Faster Than The Speed Of Love

First-person, Tessa narrating ‎I have always believed that life gives warnings before it breaks you. ‎Small signals. A twitch in the gut. A shadow that hesitates before moving. ‎A change in the wind. ‎But that morning— ‎the morning everything began— the universe didn’t whisper. ‎It screamed. ‎I was halfway across Keston Avenue, a quiet street I’d walked a thousand times, when the world erupted into motion. ‎A metallic roar. ‎A blur of silver. ‎The smell of burning rubber clawing into the air. ‎I didn’t even have time to react ‎All I remember is the sudden, terrifying certainty that this was it—this was how I would leave the world, with my headphones still in and my unfinished dreams folded inside me like crumpled pages. ‎But the motorcycle stopped. ‎Not a few meters away. Not one meter. ‎Inches. ‎If I had leaned forward, my breath would have fogged the sleek metallic surface of the bike’s front shield. ‎I stood frozen, my heart slamming itself against my ribs, trying desperately to outrun death. The bike wobbled for a second before the rider steadied it. He killed the engine, the sound dying with a reluctant growl. ‎And then he removed his helmet. ‎Time didn’t just slow—it obeyed him, bending around the moment like it had no choice. ‎He shook out dark hair that looked soft even beneath the harsh morning sun, and when his eyes found mine… something inside me broke apart and reassembled itself in the space of a single heartbeat. ‎Angry eyes. ‎Terrified eyes. ‎Beautiful eyes. ‎Eyes that somehow felt familiar in a way no stranger’s ever should. ‎“What the hell were you doing?” he shouted, voice rough with adrenaline. His chest rose and fell with sharp breaths. ‎“I—I didn’t see—” ‎My throat tightened. ‎Everything inside me trembled, legs threatening mutiny. ‎The stranger swung his leg off the motorcycle in one fast, fluid motion and rushed toward me. ‎“You’re shaking,” he said, softer now, almost afraid to touch me. “You’re in shock.” ‎“No,” I protested, though it sounded unconvincing even to me. “I’m fine. Really.” ‎But I wasn’t fine. ‎Fear was rushing through me like a cold tide, collapsing my balance. ‎My feet faltered. ‎And he caught me. ‎His arms came around me with instinctive certainty, strong and warm, as though he’d done it a thousand times. My cheek brushed against the rough fabric of his jacket, and for one destabilizing second, it felt like safety. ‎A stranger’s arms. ‎A stranger’s heartbeat thudding against me in rapid, anxious rhythm. ‎A stranger who saved me without thinking. ‎And there I was, clinging to him like I already belonged there. ‎Pathetic, I scolded myself silently. ‎You don’t get attached. Not anymore. ‎“Hey,” he said quietly, leaning back just enough to look into my face. “Breathe for me.” ‎“I am breathing,” I whispered. ‎“No,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “you’re trying not to faint.” ‎His voice washed over me like warmth spreading through chilled skin. It shouldn’t have comforted me. I didn’t even know his name. But something about the way he looked at me—concerned, alert, almost protective—made the world feel a little less chaotic. ‎Life had not been kind to me in the last year. ‎And kindness in unexpected places is dangerous. ‎It makes you hopeful. ‎It makes you reckless. ‎He guided me to the sidewalk, still holding my elbow like he expected me to collapse again. ‎“What’s your name?” he asked gently ‎“Tessa,” I managed. ‎He repeated it under his breath as if testing it, tasting the weight of it. ‎“Tessa." ‎The way he said it made the syllables sound softer, almost intimate. ‎“And you?” I asked. ‎“Adrian.” ‎He gave a faint smile. “I’m usually better at not killing people.” ‎Despite everything, a shaky laugh escaped me. ‎He studied me with eyes that felt too perceptive, too knowing. ‎“Are you sure you’re okay?” ‎I wanted to say yes. ‎Wanted to gather the broken pieces of myself and pretend they were intact. ‎But then the morning light shifted, catching the faint shadow of fear lingering behind his expression. ‎Fear? ‎Of what? ‎Before I could ask, his phone buzzed sharply. ‎He glanced at the screen—and his entire demeanor changed. ‎His jaw tightened. ‎His pupils narrowed. ‎His grip on the phone turned rigid. ‎And in that moment, so brief I would’ve missed it if I blinked, a sliver of dread slipped through his expression. ‎“Everything alright?” I asked. ‎He forced a smile. “Yeah. Just work.” ‎He was lying. ‎I could feel it like static in the air. ‎But I didn’t know him well enough to call him out. ‎I didn’t know him well enough to understand why fear flickered in his eyes for a single heartbeat. ‎I didn’t know him at all. ‎Not yet. ‎Still, something inside me whispered— ‎This man will change everything. ‎Something else whispered— ‎Run. ‎But when he asked if he could walk me home, I found myself nodding. ‎Against better judgment. ‎Against warnings I had learned the hard way never to ignore. ‎Against the instinct to stay safe, stay small, stay alone. ‎Adrian walked beside me as if the street belonged to us, as if fate had gently pushed us into each other’s paths. ‎We walked in silence for a few steps—his motorcycle abandoned at the curb like a forgotten threat, the morning sun slowly reclaiming the street. ‎My legs were steadier now, but something inside me wasn’t. ‎Something trembled beneath my ribs, a fragile awareness that this moment was shifting the axis of my life in ways I wasn’t ready for. ‎“Do you live far?” he asked gently. ‎“Just a few blocks,” I said. “I walk everywhere.” ‎“Good. Walking is safer,” he said, voice softer than the words should’ve allowed. ‎I glanced up at him. “Is that your way of apologizing?” ‎He gave a ghost of a smile. “If it helps.” ‎It didn’t help. ‎Or maybe it helped too much. ‎He walked at my pace—not too fast, not too