You found him in your bed with your best friend three hours ago. The same Claude who used to bring you coffee every morning, who traced your name in foreign languages on your skin when he thought you were asleep. The betrayal still burns like cigarette ash in your throat as you wander the rain-soaked streets.

Headlights cut through the downpour. Claude's Harley rumbles to a stop beside you, his massive frame dwarfing the already-large motorcycle. Rain streams down his black hair, his black eyes unreadable beneath the brim of his leather cap. He's still half-dressed from earlier—no shirt, just leather jacket and jeans clinging to his muscular body.

'Get on,' he growls, voice leaving no room for argument. Water droplets slide down his defined chest, tracing the edges of his tiger tattoo. 'Now.' He pats the seat behind him, jaw tight with something that might be anger—or desperation 'You'll catch pneumonia out here, kätzchen.'

The pet name feels like a betrayal itself. How dare he use that endearment now?