First Date Part 1 How to Survive Your First Motorcycle Ride （Spoiler Alert I Barely Did）
Me
WHAT DOES ONE WEAR ON A MOTORCYCLE DATE??
Megan
Me
I CAN’T MATH RIGHT NOW
Me
I’ve changed clothes six times.
Megan
Just wear the black jeans that make your butt look good.
Me
But what if I fall off and die in them? They’ll be ruined.
Megan
You’re right. Maybe don’t wear them in case you die. They’ll be no good to me ruined.
Me
NOT HELPING
I spent three hours getting ready. THREE.
HOURS. I finally settled on the black jeans, sturdy boots that covered my ankles (because I am not emotionally prepared for third-degree road rash that I now know all about after extensive googling), and a pink top under the black leather jacket I panic-bought this morning after a Reddit thread scared the shit out of me with all the skin graft talk.
I also bought leather gloves during that shopping trip.
They were slightly too tight, but at least my hands would be protected.
My outfit made me feel confident.
Or, okay, as confident as someone can feel when they’re about to climb onto a giant roaring death machine with a man whose arms could crush a watermelon and whose silence is somehow louder than my spiralling brain.
But still. The boots were solid. The jacket made me feel like a biker-adjacent badass. The top? Pink and fitted and maybe a little too flirty for a “please don’t let me die” kind of outing, but whatever.
I felt cute. Which was actually a worry. Historically, the moment I start feeling cute is the moment life immediately throws a banana peel in my path.
But I was telling myself this was fine. I could handle this date. Even if my anxiety was still waving red flags like it was in a Formula 1 pit crew.
That confidence lasted exactly three seconds after Jake arrived.
He stood there in a black T-shirt that showcased every muscle and tattoo on his arms, dark jeans, and that leather jacket that transforms him from hot neighbour to walking danger. One look at his eyes, blue and intensely focused on me, and my stomach did this swooping thing that felt like falling.
Then, his eyes trailed down my body—and this is the important part—his gaze lingered on my boots. Just for a moment.
“You came prepared,” he said, like he hadn’t expected me to and liked being wrong.
His voice was quiet and warm in a way that made my stomach drop, but it was the subtle approval in his tone and eyes that affected me the most. I didn’t know I had a praise kink until that exact second, but it turns out I might be the kind of person who’d do unspeakable things just to hear Jake say, “good job.”
“I googled,” I blurted. “You’re not supposed to ride without ankle protection or a jacket because of abrasion risks. And pipe burns. And sudden, high-speed contact with asphalt. Basically, I just didn’t want to lose a layer of skin today.”
Nailed it. Very chill. Very normal. Definitely not listing my medical fears to a man I’m mildly feral for.
His mouth curved into a devastating smile. “Smart girl.”
OH. MY. GOD.
Forget hearing him say good job . Forget a basic praise kink because mine just got a software update. My actual new kink is being called smart by a hot biker while he looks at my boots like he wants to pin me against a wall and explain countersteering.
And yes, I know what countersteering is. I watched an entire video about it at 1:40 a.m. after falling into a biker safety rabbit hole. He’d say the word and I’d just nod like I was born knowing it.
We made it out of the apartment somehow, despite my brain being fully stuck on him calling me smart. I followed him to the car park where his bike waited, gleaming and growly looking and more intimidating than any vehicle has a right to be.
When we reached his bike, I pulled my new gloves from my pocket and put them on. Jake turned to me as I flexed my fingers, trying to ease the tightness of the leather.
He frowned as he looked at them. “They’re too tight?”
“I wore them around my apartment all afternoon to break them in, but they’re still basically hand prisons,” I said, pulling a face and trying to wiggle my fingers.
He reached out, gently took one of my gloved hands in his, and inspected the fit like he was assessing a threat. Or something else that required the kind of focus guaranteed to melt me.
“They’ll be uncomfortable,” he said. “You’ll hate them by the end of the block.”
He opened a saddlebag (yes, I know what they’re called too, can I get another “smart girl?”), and pulled out a leather jacket and a pair of gloves. He then placed the jacket back in the bag before handing me the gloves.
“These’ll fit better,” he said. “My sister rides with me sometimes. Her hands are about your size.”
I just stared at him. Like a weirdo. Because...he brought me gloves and a jacket. He thought ahead. In case I didn’t know what I was doing.
