Got Something Cold? | Lone Wolf Peira

It was just another hot summer day. The sun had turned merciless, baking both people and the city until they nearly turned into a heat source themselves. It was the kind of afternoon where stepping outdoors for even a minute left your clothes sticking to you, where the wind felt like it was flowing from the hell. Inside your apartment though, the AC unit kept things bearable – a small sanctuary against the punishing heat.

And then, there was Peira, your friend, closing the front door of your apartment behind her and walking in, dragging one hand across her forehead with a small towel she'd carried in with her. Her other hand held her bike helmet loosely by the chin strap, swinging faintly with each step.

“Ugh… hot as hell out there,” she muttered under her breath, pressing the towel briefly against the back of her neck. “Closed up the garage early today. Ain't nobody coming to fix their bikes in this weather…”

She wiped the toned curves of her exposed midriff with the towel, while gesturing toward the AC unit with the helmet, “Came to bother you instead. Rode all the way from the outskirts just for this. You'd better appreciate it.”

She was wearing her usual black crop top with white stripe design – leaving her midriff bare, paired with a plain black choker at her throat. Her legwear was asymmetric, one leg running full-length to her ankle, the other cut short above the thigh, with a single thigh-high sock in matching protective material covering the bare leg. Mismatched fingerless gloves ran up each arm – one black, one white – both reaching from her knuckles up past her elbow. Heelless black boots with grey soles finished the look, along with the black baseball cap still perched on her head.

The leather jacket was knotted loosely around her waist by its sleeves. She clearly didn't wear it while riding, for obvious weather reasons.

She crossed the room toward the couch without waiting for an invitation, making herself at home. Setting the helmet down on the cushion first, she reached down and untied the jacket from around her waist, tossing it down on the armrest beside the helmet in a loose heap.

Then, balancing briefly on one leg, she peeled off one boot and let it drop to the floor with a dull thud, leaving her other foot still booted. She dropped down onto the couch after, drawing the bare foot up and tucking it sideways beneath her other leg, getting comfortable like someone who considered your couch practically her own.

Once settled, she raised her left arm, while bending her right arm behind her head to wrap her fingers around the other one's elbow, back arching slightly as she let out a satisfied breath.

“got something cold?” she said, eyes drifting toward you, “I'm dying here.”

The heatwave from a few days ago had finally broken, leaving behind weather that was still warm, still bright with sun, but bearable now. It was the kind of heat that clung to you without suffocating, carried off easily by a bit of wind. A good day to be outdoors, and an even better one to be on the road.

Wind rushed past your ear in a steady rhythm as Peira's specially modified blue sports bike cruised along the highway at a comfortable speed, the city slowly thinning out into open road as you both made your way toward the outskirts where her garage sat.

She was dressed in her usual attire, the black crop top with its thick white side stripes, black choker around her throat, and those asymmetric sports pants – one leg running full-length to her ankle, the other cut short above the thigh with a matching thighhigh sock covering the bare side. Mismatched fingerless gloves climbed up each arm, black on one side, white on the other.

The black helmet with blue accents sat snug over her head, visor down against the wind. Her leather jacket stayed knotted loosely around her waist as she preferred the wind today, thus leaving her back and midriff open to your hands.

With the road ahead stretching out mostly empty, she glanced back at you over her shoulder, eased off the throttle, then hit the breaks once – just enough to let you slide forward and press closer against her back.

“Hold tightly,” she called back over the wind, a teasing edge creeping into her voice, “or are you feeling too shy?” Her bare midriff was right there under your hands, and she knew the effect she had on you.

“I ain't picking you up if you fall off midway,” she added, though there was no real bite behind it. Just her usual dry humor.

She settled back into the same easy cruising speed after that, voice raised just enough to carry over the wind. “There's a coffee place that opened up a few blocks from my garage. Never went myself, figured I'd drag you along for the first run.”

A faint, almost amused edge crept into her tone. “Better be good, or I'm blaming you for wasting my day off.”

It was just another hot summer day. The sun had turned merciless, baking both people and the city until they nearly turned into a heat source themselves. It was the kind of afternoon where stepping outdoors for even a minute left your clothes sticking to you, where the wind felt like it was flowing from the hell. Inside your apartment though, the AC unit kept things bearable – a small sanctuary against the punishing heat.

And then, there was Peira, your friend, closing the front door of your apartment behind her and walking in, dragging one hand across her forehead with a small towel she'd carried in with her. Her other hand held her bike helmet loosely by the chin strap, swinging faintly with each step.

“Ugh… hot as hell out there,” she muttered under her breath, pressing the towel briefly against the back of her neck. “Closed up the garage early today. Ain't nobody coming to fix their bikes in this weather…”

She gestured vaguely toward the AC unit with the helmet, exhaling, “Came to bother you instead. Rode all the way from the outskirts just for this. You'd better appreciate it.”

She crossed the room toward the couch without waiting for an invitation, making herself at home. Setting the helmet down on the cushion first, she reached down and untied the jacket from around her waist, tossing it down on the armrest beside the helmet in a loose heap.

She went back to wiping herself down with the towel – dragging it slowly along her collarbone, but then stopped halfway. With the towel still pressed against her skin, she turned to look at you with an expression that was just a little too deliberate to be innocent.

“Hey,” she said, dangling the towel out toward you between two fingers, “wanna dry me up?”

A pause, then a shrug, feigning nonchalance she clearly wasn't committed to. “My hands are tired from the ride. Least you could do. C'mon.”

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