Scene Twelve The Ride She Wasn’t Supposed to Take
Kade didn’t wait for her to decide. He didn’t ask if she was okay. He didn’t ask what happened on the street.
He just sat there on the bike, engine humming low, eyes fixed on the direction she’d run from.
Wren stood frozen, breath uneven, her pulse still trying to catch up with the fear she hadn’t had time to process.
“Kade…” she started.
“Get on,” he said again, voice low, steady, controlled.
She hesitated. Not because she didn’t trust him — but because she did, and that scared her more than the man in the hallway or the one leaning against the red bike.
Kade finally looked at her.
Not impatient. Not angry. Not soft.
Just certain.
“Wren,” he said, her name grounding her in a way she didn’t want to admit, “you’re not walking anywhere today.”
Her chest tightened. She stepped closer.
The bike vibrated under her hand as she reached for the seat, the hum of the engine steady and quiet, nothing like the loud chrome monster she’d seen earlier.
Kade shifted slightly, making room for her without breaking eye contact with the street.
She climbed on behind him, her hands hovering awkwardly, unsure where to hold. She didn’t want to touch him. She didn’t want to need to.
He noticed.
“Hold the seat,” he said. “Not me.”
Her breath caught — not in relief, but in something sharper. He wasn’t pulling her close. He wasn’t using the moment. He wasn’t crossing a line.
He was keeping one.
She gripped the back of the seat, knuckles white.
Kade exhaled once, slow, like he was settling something inside himself. Then he leaned forward, the bike shifting under them.
“Don’t let go,” he said.
The engine rose, low and controlled, and the bike moved.
Wren’s breath hitched as the world blurred around them — houses, streetlamps, the stretch of road where she’d felt watched. The wind pressed against her, cool and sharp, but she didn’t feel exposed.
She felt… shielded.
Kade rode like he didn’t want attention.
Like he didn’t want speed.
Like he didn’t want her scared.
He rode like he wanted her safe.
They turned onto a quieter street, the engine dropping to a soft hum. Kade didn’t speak. He didn’t look back. He didn’t check on her.
He just rode.
Wren swallowed, her voice barely audible. “Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer right away.
He took another turn, slower this time, the bike gliding through a neighborhood she didn’t recognize.
Finally, he said, “Somewhere the dark doesn’t reach.”
Her pulse tightened. “Kade… what does that mean?”
He didn’t answer.
He pulled into an empty lot behind an old brick building, the kind of place no one paid attention to. He cut the engine, the sudden silence heavy and intimate.
Wren climbed off slowly, her legs shaky.
Kade stayed on the bike for a moment, hands resting on the handlebars, shoulders tense.
Then he looked at her.
“You’re not going back there alone,” he said.
Wren swallowed. “Back where?”
His eyes held hers, steady and unflinching.
“Anywhere.”
Her breath caught.
Not because of the danger — but because of the way he said it.
Like he’d already decided. Like he’d already chosen. Like something in him had shifted the moment she ran.
And she realized something she shouldn’t have:
She wasn’t supposed to be on his bike. But he wasn’t supposed to leave her alone either.