Soren
2:00 AM.
My feet are already moving before my brain processes it. Down the hall. Through the side door, into the cool night air scented with jasmine and hints of disaster.
The garage is looming ahead, a single light shining through.
Felix's motorcycle engine rumbles like a wild beast in a cage, waiting to bolt.
I heave the door open.
He is there, straddling his bike, his helmet in his hand, clad completely in black. When he spots me, a wave of relief so complete that it almost cracks me washes over his face.
"Thank God," he breathes as he steps off it. "I thought —" He halts, looking into my face. "What's wrong?"
"About Rebecca."
His jaw tightens. "And?"
"And she told me she's scared. Scared she's not good enough for you. "Scared that you don't really
