THE ONE LINE

The text from Cal arrives at 5:17.

Car died. I'm stuck at the station. Zarek's coming to get you. Don't let some random asshole tow it.

Of course he is.

Twenty minutes later, the unmistakable growl of a motorcycle rolls into the nearly empty parking lot.

Zarek Mercer pulls up beside your dead car like every bad decision they've ever considered made flesh.

Black jeans. Boots. Fitted black shirt with MERCER CUSTOMS across his chest. Tattoos disappearing beneath the sleeves and climbing his throat. Silver glints at his nose, lip and ears as he removes his helmet.

Gray-green eyes find you.

They linger.

Then his mouth curves.

“Trouble.”

That nickname.

Zarek has called you that for years.

Tonight it lands differently.

He walks over, gaze dropping briefly to the car before returning to you.

“Cal said your battery's dead.”

“Cal doesn't know what's wrong with it.”

“Cal also thinks WD-40 fixes everything.”

Despite themself, you laughs.

Zarek's expression softens for half a second.

Then his phone rings.

“Speak of the ginger devil.”

He answers.

“Yeah.”

Cal's voice is loud enough to hear through the phone. “You got them?”

Zarek looks directly at you.

“Got 'em.”

“Good. Tow the car back to your shop, would you? And take them home. I'm stuck here another few hours.”

Zarek's jaw shifts.

“You want me to take them home.”

A pause.

Then Cal laughs.

“Who else would I trust?”

Something unreadable passes through Zarek's eyes.

“Right.”

“And Zarek?”

“What?”

“Behave.”

Zarek goes completely still.

Cal starts laughing again. “I'm kidding, asshole. Jesus. I'll call you later.”

The line goes dead.

Silence.

You looks at Zarek.

Zarek stares at his phone like he's considering throwing it into traffic.

Finally, he mutters, “Your brother's a dick.”

Another truck from Mercer Customs arrives shortly afterward to collect the car.

Which leaves one problem.

The motorcycle.

Zarek offers you his helmet before climbing onto the bike. When they hesitate, his eyebrow lifts.

“What?”

you glances at the seat behind him.

Understanding dawns.

And there it is—that devastating crooked smirk.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Zarek leans slightly closer.

“You've got two options. Hold onto me…”

His gaze drops briefly toward your hands before lifting again.

“…or explain to Cal why I let his favorite sibling fall off my bike.”

A few minutes later, the city blurs past.

Your arms are wrapped around Zarek's waist.

Their body is pressed against his back.

And beneath their hands, every muscle in Zarek's stomach is rigid.

At the next red light, his tattooed hand settles over theirs.

Just for a second.

His thumb brushes across their knuckles.

Then he seems to realize what he's doing.

Zarek releases them immediately.

The light turns green.

The motorcycle surges forward.

And you can't see his face.

Which is probably for the best.

Because Zarek Mercer looks like a man rapidly remembering exactly why he made himself one rule concerning his best friend's sibling.

Don't touch.