewhere behind your teeth, and then, abruptly, your vision blurs. Tears spill down unbidden, your hands shaking slightly as you bring them to your face. The ride, the sunset, the sheerâŠhappiness of being here with him, itâs too much.
Mydeiâs expression shifts immediately, panic flitting across his features. âHey, heyââ he crouches slightly to meet your level, fishing out a handkerchief. âHere, let meâŠâ
His hand brushes yours as he reaches toward your cheek. The moment stretches, too quiet, too intimate. Your tears meet his gentle touch, and then youâre both made aware of how close your faces are.
Golden eyes flick down to your lips before meeting your gaze again, as if heâs asking permission without words. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and every nerve in your body is alight with a delicious tension that stretches the seconds endlessly. You tilt your head, instinctively closing the last fraction of distance, and for a moment, the world holds its breath with you.
And then Mydeiâs lips are on yours.
Itâs soft, almost hesitant at first, a question that your body answers instantly by leaning into him and melting into the warmth youâd been craving without realizing it. He tastes faintly of those berry-flavored lollipops he uses as a nicotine substitute, and you find yourself grinning into the kiss the moment it registers.
The world shrinks to the warmth of his lips, the quick thrum of your hearts, and the quiet, electric space that seems to exist only between the two of you. When you finally pull away, both of you are slightly dazed, breaths catching in the quiet. Your forehead rests against his for a fleeting second before you stumble backward, mind reeling from what just happened.
âOh god. IâŠâ you stammer, face flaming. âI actuallyâŠuhâŠhave ingredients to makeâŠumâŠcarbonara! I was gonna whip up a meal for you as thanks forâŠfor the rideâŠâ
It feels stupid, inviting a literal chef to your home so you could cook some subpar pasta for him. But itâs the only excuse your idiotic, kiss-addled brain could think of.
Mydei blinks at you, still a little flushed. âYeahâŠokay. Iâd like that.â
âŠMaybe that wasnât such a stupid idea after all.
Both of you share a shy, lingering smile before reaching for your helmets again. Mounting your bikes side by side, the world feels impossibly full of color, light, and possibility. The engines roar to life once more. You rev yours, heart still racing faster than the bike beneath you, but thereâs a different rhythm now.
Hopeful, warm, and entirely yours.
When you both pull up into your neighborhood, the kiss is still fresh in your mind, replaying itself over and over like a song you canât turn off. You can tell itâs the same for Mydeiâthe way his gaze lingers when he thinks you arenât looking, the way he fumbles just slightly with his helmet strap, a rare crack in his usual composure.
You dismount, heart still jittering in your chest, and move to wheel your bike toward the garage. Mydei kills the engine of his with a flick of his wrist, the purr of it cutting abruptly into silence.
âIâll just grab something from my place,â he says, sliding his helmet under his arm. His voice is steady, casual even, but you swear thereâs a faint flush across his cheekbones, barely visible in the twilight. âIâll join you for dinner in a few.â
âY-yeah. Sounds good,â you manage.
You donât dare look too long at him. Instead, you retreat into the safe, familiar rattle of your garage, parking your bike inside with hands that still tremble from adrenalineâor maybe from something else entirely.
In the kitchen, the motions of cooking blur together: water set to boil, pancetta sizzling, eggs whisked with grated cheese. You move like youâre dreaming, your mind not on the pasta but on the feel of his lips against yours. The softness of them, the faint taste of those berry lollipops, the grounding scent of his cologne lingering in the air between you. You lean against the counter with a laugh too quiet for anyone to hear.
The sharp trill of your doorbell jolts you back to earth. Heart lurching, you wipe your palms on a towel and hurry to the door.
Mydei stands there with his maroon jacket still on. In his arms is the gladiolus bouquetâthe same one you pressed into his hands earlier.
You blink. âWhyâd you bring that?â
âSo we can admire it together.â
The words sink in slowly, and something in your chest tugs. You step aside to let him in, the warmth of his presence filling the space that has too often felt too big and too empty.
Soon, the two of you are seated across from each other, steam curling up from two plates of carbonara. The gladiolus rests in a vase on the table, bright against the dim light of your dining room.
Itâs warm and cozyâa feeling youâve rarely associated with this new house in Kremnos City. But now, with a tattooed biker across from you, his golden eyes the warmest youâve ever seen, the space feels less like a strangerâs walls and more like a home.
Your fork twirls pasta, and you canât stop the small, shy smile tugging at your lips. Mydei notices, though he doesnât comment, only lets the corner of his mouth lift in that quiet way of his.
The chair across from you isnât empty tonight.
And for the first time since moving here, you donât feel so alone anymore.
âą end notes: funnily enough, this is the fic that indirectly got me into f1 LMAOOO the research for motogp intersected at times with formula one content and then the rest was history! but i digress, if you made it this far, you deserve a golden star and a bouquet of gladiolus. thank you for reading!
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