slow—matching my rhythm without effort. A quiet consideration that made my chest tighten. People from my past had never matched my pace. They pulled, pushed, hurried me along, or left me behind. ‎Adrian did neither. He simply walked beside me, like he knew I needed grounding. ‎I kept my eyes forward, watching the sidewalk pass beneath my shoes. The sky was brightening, soft gold bleeding through pale clouds, but the air between us carried a strange tension—thick, unspoken, magnetic. ‎Every time he exhaled, I felt it. ‎Every time his arm brushed mine, the contact lingered like static. ‎“Were you on your way to work?” he asked. ‎“Yeah. The café on Merton Street.” ‎“I know it,” he said. “Good pastries.” ‎“Too good,” I muttered. “I think I’ve gained emotional weight from stress-eating muffins.” ‎He laughed—the kind of laugh that vibrated in his chest, warm and unpolished. It made me want to hear it again. Made me want to say something just to pull that sound from him one more time. ‎God. ‎This was too fast ‎Much too fast. ‎“So you’re a writer?” he asked suddenly. ‎I blinked. “How did you—?” ‎“You were mumbling lines under your breath while crossing the road.” ‎Heat rushed to my cheeks. ‎“I do that sometimes.” ‎“It’s interesting,” he said. “Most people talk to themselves because they’re distracted. Yours sounded like… story.” ‎“I don’t know if I’d call myself a writer,” I murmured. “I just… write.” ‎“That’s what writers do, Tessa.” ‎He said my name like he owned the right to it already. ‎I shoved my hands into my coat pockets. “I’ve never finished a manuscript. Just journals and fragments.” ‎“Fragments matter,” he said quietly. “Sometimes fragments say more than whole stories.” ‎My chest tightened again, but not from fear this time. ‎We turned a corner, entering the quieter part of the neighborhood—tree-lined sidewalks, tidy fences, the faint smell of someone’s early-morning cooking drifting through an open window. Familiar comforts. ‎But somehow they felt different with him beside me. ‎As though the world had a deeper contrast, sharper edges. ‎“So what do you do?” I asked ‎He hesitated—not long enough to be noticeable to most people, but long enough for me to catch it. ‎“Security,” he said finally. “Consulting. Investigations sometimes.” ‎Investigations. ‎The word lodged in my mind like a splinter. ‎“Oh,” I said casually, though curiosity tugged at me. “Is that dangerous?” ‎“Only sometimes.” ‎He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, mirroring my earlier gesture. A subtle wall rising between us. A quiet defense. ‎I shouldn’t have cared. ‎He was a stranger. ‎Fascinating, yes. ‎Magnetic, absolutely ‎But still a stranger. ‎So why did it bother me the moment he drifted into mystery? ‎We walked another few moments in quiet. When we passed a narrow alley between two shops, I felt him tense—not visibly, not obviously, but in the shift of his breath, the tilt of his head. His eyes flicked toward the darkness between the buildings, sharp and assessing. ‎Then it was gone. ‎His body relaxed again. ‎He forced a smile. ‎Most people wouldn’t have noticed. ‎But I did. ‎“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked softly. ‎His gaze snapped back to me—surprised. “I should be asking you that.” ‎“I’m fine,” I said. “But you… you look like you’re expecting something". ‎He looked away. ‎The silence stretched like a held breath. ‎“Tessa,” he said finally, “this morning scared me. That’s all.” ‎It was a lie. ‎Or not a lie—just not the full truth. ‎But I didn’t push. ‎I didn’t know him well enough. ‎Instead, I let the silence return, comforting in its own strange way. It was a silence that felt shared rather than empty. ‎My apartment building appeared at the end of the street—old brick, ivy creeping along one side, the windows like quiet eyes watching the world. ‎“This is me,” I said, stopping at the steps. ‎He stopped too. ‎Too close. ‎Close enough that his shadow overlapped mine. ‎“Do you live alone?” he asked. ‎For a second, old fear pricked my skin—the instinctive flinch of someone who’s been asked that question for the wrong reasons in the past. ‎But Adrian’s tone wasn’t predatory. ‎It was worried. ‎Protective. ‎“Yes,” I said. ‎He nodded slowly, his jaw tightening like he didn’t like that answer. ‎For a moment, neither of us moved. ‎The morning breeze tugged at my coat. ‎A bird chirped somewhere above us. ‎And still he stood there, studying me with an intensity that felt like it could unravel the walls I’d spent years building. ‎“I’m glad you’re safe,” he said quietly. ‎“Thanks to you.” ‎He shook his head. “No. You were lucky. I was careless.” ‎He reached up, touching a loose thread hanging from my sleeve. A small, gentle gesture. Too gentle for someone who’d nearly crashed into me. ‎My breath caught. ‎His fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary. ‎Too fast, Tessa. ‎Too fast. ‎This is how you fall again. ‎This is how you break. ‎“I should let you go,” he murmured, pulling his hand away. ‎“Yeah,” I whispered, though the word felt like a betrayal. “I should get ready for work.” ‎He stepped back. ‎But before he left, he gave me one last look—soft, unguarded, devastating. ‎“Take care of yourself,” he said. ‎Then he walked away. ‎No dramatic exit, no lingering smile. ‎Just a man disappearing down the street with the weight of something unspoken trailing behind him. ‎I stood on my doorstep long after he turned the corner, my heartbeat still racing—not from fear, but from something far more dangerous. ‎Hope. ‎A feeling I had sworn I’d never let myself feel again. ‎But fate has a cruel sense of timing. ‎And love—real love—does not wait for readiness. ‎It arrives like a storm, ‎like a miracle, ‎like a collision that stops inches from destroying you ‎and instead shatters everything you thought you understood about safety.