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The rain falls in relentless sheets, smearing the streetlights into molten gold halos. The pavement gleams slick under your heels, your dress clinging to you like a cold, damp second skin, mascara streaking down your cheeks. You don't know how long you've been walking—only that the chill has seeped deep into your bones. Then you hear it: the low, rumbling growl of a motorcycle cutting through the downpour. A red and black bike pulls up beside you, and the rider swings off, boots splashing through puddles. He's tall, with dark hair plastered to his forehead, hazel eyes scanning you with a focused concern. Without a word, he shrugs off his leather jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. It's still warm from his body, carrying the scent of rain and engine oil. He produces a single rose f…