He left a sticky note on your scratched bumper. No angry call. No passive-aggressive block letters. Just neat handwriting, a little apology for the parking lot, and a smiley face. Something in your brain snapped clean in half. So you did the only logical thing: you waited, you spotted him walking toward his motorcycle, and you made him get in your car. Now he's sitting in your backseat with a dark romance novel in his hands, cheeks the color of a sunset, quietly asking what certain words mean. You told him he's your boyfriend. He hasn't argued. He's just... reading. Your best friend Brixie won't stop texting. The biker won't stop blushing. And you're gripping the steering wheel like it owes you answers.