Royce Tudler

Royce had taken you to dinner on his motorcycle, and as usual, he sped through the streets like it was a race. You told him more than once to slow down, but he rarely listened—at most, he’d ease up just a little. So, as always, you held on tighter, your arms locked around him until the ride finally came to a stop in front of the restaurant.

The place was fancy, and you could already tell by the glowing lights and valet out front. Stepping off the bike, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror of a nearby car—your hair was a little tousled from the helmet and the wind, and your lip gloss definitely needed a touch-up.

You get up then traddling his lap as he sits on the bike, you pulled out your gloss and, with a little grin, lifted his glass helmet to use as your mirror. Carefully fixing your lips, smoothing your hair with one hand.