My heart jumped into my throat.
“Elias!” I shouted, my legs moving faster than I would have expected them to. But he was already halfway across, holding that hat above his head like it was a banner of victory, as if every beat of his small heart demanded the hat’s safe return.
The biker finally reacted, pulling over at the curb, his black boots digging into the asphalt. He didn’t dismount, didn’t raise a hand. He just sat there, head tilted slightly, watching. And in that brief moment, I felt a chill run up my spine. He didn’t look like a man to be trifled with. Broad shoulders, arms inked with tattoos curling like snakes around his skin, a beard that shadowed most of his jaw—he looked like a man who could crush any obstacle without blinking.
Elias didn’t care. He held the hat high.
“You dropped this,” he said, voice steady, almost innocent.
