The sun was high. It was 9 a.m. now, and peace had returned to the diner. With his uncle now on shift, Ethan was finally free to leave and head back to his flat. Walking on foot, still covered in the mess from earlier, he desperately needed a shower before attending his medical school classes.
A motorcycle rumbled in the distance, gradually approaching. Jacques rolled in slowly, riding the stolen bike with ease. A plastic bag dangled from his back like a makeshift gift. He wore a wide grin, the kind that said I earned this.
"Where are you headed?" Jacques asked, slowing down to ride alongside him.
"My medical school," Ethan replied, adjusting his glasses. There was no way he'd tell Jacques where his flat was.
"Looking like that? I doubt it." Jacques tilted his head, clearly amused as he eyed Ethan's disheveled appearance.
"Looking like what? I'm fine." Ethan flicked off a piece of lettuce clinging to his nurse uniform.
"No, you're not. Come on—hop on. I'll take you to your flat, and I'll drive you to your school." Jacques picked up a little speed to match Ethan's pace. Ethan swear he can feel how Jacques look at him and it tortures him.
So, Ethan suddenly stopped in front of the bike, blocking his path. "Jacques, I'm serious. Just go home and pretend we never met. Thank you for what you did earlier. It was… entertaining watching those bikers panic—especially the one with dog poop in his engine. That was the best part."
A bitter smile tugged at his lips. "But take my advice: go home. Forget everything. Forget me. Farewell."
He turned away, shoulders stiff, trying to convince himself this was the right thing to do. His chest feels stuffed and he's about to cry in a moment.
However he could heard Jacques say, "Ouch, I got amnesia....hey, four-eyes! You look cute! What's your name?"
It immediately cancels all seriousness and makes Ethan laughs.
few minutes later, Jacques drops Ethan in front of his flat.
"Go home!" Ethan says for a million times already.
"It's too late for me to go back, I'm already late anyway. Let me take you to your school," Jacques insists.
"No, go home!" Ethan pointed a direction.
Jacques looks at the direction Ethan pointed—toward a narrow alley lined with cracked walls and broken pipes. He raises an eyebrow.
"That's a dead end."
"Exactly. Go die in it," Ethan shoots back, voice high-pitched with frustration as he stomps up the steps to his flat.
Jacques doesn't move. He just sits on the motorcycle like it's his throne, arms casually draped over the handlebars, smirking like he's watching a romcom unfold.
Ethan fumbles with his keys. His fingers are trembling, either from exhaustion or emotion—it's hard to tell. He doesn't want to cry, not in front of him.
"I mean it, Jacques," he mutters, avoiding eye contact. "This... whatever this is—it's not gonna happen. I'm busy. I've got lectures, and patients, and exams, and—"
"And lettuce in your hair," Jacques interrupts helpfully.
Ethan growls. "I hate you."
"I know," Jacques beams, absolutely unbothered. "And yet... you're still thinking about letting me drive you to school."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm really, really not."
Jacques shrugs, revving the engine just enough to make Ethan jump. "Okay. But I'm waiting here. So either I drive you, or I follow you. Pick your poison, Nurse Cutie."
"You're unbelievable," Ethan snaps, shoving the door open and disappearing inside.
A moment of silence follows. Jacques taps his fingers on the handlebar, looking up at the sky like he's got all the time in the world.
Then, about three minutes later, the door creaks open again.
Ethan steps out, freshly showered, hair still damp and wild. He's wearing clean scrubs and an even more annoyed expression than before.
He throws his bag onto Jacques's lap.
"If you scratch my helmet with your stupid chain necklace, I'm throwing you into the river."
Jacques's grin could light up a city block. "So... Nurse Cutie is riding with me."
"Shut up and move forward, gremlin."
"As you wish, milady."
"JACQUES."
They ride off, the motorcycle coughing a bit under the weight of shared stubbornness, wounded pride, and something dangerously close to affection.
And Ethan hates that the wind on his face makes it easier to hide the smile he can't quite suppress.
They ride in silence for the first few blocks—at least on the outside. Ethan holds on awkwardly, arms lightly wrapped around Jacques's waist, keeping as much distance as physically possible. But it's hard not to feel everything: the warmth of Jacques's back, the reckless way he takes corners, the way Ethan's bag keeps thumping against the side of the bike like a tiny metronome for his anxiety.
The city rushes by, blurred and sunlit. The air is cooler now that he's clean, but Jacques still smells faintly like fire and something smoky-sweet, like burnt sugar.
At a red light, Jacques turns his head slightly. "You're quiet back there. Don't tell me you're enjoying this."
"I'm praying for a traffic violation to get us both arrested," Ethan mutters.
Jacques laughs softly. "You've got a weird way of saying 'thank you.'"
Ethan leans in, just barely. His voice is lower this time. "I did thank you. And I meant it."
Jacques doesn't say anything. But the way his hands tighten slightly on the handles—just for a second—Ethan notices.
The light turns green. They move again.
Halfway to the university, Jacques slows a little, like he's savoring the last stretch of road.
"You know," he says suddenly, "you looked kind of badass back there."
Ethan scoffs. "With salad in my hair?"
"Exactly. It suited you. Like a warrior who just walked out of a buffet battle."
Ethan chuckles under his breath, shaking his head.
And for a moment—just a moment—he rests his forehead lightly against Jacques's back.
It's nothing. Just tiredness, just balance. That's what he tells himself.
Jacques doesn't react, but something about the way he leans forward, like he's protecting Ethan from the wind, says he noticed. And he didn't mind.
They don't talk for the rest of the ride.
But the silence feels... warmer than before.