3. Daria
Three
Daria
Okay.
First of all, I'm wearing a skirt.
A flowy one.
A cute one.
A modest one.
Because despite what modern fashion seems to think, I personally don't need strangers seeing my underwear.
And yes, before anyone asks, I came prepared.
I was raised Catholic.
Even went to Catholic school.
And that means I fear God, carry emotional baggage, and know how to wear anti-chub rub shorts beneath every skirt I own thanks to thirteen years of awful plaid uniform jumpers and skirts.
Absolutely no wardrobe malfunctions are happening on my watch.
So when the giant biker says we're going for a ride, I'm mentally preparing myself.
You know.
For physics.
For wind.
For the possibility of accidentally flashing half of Maccon City.
But as long as I've got my anti-chafing shorts my dignity will remain intact.
Everything's fine.
Everything is absolutely—okay, it’s not fine.
Because the second I climb onto the motorcycle and wrap my thighs around his hips—I feel something electric sizzle between us.
Holy.
Mother.
Of.
God.
Maybe it’s chemistry.
Or raw animal attraction.
All I know is I feel it in my bones.
The bike rumbles beneath us.
His body is hard and warm in front of me.
And when he pulls away from the curb and the summer breeze catches my hair—I swear my entire body vibrates all the way down to the full coverage briefs I have on beneath my shorts.
It's ridiculous.
I might as well be naked.
Because every inch of me is aware of every inch of him.
His broad back.
His powerful shoulders.
The way his leather cut stretches over muscles that honestly shouldn't exist outside romance novels.
And his smell.
God.
He smells amazing.
Motor oil.
Leather.
Something woodsy and clean and utterly masculine.
And I know—somehow I know—that all of it is just him.
Without thinking, I tighten my arms around his waist.
He makes this deep sound.
Not quite a laugh.
Not quite a groan.
Something in between.
And for some reason, my entire body responds.
God, help me.
The man hasn't even kissed me, and I'm already acting like a fool.
Maccon City slides past around us.
The lights from the shops.
Families walking along the sidewalk.
Teenagers laughing.
Music spilling out from open restaurant doors.
We take a long, winding road past sand dunes and tall grass, and then, suddenly—the ocean.
Moonlight dances over dark waves.
The boardwalk glows in the distance.
And I can't help smiling.
“Like it?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Very much!”
I laugh as he turns the bike in a tight circle and stops.
“It’s beautiful,” I sigh as I take off the helmet.
He’s got his head turned around, and he’s just watching me with those crazy eyes of his.
“Damn straight.”
“No,” I say and shake my head, “I meant the view.”
“Me too,” he replies.
Now, I snort—because yes, ladies and gents, I am that classy. Do not be jealous.
“The ocean's nice, too,” he says and offers me a hand so I can extricate myself from the bike.
I stumble a little, but he tightens his hold.
His shoulders shake, and I turn around ready to sass him.
But then I see his expression, and he’s not making fun of me—he just looks happy.
“What’re you laughing at punk?” I ask, and his grin turns positively feral.
Apparently he likes smart mouths.
Good.
Because mine comes standard.
He dismounts, and we stand watching the waves in comfortable silence for a little while after that.
And honestly?
I've never felt so relaxed in my life.
Not because I know him.
Because I don't.
Not really.
I know he punches creepy men.
Owns a motorcycle.
Looks unfairly attractive.
And has hands the size of dinner plates.
That's basically it.
And yet—being with him like this—I feel safe.
Which is insane.
I know better.
I've watched Dateline.
But something deep inside me keeps whispering the same thing.
Trust him.
“Come on,” he murmurs, and takes my hand and I let him.
We walk a bit, eventually stopping near an overlook.
The ocean stretches endlessly before us, silver beneath the moonlight.
Below us there’s smooth sand, and I notice for the first time he’s carrying a saddlebag. He starts down the rough patch of rocks first and holds out his hand.
Again.
And something about that gets me right in the feelings.
Because he keeps doing that.
Like he wants me to choose.
Like he's asking instead of assuming.
I place my hand in his.
Again.
And again, something strange happens.
A little jolt.
Not electricity exactly.
More like comfort.
He helps me down, lifting me over a particular jagged rock like I weigh nothing.
Which is objectively untrue.
“Careful, I'm not petite,” I warn him.
His eyes widen in horror.
Actual horror.
Like I've deeply offended him.
“What? Honey, do you see yourself next to me? You’re a munchkin.”
I blink.
“A munchkin?”
“A cute one.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe. Just don’t talk nonsense about yourself in front of me, and we’ll be fine.”
“I wasn't—”
“You were.”
His voice softens.
“And I don't like it.”
My heart stutters.
Because no one has ever said that before.
Not like that.
Not like it hurts him.
Not like hearing me insult myself bothers him personally.
Which is weird.
We've known each other for—what?
Thirty minutes?
Forty?
Still.
The sincerity in those beautiful eyes makes my chest ache.
“So,” I say lightly, because emotions are scary and jokes are easier. “Do you always rescue damsels in distress from bad dates and whisk them away on your motorcycle, or is this a special Saturday night?”
He grins.
“Nope. You’re the first damsel I’ve ever rescued.”
“Just me? Really?”
His smile grows softer.
“Just you.”
Something flips inside my stomach.
Dangerously.
Because I like that answer way too much.
And under the moonlight, with the ocean breeze around us, and this beautiful stranger standing much too close—for the first time in a very long time—I find myself hoping.
Not for Prince Charming.
Not for perfection or even a happily ever after.
But maybe—maybe I can have tonight.
Maybe, just for tonight, I can hope for something real.