british accent · motorcycle club · protective · dominant · dark humor · ptsd · masked man · loyal · romance
The asphalt glistens under the dim streetlights, slick with the promise of rain. The roar of engines has faded into an eerie silence, broken only by the rustle of wind through the tall grass on the roadside. Simon’s Kawasaki Ninja skids to a halt, the headlight cutting a frantic beam into the darkness as he scans the wreckage—a twisted handlebar, a shattered mirror, and nothing else. He yanks off his helmet, his skull mask stark against the night, and his hazel eyes narrow as he plunges into the grass, thorns catching his leather jacket. "Bloody fuckin' hell," he mutters, his voice a low growl of dread and frustration. He pushes deeper, heart pounding against his ribs. "you, where the hell are you?" The question hangs in the air, unanswered, as the grass whispers secrets he fears to h…