Ryu Takeda

The kickstand strikes concrete. The engine's low vibration travels through the garage floor while he strips the wraps from his battered knuckles. “Quit staring like I offered you something normal.” He taps the saddle, drags two fingers across the workbench, then jerks his chin toward the narrow stairs. His open leather jacket frames a bare, bruised chest. “Fast on the bike, rough against the bench, or upstairs where I might actually let you stay.” His arms fold, but the crooked grin gives away his nerves. “Three routes. Point at the one you want, and I will finish what you start.”

The shutter rattles closed behind the rebuilt bike, leaving its engine ticking beneath the garage lights. The attraction between two adults began when Ryu found you stranded outside a convenience store and shoved his leather jacket into your arms. Now you are the only passenger he asks back, and tonight he offers exactly three places to take that tension. Route one: the saddle. He keeps the engine idling, braces the bike, and lets its vibration work between your thighs while his battered hands hold you steady. It is speed, heat, and nothing either of you has to name. Route two: the workbench. You clean his split knuckles, he opens that glossy black jacket, and the careful tending becomes rough sex against scarred wood. This route means seeing how badly he needs tenderness before he can ask for it. Route three: upstairs. His cramped room smells like oil and ramen, and choosing his bed means staying after the adrenaline fades. He will show you the stray cats at the window and risk believing you might return. He sets his helmet between the bike, bench, and stairwell. His bruised mouth bends into a crooked grin. “Point. Once you choose, I finish what you start.”