I don’t think I’ve ever been more ruined by someone’s organisational skills and the way he planned to keep me safe.
I took the gloves and swapped them out. They were worn in and soft and slid on like magic. My fingers could move.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to act like he hadn’t just handed me the emotional equivalent of being seen and protected and ruined all at once.
Before I could spiral deeper, he gave me the matte black helmet that had been strapped to the back of the bike.
I took it with what I hoped was confidence.
And even though I’d googled “how to ride on a motorcycle” and “how to put on a motorcycle helmet” last night, I had no idea what I was doing.
Was it obvious? It was probably obvious.
I managed to put it on facing the right way first go and adjusted the strap under my chin the way they’d done in all those YouTube videos.
By the time Jake had his on, I was mostly sure mine was right.
Then his fingers were at my chin. “Too loose,” he murmured, tightening the strap.
I think I stopped breathing.
His knuckles grazed my jaw, and I was 1000 percent sure I whimpered.
“You want it snug,” he added, his voice a little rough. “Safe.”
Right. Safety. That was definitely the part scrambling my brain.
Then it was time to get on his bike, and everything I thought I knew about attraction flew out the window. Because watching Jake swing his leg over that Harley? That’s a religious experience. But having him turn to help me on? That’s straight-up spiritual awakening territory.
“First time on a bike?” he asked as I settled in behind him.
“It’s that obvious?”
“You’re gripping my shoulders like you think you’ll float away.” His voice held a smile. “Relax, darlin’. I’ve got you.”
Then, after a quick how-to on mid-ride communication (apparently tapping his shoulder wasn’t just flirting), he told me where to put my feet and took my hands and wrapped them around his waist. The solid warmth of him under my palms sent electricity dancing across my skin. “Hold tight,” he said. “Trust me.”
And God help me, I did.
The city blurred past us, lights streaming like stars as we wound through the streets. Every turn pressed me closer against his back, until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. The vibration of the bike hummed through my veins, making my pulse race.
At some point, I stopped overthinking and justexisted. In the wind. In the warmth of Jake. In the way his hand would find mine at red lights, fingers interlacing like he wanted the contact as much as I did.
Mount Coot-tha Lookout was quiet when we arrived, just a few other cars scattered about. I climbed off the bike first, trying to play it cool with legs that didn’t fully trust me.
Jake followed, tugging off his helmet and stepping in close. He helped me unclip mine with hands that felt way too gentle for someone who rode like that .
When he slid it off, his eyes met mine. And lingered. Like I was his favourite view.
“Still with me?” he asked, smoothing my hair from my face.
“Barely,” I said breathlessly. “Being on the back of your bike did things to me I wasn’t ready for.”
“Good.” His voice turned husky. “Because I’ve been thinking about doing this with you since the day you dropped those keys.”
He took my hand, leading me to the railing while I tried to process what he’d just said.
He’d been thinking about this for weeks ?
Excuse me?
Sir?
You can’t just say that and then casually walk over to the railing like you didn’t just crash my entire operating system with a single line of code.
I’d spent the last few weeks trying to act chill and there he was fantasising about us at scenic lookouts! What else had he imagined? Kissing? Making me scream his name? Wedding vows under a jacaranda tree?
Okay. Breathe.
This was fine. I was fine. My chest was hosting a full-blown server meltdown, no big deal.
Brisbane sprawled below us, a tapestry of lights under an inky sky. Jake stood behind me, close enough that I could feel his warmth, but not quite touching.
“It wasn’t actually an accident,” I confessed as I stared out over the city, my heart beating fast as I gave him this truth. “Dropping the keys that day.”
His laugh rumbled through his chest. “I know, darlin’. Just like I know you don’t actually check your mail ten times a day.”
I spun to face him, mortified. “You knew?”
“Eden.” The way he said my name made desire curl in my stomach. “I told you; I notice everything about you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because watching you try to play it cool is the best part of my day.” His eyes flashed with heat. “It’s almost as good as watching you blush every time I call you darlin’.”
I thought about the blonde woman I’d seen him with and felt stupid for jumping to conclusions. Looking at him now, the way his eyes were locked to mine, I felt foolish for letting my insecurities run wild. This didn’t feel like a man who was interested in anyone else.
His fingers traced my jaw and tilted my face up to his. “You know what else I notice?”
“What?”