Vitalio | BIKER

The party was loud — music thumping through cheap speakers, bodies swaying and grinding under the dim glow of fairy lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling. The air was thick with the smell of cheap perfume, sweat, and something sweet from the punch bowl that had been spiked hours ago.

Vitalio stood against the wall, a red solo cup in his hand that he hadn't touched all night. His eyes were fixed on you.

You were across the room, laughing at something your friend said. Your head tipped back, your smile bright, your eyes sparkling under the lights. You looked like something out of a dream — like you belonged in a painting, not in this cramped, sweaty house party.

He'd been watching you all night. He couldn't help it. He'd tried to look away — tried to be normal — but his eyes kept drifting back to you like a magnet. You were the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

He knew it was stupid. He knew you probably didn't even know his name. You were in the same dentistry class, sure — but you'd never spoken. You'd never looked at him the way he looked at you.

Still. He couldn't stop hoping.

Then he saw you stumble. Your drink sloshed over the rim of your cup, spilling down your hand. Your friend caught your arm, laughing, but you were unsteady on your feet. You'd had too much. Way too much.

Vitalio set his cup down and moved toward you without thinking, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Hey — hey, are you okay?"

He reached out, catching your arm gently as you swayed. His fingers wrapped around your elbow — warm, steady, careful. His brows furrowed with concern, his warm brown eyes searching your face.

"You're — you're really drunk, huh? C'mon, let's — let's get you some air."

He guided you through the crowd, his hand warm and steady on your lower back. He could feel you leaning into him, your steps unsteady, your body soft and warm against his side. He didn't mind. He wanted to make sure you were safe. He wanted to make sure you got home in one piece.

"Can I — can I take you home?" he asked softly, his voice barely audible over the music. "You can't walk like this. It's not safe."

He waited for your response, his heart pounding so loud he was sure you could hear it. When you nodded, he let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Okay. Okay, good. I have — I have my bike. It's outside. Is that — is that okay?"

He guided you outside, the cool night air hitting both of you like a shock. You shivered almost immediately, your arms wrapping around yourself. He noticed. He always noticed.

"Here," he said softly, pulling a spare helmet from his bike. "I'm gonna — I'm gonna help you put this on, okay?"

His fingers brushed your hair as he settled the helmet over your head. Gentle. Careful. His thumb grazed your cheek — soft, warm, unintentional. He froze for half a second, then quickly continued, his cheeks flushing.

"Good. That's — that's good."

He fastened the strap beneath your chin, his eyes scanning your face — the flush on your cheeks from the alcohol, the slight smile on your lips, the way you looked at him through half-lidded eyes like he was the only person in the world.

He wanted to remember this moment forever.

He got on the bike first, the leather seat creaking beneath him. He looked back at you, his hand reaching out, palm open.

"Okay. Come on. I'll help you."

His fingers wrapped around yours — warm, steady, gentle. He guided you onto the seat behind him, feeling the weight of you settle against his back.

"Put your arms around me," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Hold on tight. Like — like really tight. Don't let go."

He felt your arms wrap around his waist. Your body pressed against his back — warm, soft, solid. Your breath was warm against his neck through the fabric of his hoodie. His breath caught in his throat.

"Good. That's — that's good."

The engine rumbled to life beneath you, a deep guttural purr that vibrated through both of you. And then you were off — cutting through the cool night air, streetlights blurring past in streaks of gold and white, the wind rushing around you, cold against your cheeks.

He took the long way home. Not because he wanted to keep you on his bike — well, maybe a little — but because he wanted to make sure you were okay. He wanted to make sure you were safe. He wanted to stretch out every second he had with you.

The streets were quiet now. Empty. Just the two of them and the hum of the engine.

Then the red light.

His bike rumbled beneath them, the engine idling. The street was silent except for the occasional distant siren. The red glow of the traffic light painted them both in a warm crimson hue.

He felt your hands start to drift. Lower. Slower. Sliding down from his waist, trailing along his stomach, past his hips.

His breath hitched. His entire body went rigid.

"W-wait — what are you —"

Then your palm pressed against him through his jeans, warm and deliberate, and his mind went completely blank.

"A-ah — ah — tesoro — what are you doing —"

His voice cracked. Stammered. His hips shifted involuntarily, pressing into your palm. His hands gripped the handlebars so hard his knuckles went white. His head fell back, a shaky breath escaping his lips.

"Oh — oh fuck —"

His hand darted down, fingers wrapping around yours, holding you still but not pushing you away. His grip was gentle — almost desperate — like he didn't know whether to stop you or guide you.

He was frozen. Completely undone. His heart was slamming against his ribs, his breathing uneven, his entire body trembling beneath your touch.

A car honked behind them. Startling you both. The light was green.

He jolted forward, flustered, his cheeks flushed bright under the green glow of the traffic light. His hand was still holding yours, pressed against him, not letting go.

"I — I should — the light's — it's green — I should —"

He couldn't form a sentence. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

"Y-you can't — you can't just — I mean — not that I don't want to — god — I want to — I really — really want to — but — like — you're — you're drunk and — and I — and we're — in the middle of the road — and — and —"

He was a stammering mess, his voice cracking, his accent thickening with every word.

He finally let go of your hand, his fingers lingering for just a moment before he gripped the handlebars again, his knuckles white.