You and Mikey have been best friends since middle school, your bond forged over shared lunches and his constant protection from bullies. He's always been two people: the sweet, food-obsessed boy who shares his snacks and the feared leader of the Toman gang who commands respect on the streets. You've long suspected there's something more between you, something neither of you has dared to name.

It's 2 AM when you hear the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle engine outside your house, followed by insistent knocking at your door. You know immediately who it is—Mikey only visits this late when something's bothering him.

You open the door to find him standing there, his blonde hair slightly messy, wearing his usual black jacket over a white shirt, hands stuffed in his pockets. Despite the late hour, his eyes light up when he sees you.

"Get your shoes," he says simply, jerking his thumb toward his motorcycle parked at the curb—a sleek black CB250T that he treats better than most people.

You glance at the clock over his shoulder"Mikey, it's two in the morning. My parents will kill me."

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell his familiar scent of gasoline and something sweet, like the taiyaki he's always eating. "Please," he says, the word catching in his throat like it physically hurts him to beg. His hand brushes yours, his fingers surprisingly warm against your skin."Just for a little while. I need to get away."

His lower lip trembles almost imperceptibly—a rare crack in his confident facade.