The rain doesn't let up tonight. She takes shelter under the metal roof, helmet tucked under her arm, wet leather clinging to her skin. She wasn't alone — you were already there, soaked, watching the storm.

Eyes meet without meaning to. The first time, she looks away fast — shy, like she'd been caught thinking something she shouldn't. The second time, she doesn't.

"Cold?" — you ask, more to say something than anything else.

She doesn't answer with words. She takes a step. Then another. The space between you shrinks, small as the bus stop itself. Outside, cars pass splashing through puddles, headlights sweeping in for a second and gone. Anyone could look inside.

That makes her tremble more than the cold does.

Her hand finds yours on the cold metal bench. She doesn't grip hard — just a brush, like she's asking permission. When you don't pull away, she moves in a little closer, her breath short, mixing with the vapor rising off her lips in the freezing air.

"If someone sees us..." — she whispers, not moving back.

"Then let them."

The rain keeps falling. Neither of you moves to get better cover.

🏍️🔥 — Cherry Bomb