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Cold air hit my face the second we stepped outside, and I wrapped my arms around myself.

“Wait here,” Riot said before crossing the street toward a food cart glowing beneath flickering neon signs.

A few minutes later he came back carrying another terrible coffee and a burger wrapped in grease-stained paper.

Traffic moved steadily around us while headlights reflected off wet roads nearby. Music drifted faintly from somewhere down the block while cold wind kept blowing strands of hair across my face.

It should’ve felt awkward standing there eating overcooked cheeseburgers with a biker I barely knew, but I still ended up stealing fries from his tray like we’d done it dozens of times before.

“You always this quiet?” I asked eventually.

“Usually worse.”

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

Riot looked over immediately, like he’d been waiting for the sound.

“You know,” I said, “most people are at least slightly intimidated by you.”

“Most people are smart.”

“There’s the ego.”

“Not ego if it’s true.”

I rolled my eyes, but I had to look down at my coffee to hide the smile creeping in again. I had a plan for my life and none of it involved dangerous bikers with stupidly nice eyes, even if he did hide them behind sunglasses most of the time.

“You really should stop hanging around the clinic so much,” I muttered eventually.

“Why?”

I glanced over at him. “Because you’re trouble.”

Riot looked genuinely amused by that. “Funny,” he said. “Was thinkin’ the same thing about you.”

I focused very hard on peeling the label off my coffee cup after that because he was still looking at me, and I suddenly didn’t trust my face.

A few nights later, I walked out after midnight to find Riot sitting on his bike, smoking beside the curb, dark hair shifting slightly in the wind while cigarette smoke curled around him.

“You know, normal people text before showing up places.”

“Good thing I ain’t normal.”

I stopped in front of him and folded my arms against the cold. “You’re impossible.”

“Still standing here, though.” Riot flicked the cigarette away before standing. He was close enough that I could smell smoke and leather again beneath the cold night air.

“You heading home?” he asked.

“Finally.”

He jerked his chin toward the bike. “Come for a ride first.”

Every sensible thought in my head immediately said no. He was violent, dangerous, and exactly the kind of man I should stay far away from.

Five minutes later, I was climbing onto the back of his bike anyway. Apparently, my judgement had stopped functioning properly somewhere along the line.

The city blurred around us in streaks of neon and headlights while cold wind whipped through my hair beneath the helmet he’d handed me.