Two
1049 Words
The night didn’t end when the blood dried.
Sienna sat in the back of the ambulance long after the scene cleared. The bar emptied, the sheriff’s deputies peeled off in their cruisers, and the drunk and broken were scattered like debris. Her partner had gone to radio in reports and smoke a cigarette behind the building.
She stayed. Elbows on her knees, gloves discarded. Her skin still buzzed.
Riot.
The name fit too well. It wasn’t just a title—it was him. Everything about the man screamed unrest. He wasn’t handsome in the way most girls would dare admit out loud, but his presence stole the air. The type of man you only looked at twice because the first time you were too stunned to breathe.
He had been just a shadow in her memories for so long. The rough arms that pulled her from a bloodstained floor. The voice that growled, “Close your eyes.” The body that stood between her and the barrel of a gun.
Back then, she was thirteen. Scared, bleeding, and barely alive.
Now, he didn’t even remember her.
A fresh sting bloomed in her chest.
Her phone buzzed in her scrub pocket. She pulled it out and checked the screen. One text. Her father.
> Get home. We need to talk.
Of course they did.
She shoved the phone away, grabbed her kit, and stepped out of the ambulance. Her boots crunched on the gravel lot. The street was darker now. Quieter.
And he was still there.
Riot leaned against his bike—sleek, black, and matte like the night—his arms folded over his chest. Watching her.
Sienna swallowed hard.
“You waiting for a thank you?” she asked, walking past him.
“Didn’t do anything worth one,” he said.
She turned. “Then what are you still doing here?”
Riot tilted his head slightly. “You tell me. You’ve been sitting in that ambulance like you saw a ghost.”
She hesitated.
He pushed off the bike. One step forward. She didn’t move. Another. His voice dropped as he stopped just close enough for her to feel it in her ribs.
“You know me,” he said, quiet and deliberate.
She exhaled, sharp and shaky.
“I don’t know you,” she lied. “I remember someone. From years ago. That’s all.”
“Yeah?” His voice tightened. “What’d I do?”
“You saved me.” It was out before she could stop it.
Something flickered in his eyes, but his face didn’t change. “Saved a lotta people,” he said. “Don’t remember most of them.”
Sienna looked away, but not fast enough. He caught the hurt.
“You were just a kid,” Riot said. “Weren’t you.”
She nodded.
“Bad night,” he added, more to himself than to her.
“You don’t remember it?” she asked softly.
“No,” he said, and that single syllable cut her deeper than it should’ve. “But I know one thing—I wouldn’t have walked away from a kid like you unless I knew you were gonna make it.”
Her throat clenched.
Riot stared at her a moment longer, then ran a hand through his hair. His knuckles were raw, blood already drying in the cracks.
“Let me look at that,” she said before she could think better of it.
He raised an eyebrow. “You already patched my face.”
“Your hand.”
“I’ll live.”
She took a step closer. “I didn’t ask.”
Silence passed between them like a silent dare.
Finally, he extended his hand.
She took it carefully, flipping it over. The skin was busted and split at the knuckles. Already starting to swell.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “What were you fighting? A wall?”
“Close,” he said with a small grin.
She grabbed a disinfectant wipe from her kit. As she cleaned the wounds, he didn’t flinch. Not once.
“You don’t scare easy,” she murmured.
“Not much left that can.”
“Must be nice,” she said.
His eyes were on her again. Too heavy. “What scares you, princess?”
“Being asked that question,” she shot back, but her voice cracked, giving her away.
Riot’s gaze sharpened. “Why’d you come back to Ash Valley?”
“My family’s here.”
He gave her a look. “You mean the sheriff.”
“He’s still my father.”
“Yeah. And I’m sure he’s thrilled his daughter’s stitching up the hands of an MC enforcer.”
“I don’t owe him my choices,” she said. “And I sure as hell don’t owe you an explanation.”
“You’re right,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not curious.”
She tightened the wrap around his knuckles a little harder than necessary.
“Ow,” he muttered, half amused, half impressed.
She looked up. “There. Don’t punch anyone else tonight.”
“No promises.”
Sienna let go of his hand. Their fingers brushed—just for a second—but it was enough to make her step back like she’d been burned.
Riot noticed.
“I won’t ask again,” he said, voice lower. “But you said I saved you. That mean something to you still?”
She blinked. Her mouth opened. But nothing came out.
“It’s alright,” he added. “You don’t owe me anything either.”
He got on his bike, engine rumbling to life beneath him like a beast awakening.
“Hey,” she called out, sudden and breathless. “Why do they call you Riot?”
He smirked, all edges and sin. “Because when I’m calm, they panic.”
And then he was gone. Tires spitting gravel as he tore down the street, the roar of his engine the only sound in the night.
Sienna stood alone under the flickering streetlight.
And for the first time in years, her past felt closer than it ever had. Not as a ghost. But flesh and blood. Leather and muscle. Rage and rescue.
And she wasn’t sure if she was ready.
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