The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and burnt oranges that matched the turbulent state of Mel's mind. He stood at the bus stop just outside the towering wrought-iron gates of Crossfire Academy, clutching the straps of his backpack so tightly his knuckles were white. The evening air was turning crisp, biting at his skin, but Mel felt a lingering heat from the day's strange encounters.
He was checking his watch—the bus was late—when a low, guttural growl began to vibrate through the pavement.
It wasn't the sound of a bus. It was the aggressive, rhythmic thrum of a high-powered engine. A sleek, matte-black motorcycle roared toward the curb, cutting through the line of departing students like a shark through water. It screeched to a halt directly in front of Mel, kicking up a small cloud of dust.
The rider kicked the kickstand down and flipped up the visor of a dark helmet. Piercing, familiar eyes locked onto Mel's.
"Hop on," Derrick said.
Mel blinked, his heart skipping a beat. "What?"
"The bike, Mel. Hop on. I'm giving you a ride," Derrick repeated, as if he were explaining something to a child.
Mel shifted his weight, glancing toward the road where the bus should have appeared. "Why? I... I can wait for the bus. It's fine."
Derrick leaned his forearms against the handlebars, the leather of his jacket creaking. A small, enigmatic smirk played on his lips. "Because I'm your friend. And friends don't let friends stand out in the cold waiting for a bus that's running twenty minutes late."
Mel's brain stalled. Friend? Since when had the most popular, powerful boy in school decided they were friends? They had known each other for less than eight hours. In those hours, Derrick had claimed him, fed him, and protected him—but "friend" was a word that carried weight. A weight Mel wasn't sure he was ready to carry.
"When did we... when did we become friends?" Mel whispered, the word feeling heavy and foreign in his mouth.
Derrick's expression shifted, his brow arching. The smirk vanished, replaced by a look of feigned offense. "Oh. So that's how it is? I save you from the Principal's brat, I feed you my mother's cooking, and you don't even want to be my friend? You're a cold one, Mel."
"No!" Mel said quickly, his face heating up. "That's not it. It's just... I didn't think someone like you would want to be friends with someone like me."
"Someone like me?" Derrick echoed, his voice dropping into that low, private register. He stared at Mel for a long beat, his gaze sweeping over Mel's flustered face. "Well, 'someone like me' has already decided. Friends it is. Now, get on the bike before I decide to pick you up and put you there myself."
Mel knew better than to test Derrick's threats. With a shaky breath, he stepped toward the machine. It was intimidating—all chrome and raw power. He hiked his leg over the back seat, moving with agonizing care to ensure there was at least a six-inch gap between his chest and Derrick's sturdy back.
He settled onto the very edge of the pillion seat, his body stiff. He reached behind him, his fingers searching for the metal grab rails at the rear of the bike. He gripped them until his palms hurt, anchoring himself as far away from Derrick as physically possible. He was hyper-aware of his own heartbeat, certain that if he leaned an inch forward, Derrick would feel the frantic rhythm of a closeted boy's panic.
Derrick turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Mel's precarious position. He let out a short, dry laugh.
"What are you doing back there?" Derrick asked. "Trying to fall off? What are you so afraid of?"
"I'm fine," Mel insisted, his voice thin. "I have a good grip."
"No, you don't," Derrick countered. "I don't know how to drive slowly, Mel. The second I hit the gas, you're going to fly off and end up as a permanent fixture on the asphalt. Get close. Hold my waist."
Mel hesitated. The idea of wrapping his arms around Derrick—of feeling the solid muscle of his stomach, the warmth of his body, the scent of his jacket—was too much. It felt like stepping into a fire. "I... I'll be okay, really."
Derrick didn't argue further. He didn't have to.
In one swift, fluid motion, Derrick reached back. His large, warm hand found Mel's wrist. Before Mel could protest, Derrick yanked him forward.
The air left Mel's lungs as his chest slammed into Derrick's back. The contact was total. He could feel every contour of Derrick's spine, the breadth of his shoulders, the sheer solidity of him. Derrick didn't stop there; he took both of Mel's small, trembling hands and forced them around his waist, locking Mel's fingers together over his stomach.
Mel was now plastered against him, his chin resting almost on Derrick's shoulder. The scent of cologne, leather, and something purely Derrick flooded his senses, making his head swim.
"There," Derrick said, his voice vibrating through his back and directly into Mel's chest. "Stop acting shy like a girl. Hold on tight and don't let go."
Derrick reached down and kicked the starter. The bike roared to life, the vibration traveling from the engine through the seat and into Mel's very bones.
"Ready?" Derrick yelled over the engine's scream.
Mel couldn't answer. He just squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his grip on Derrick's waist, his face pressed into the cold leather of the athlete's jacket.
Derrick kicked the bike into gear and twisted the throttle. They shot forward like a bullet, the force of the acceleration pinning Mel even tighter against the boy he was terrified to get close to. As the wind whipped around them and the school gates blurred into the distance, Mel realized he wasn't just holding on for safety—he was holding on because, for the first time in his life, he didn't want the ride to end.