Ride or Die, Baby!

The Name He Asked About

I stared at the message until the screen dimmed.

Different street doesn’t change anything.

My thumb hovered over it. Then I deleted the thread, blocked the number, and locked the phone like that could erase the words from my head.

It didn’t.

I set the phone face-down on the counter and forced myself to move. Shower. Clothes. Bag. Scholarship folder. The ordinary steps of an ordinary morning. I told myself if I just kept going, the tight feeling in my chest would loosen.

It didn’t.

Classes blurred. I took notes I barely read. In the second lecture the girl beside me leaned over.

“You okay? You keep checking the door.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just tired.”

“Scholarship stress?”

“Something like that.”

She went back to her laptop. I stared at the professor and tried to pretend my pulse wasn’t still jumping every time someone in a dark jacket walked past the doorway.

By early afternoon I was in the quiet study room on the third floor with my scholarship materials spread out. Personal statement. Recommendation checklist. Interview prep questions. I rewrote the same paragraph four times.

A guy from my statistics class dropped into the chair across from me.

“Quinn. You look like you’re about to murder that notebook.”

“Deadline’s coming.”

“The big one? April thing?”

“Yeah.”

He whistled low. “No pressure or anything. You ready?”

“I have to be.”

“You will be. You’re the one who actually studies.” He stood again. “Don’t burn out before the interview.”

“Trying not to.”

He left. I kept writing until the words stopped making sense.

Late afternoon the email came.

Please stop by Student Records before five. Quick confirmation needed on your file.

I almost ignored it. Then I thought of Dr. Ashford’s face when she said the date was locked, and I went.

The office was half-empty. A woman with short gray hair and a cardigan looked up from her desk when I gave my name.

“Elara Quinn. Right. Come around.”

I stepped to the counter. She clicked through a few screens.

“Just need you to verify the contact number on your emergency form. It’s still the old one?”

I gave her the updated number. She typed it in.

“All set.” She glanced at the screen again and made a small humming sound. “Oh. Someone else was asking about you last week.”

My fingers tightened on the strap of my bag. “Who?”

“Jose Ravell. Final-year. He came in asking about library closing times. Said he needed to know when the building emptied out for some project.” She shrugged, already turning back to her monitor. “I told him the public hours. Nothing confidential. Still, not every day a student asks about another student’s schedule like that.”

The words landed like a physical hit.

Jose Ravell asked about your library schedule last week.

Before the rainy night.

Before the hallway.

Before he ever said my name out loud to my face.

My mouth went dry. Heat flooded my face and then drained away just as fast, leaving me cold.

“Did he say why?” I asked. My voice sounded distant.

“Just the project thing. I didn’t think much of it at the time.” She looked up. “You two know each other?”

“No.”

The lie sat bitter on my tongue. We didn’t know each other. Not really. But he had walked into this office and asked for the exact hours I was alone in the library, and no one had thought it strange enough to stop him.

“Well, it’s public information anyway,” she said. “You’re all set here. Have a good evening.”

I walked out of the office on legs that didn’t feel steady.

He had asked.

Deliberately.

About the nights I stayed late.

Every time I had told myself the bike was coincidence, every time I had forced the fascination back down, now looked like a joke. He hadn’t just noticed me. He had collected the information. Written it down. Used it.

And my body still reacted to the memory of his eyes in the hallway—hot, low, unwanted. The same pull that made my stomach tight when he said my name. The same heat that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he looked at me like he already owned the next move.

I hated that the two feelings arrived together.

The rain started while I was still on campus.

Light at first. Then harder. By the time I packed up in the library it was a steady curtain against the windows. I stayed longer than I planned, telling myself the weather would ease. It didn’t. When I finally stepped outside the pavement was already shining and the streetlights had halos around them.

I pulled my hood up and started walking.

Usual route. Head down. Keys in my hand.

Two blocks later the headlights appeared behind me.

They stayed there. Not passing. Not turning. Just keeping pace, close enough that the rain lit up in their beams.

My shoulders locked. I walked faster.

The car matched me.

I crossed at the next light without waiting. The headlights followed, slow and deliberate, water hissing under the tires.

Three blocks from my street the car eased closer to the curb. The passenger window was dark. I couldn’t see the driver. Only the shape of the vehicle and the steady glow of the lights that refused to leave me alone.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I calculated the distance to the next open store, the next well-lit corner, the chance of anyone still being outside in this weather.

The car slowed to a crawl beside me.

I stopped breathing.

Before I could decide whether to run, a different sound cut through the rain.

Low. Rough. Familiar.

The black motorcycle slid between me and the car like it had been waiting for the exact second it would be needed.