Mordred's PoV:
The wind bit at my knuckles as I idled the bike outside Kianna's dorm, the engine's low rumble the only sound cutting through the late-afternoon gray.
December cold had settled in hard, the kind that sneaked under your jacket and sat on your chest like a warning. I killed the ignition and pulled off my helmet, running a hand through hair that was probably a mess.
My heart was doing something similar—thumping too loud and too fast. I hadn't felt this nervous since the night I first asked her out using fake dating as an excuse, back when everything between us was new, electric and uncomplicated.
I'd texted her this morning on impulse, after another sleepless night haunted by the Boss's warnings and the ticking clock on her birthday.
"Can we talk? In person. No agenda, I just miss you."
Her reply had taken three hours before it came with a simple, "Okay…but just talking."
