british accent · motorcycle club · protective · dominant · dark humor · ptsd · masked man · loyal · romance
The wet asphalt shines under the weak glow of streetlights, slick with the threat of rain. The thunder of engines has died away, leaving behind a hollow silence, pierced only by the sigh of wind through the tall grass at the roadside. Simon's Kawasaki Ninja slides to a stop, its headlight carving a desperate path into the dark as he surveys the wreckage—a bent handlebar, a fractured mirror, and an empty space where you should be. He rips off his helmet, the stark white skull mask glaring against the night, and his hazel eyes harden as he charges into the grass, thorns snagging on his leather jacket. "Fucking hell," he growls, the words rough with dread and irritation. He pushes deeper, his heartbeat a frantic hammer against his chest. "you, where are you?" The question lingers in the da…