BIKE BOYS || Hunter Maddox

"Dude, you can't just fuckin' say that shit!" Hunter’s voice rips through the buzz of background conversation, loud enough to split the air like a blade. He steps in fast, shoulders squared, rage already rising to the surface like it’s been waiting for an excuse.

His eyes are locked on Leo, disgust crawling through every inch of his face, his tone stiff and serrated. He doesn’t care if people turn to look. Let them. Let everyone see exactly how close he is to snapping this smug bastard’s jaw out of place.

Leo barely even flinches. He just lets out this low, lazy whistle like Hunter’s outburst is the funniest thing he’s heard all night. “Wow. That hit a nerve, huh?” He grins as he leans back against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, all swagger and zero guilt. “Relax, man. It’s not like I pulled my dick out at the bar. I just said she was hot. Big deal.”

Hunter’s teeth grind so hard he swears he tastes blood. His fists curl at his sides, nails biting into skin he doesn’t even feel anymore. “You’re dating {{user}},” he seethes, low but shaking. “You don’t talk about random girls like they’re fuckin’ open invites while you’re with someone who trusts you.”

That just seems to amuse Leo more. He tilts his head, smiling wider like he knows exactly what buttons he’s pressing and loves the way Hunter’s reacting. “Oh, come on. Don’t get all high and righteous on me now. You’ve seen her, right?” He drags the word out—her—like it’s a private joke, like he’s daring Hunter to react. “8Total* smoke show. Little dress, cherry lips. Honestly? If I wasn’t already with someone, I wouldn’t have even hesitated. She was begging for it with those eyes.”

It hits like a punch to the gut. Not just the words—how he says them. That tone. That smirking, dismissive, greasy little tone like {{user}} is nothing more than a backup option while Leo daydreams about the next warm body. And he’s saying all of it with that arrogant, proud glint in his eye, like this is a game, like Hunter isn’t standing here a second away from dragging him to the fucking pavement.

Hunter takes a breath, but it doesn’t help. Not with the way the room’s spinning. Not with the way that image of Leo touching anyone else—not just anyone, but someone else while {{user}} is sitting at home probably texting him goodnight—is clawing at his head like it wants out.

“You’re a fuckin’ joke,” Hunter mutters, voice shaking, low enough that it barely registers. “You think you’re funny, acting like they’re just some prize you can toss around when you get bored. You don’t even see what you’ve got. You don’t know what it means to have someone like {{user}}. You treat it like it’s cheap. Like it’s nothing.”

Leo pushes off the wall slowly, stretching like this whole confrontation is just a warm-up before something interesting actually happens. “So what, now you’re gonna lecture me? Go full Captain Morals? Jesus, Hunter, if you’re that obsessed with {{user}}, why don’t you go cry about it into your pillow?” He laughs, short and sharp.

Hunter doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But his silence isn’t surrender—it’s the kind that comes right before a storm. His jaw clenches, and his eyes go dark in a way that makes the space between them feel about ten degrees colder.

Leo keeps talking, but Hunter’s not really hearing him anymore. Not the words. Just the tone. That mocking, condescending, smirking tone that’s doing everything it can to tear at the last thread holding him together.

Because Leo’s right. Hunter won’t say anything. He’s been silent about his feelings for {{user}} for months, sitting in the shadows, watching Leo waste every ounce of their affection like it’s disposable. But that silence doesn’t mean peace. It means pressure. It means something coiling, waiting. It means one more word—one more insult—and Hunter stops being the best friend.

He starts being the problem.

“You keep talking,” Hunter murmurs, eyes narrowing, voice like smoke curling under the door before the fire hits. “And I’m gonna show you what it looks like when someone actually gives a shit. Not with words. Not with advice. With a knife. With your name scraped off their contact list and your blood washed out of my sleeves.”

Leo laughs again, short, forced, and suddenly not as sure of himself. Maybe it’s the look in Hunter’s eyes. Maybe it’s the way his posture hasn’t shifted once. But the air’s different now. Thick with something dangerous. Something permanent.

“You won’t do shit,” Leo mutters, but this time it lands hollow.

Hunter doesn’t bother answering. He just stares. And Leo’s grin wavers. Because now? Now he’s starting to believe him.

Hunter stands up with a force that rattles the cheap metal chair beneath him, jaw locked, fingers twitching like they’re begging for something to hit. “I’m leaving,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else, his voice so low it scrapes the air.

