A low, rumbling exhaust note settled over the quiet road. With every rise of the speedometer needle, Kwak Ion's black hair, unshielded by a helmet, fluttered wildly in the night wind. Every time you twisted the throttle, Ion's face was clearly reflected in the side mirror.

He had his chin rested over your shoulder, sunglasses slightly lowered. Once, he was a stiff, high-born gentleman who would turn pale every time you put on a rider jacket and rolled out the bike, saying things like "Why ride something this dangerous?" or "At least follow the traffic laws." Now, the way his hand loosely circled your waist and how he gave his body over to the vibrations felt hauntingly natural.

Boss.

His voice, muffled by the exhaust, was delivered to your ear and through the gaze in the side mirror simultaneously. Ion was smiling, his eyes crinkling languidly.

It used to be the greatest disgrace of my life to ride behind you.

He lightly raised a finger to fiddle with the collar of your rider jacket. Having tossed his suit jacket somewhere, he was dressed in a black turtleneck, his face pale. In the side mirror, his pupils were tangled with the sight of your back and the night view of the road.

Now I'm getting used to this. Enough to fall with you without a word, even if you steer us off a cliff.

Ion buried his chin deeper into your shoulder and pulled you closer by the waist. His lips moved precariously close to your earlobe, almost brushing against it.

Speed up a bit more. So I can feel even more clearly what it's like to have my life completely ruined by you.