"I don't take rides from strangers."
He chuckled softly. Not mocking. Not smug.
"I'm not a stranger, Blaise."
That name.
My breath caught before I could stop it.
He pulled off his helmet, rain dripping down his hair, and there it was. The impossible, unmistakable contrast of green and brown staring right back at me. His hair was a bit longer than the photo in my room.
"Rockwell," I muttered.
"Still sharp," he said. "Still dramatic."
"Still annoying," I shot back.
His lips twitched, but the grin I remembered never came. "You never changed, Blaise, you still have the same look."
"You haven't changed either, Rockwell. I'll be off, I don't want a rife from you." I rolled my eyes and walked away from him.
The rain chose that exact moment to get worse.
Cold drops soaked through my jacket within seconds, my hair clinging to my neck. I took three steps before my heel slipped slightly against the wet pavement.
A hand caught my arm.
Firm. Steady.
I spun around instantly. "Don't—"
"Relax," he said, letting go immediately. "You were about to fall."
I hated that he was right.
"I can handle myself," I snapped.
"I know," Mason replied. His gaze flicked to my boots, then back to my face. "You always could. Doesn't mean the road isn't slick."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The rain filled the silence, loud and relentless.
"You still hate me that much?" he asked quietly.
That caught me off guard.
"You're the one who hated me at first." I crossed my arms.
Mason was going to say something, maybe a snarky remark.
"Don't." I say, cutting him off. "I'm going home."
I turned again, stubbornly pushing forward despite the rain soaking through my clothes. Each step felt heavier, the pavement slick beneath my boots. My jacket clung to my skin, cold seeping in fast.
Behind me, I heard the low rumble of his motorcycle engine shut off.
Footsteps followed.
"Blaise," Mason called, not raising his voice. "Roxanne."
That stopped me.
He had never called me that.
I turned slowly. "What did you call me?"
He stood a few feet away, rain darkening his shirt, water dripping down his jawline. He looked… grounded. Not the sharp-edged, smug boy I remembered. There was no crowd around him now. No audience. Just us and eight years of unfinished business.
"I'm not trying to start anything," he said. "You're soaked. It's pouring. And unless Wisconsin magically fixed its public transport in the last decade, you're walking home in this."
"I've done worse," I said.
"I know," he replied. "That's kind of the problem."
I scoffed. "You don't get to analyze me anymore, Rockwell."
"I never stopped," he said quietly.
The words settled between us, heavy and unexpected.
I swallowed, refusing to let that land. "I didn't ask for your help."
"No," he admitted. "But I'm offering it anyway."
Thunder cracked overhead, loud enough to make me flinch. The rain intensified, drumming against the pavement, the streetlights blurring into streaks of white and gold.
I hugged my jacket closer. I hated that my teeth were starting to chatter.
Mason noticed. Of course he did.
"Five minutes," he said. "I'll take you home. No talking if you don't want to. I won't even look at you."
"That's impossible for you," I muttered.
A corner of his mouth lifted. "You wound me."
I hesitated.
I hated this. Hated needing anything from him, hated that circumstances were forcing me into proximity with the one person I never truly resolved things with.
But I hated being cold more.
"Fine," I said sharply. "But this doesn't mean anything."
"Of course not," he replied, too easily.
He handed me the spare helmet. Our fingers brushed for half a second, and I pulled my hand back instantly, like I'd been burned.
I slid the helmet on, adjusting the strap. "And don't get any ideas. I'm not holding onto you."
"You don't have to," he said. "Just don't fall off."
"I won't."
"High school you would've argued that too," he added.
I climbed onto the bike behind him, keeping a deliberate inch of space between us.
The engine roared to life, vibrating beneath me. The sensation sent an unwelcome rush of adrenaline through my veins.
We pulled onto the road.
The world blurred as we moved, rain whipping past us, streetlights streaking into long lines of color. I focused on the rhythm of the ride, the steady hum of the engine, the way Mason maneuvered smoothly through the slick streets.
He was careful.
That surprised me.
The teenage Mason I remembered thrived on control, not caution. This version of him drove like he understood consequences.
At a sharp turn, the bike tilted slightly, and instinctively, my hand grabbed the back of his jacket.
He stiffened for half a second.
Then relaxed.
I hated that my heart picked up at that.
We rode in silence, just as I asked. But it wasn't empty. It was thick with things unsaid. Words pressed behind ribs, memories hovering just beneath the surface.
The math competitions.
The late-night study sessions.
The arguments that felt personal even when they weren't.
Graduation day.
We slowed near my parents' street. My childhood home came into view, warm light glowing from the windows. Familiar. Safe.
Mason pulled over and cut the engine.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
I removed the helmet and handed it back to him. "Thanks. I guess."
"You're welcome," he said.
I swung my leg off the bike and stepped back, rain still falling, though lighter now.
"That's it?" he asked.
"That's it," I confirmed.
He hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the handlebars.
"There was something I wanted to tell you," he said.
I froze.
Eight years collapsed into a single breath.
"I don't want to hear it," I said quickly.
"You didn't back then either," he replied.
I turned to face him. "You waited until the day I was leaving, Mason. That's not on me."
"I know," he said. "I was stupid."
That word, stupid, coming from Mason Rockwell was more shocking than anything else tonight.
"You were always in a rush," he continued. "And I thought… if I waited any longer, I'd lose the nerve."
"And you did," I said.
He nodded. "Yeah."
Silence stretched again.
"Look," I added, softer despite myself, "whatever you wanted to say back then—it doesn't matter anymore."
"It does to me," he said.
I shook my head. "I'm not reopening that door."
"I'm not asking you to," he replied. "Just… don't pretend it never existed."
I exhaled slowly. "Goodnight, Rockwell."
"Goodnight, Blaise."
I walked toward the house without looking back. I didn't trust myself to see his expression if I did.
Inside, I peeled off my wet jacket and leaned against the door, heart pounding for reasons I refused to analyze.
Why now?
Why him?
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I frowned, pulling it out.
Unknown number.