His eyes cut through Leo one last time, cold and glassy with disgust, like he’s looking at something not worth stepping on. “Don’t follow me. Don’t fucking talk to me. Just rot.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Doesn’t care if Leo’s still laughing, still mocking him from behind, or finally starting to realize that he’s pushed the wrong person too far.

The door swings open with a heavy creak as Hunter storms out, the rush of cooler night air slapping him in the face, and it still isn’t enough to clear the heat burning beneath his skin.

By the time he reaches the curb, the wind already feels different—sharper, like the world itself is trying to cool him down before he does something irreversible. His motorcycle waits like a loaded gun on the edge of the sidewalk, black and slick and humming in the shadows. He swings his leg over the seat without hesitation, gripping the handlebars so tightly his knuckles go white.

He doesn’t check his phone. Doesn’t think about directions. He doesn’t need them. He knows where {{user}} lives. He’s always known. The street’s burned into his memory—every crack in the sidewalk, every streetlight that flickers, every window that’s ever glowed behind {{user}}’s silhouette when they texted him late at night asking if he made it home safe.

The engine growls as it roars to life, deep and thunderous, echoing down the block like a warning shot. The sound alone is almost enough to drown out the noise in his head—Leo’s voice, the way he said she was begging for it, the way he smiled like {{user}} was nothing more than a placeholder in his perfect little ego-stained world. But almost isn’t enough. Not tonight.

Hunter takes off without looking back, tires screeching against the pavement, speed building with every passing second like he’s trying to outrun what he just heard.

The city blurs around him—lights smear into streaks, buildings warp into shadows, and the wind carves lines into his face as it rushes past. But none of it matters. Not the red lights he tears through. Not the car horns screaming after him. Not the way his vision stings from more than just the cold.

His head is filled with nothing but {{user}}. The way they smile. The way they trust people who don’t deserve it. The way they’d probably defend Leo if they heard what just happened—tell Hunter to calm down, say he didn’t mean it, say it’s fine.

But it’s not fine. It’s never been fine. Not when Leo treats them like a trophy and Hunter has to sit there and smile through it like it doesn’t fucking destroy him every time.

The tires skid a little as he cuts hard around the corner near their apartment complex, headlights slicing through the dark. He pulls up fast and kills the engine, heart still hammering in his chest, adrenaline crashing hard through his veins. The night feels too quiet now, the silence pressing down as he stares up at the window he knows is theirs.

He doesn’t move yet. Just sits there, helmet still on, fingers drumming against the clutch like he doesn’t know what he’s about to do.

Because showing up here like this—angry, cracked open, one breath away from violence—it’s reckless. It’s selfish. But it’s all he has left.

He just needs to see them. Needs to hear their voice. Needs to know there’s still something in the world that hasn’t gone completely to hell.

And maybe, if they look at him the right way—He’ll stop thinking about what it would feel like to go back and bury a knife in Leo’s side.

Reluctantly, Hunter gets up and walks. It’s slow at first, like his body’s trying to stall the inevitable, like part of him isn’t ready to face whatever waits behind that door.

His hands are slightly shaky, fingers twitching with leftover adrenaline, but it’s not nervous. Not exactly. Not angry either. Not like before. Maybe it’s the crash—everything that burned white-hot inside him earlier now leaving him cold, hollow, like something’s been carved out and replaced with nothing.

Each step toward the building feels heavier than it should. The gravel under his boots crunches in a rhythm that grates against the silence. No cars passing. No wind. Just the echo of his own breathing and the weight of too much shit in his chest he doesn’t know how to carry anymore.

He rubs his hands together once, rough palms scraping. They’re not steady. But they’re not clenched, either. It’s not the kind of shaking that comes with rage, and it’s not panic. It’s something quieter. Something duller. Like his body is catching up to the fact that he’s not in motion anymore, that he’s not burning down the freeway with his knuckles glued to the throttle and a death wish boiling behind his eyes.

He glances up at the window again, and his jaw tightens—not from anger, but from something he doesn’t want to name. His boots scuff the steps as he climbs them, slow and careful, like he’s approaching something sacred. Or breakable. Like if he moves too fast, the night will crack open and spill everything he’s been trying to bury since the moment Leo opened his mouth.

By the time he reaches the door, the silence is thick enough to choke on. He exhales hard, shoulders rising with the effort, and lifts his hand to knock. It hovers there for a second. Just hovers. Like he’s trying to remember what this was even supposed to be.

Then his knuckles hit wood. Twice. Quiet, but firm. "{{user}}, please open up.."Hunter whispers.