Wrecked By A Wounded Biker

“MOVE YOUR damn bike before I call a tow truck.” Sophie Smith didn’t bother softening her voice. The words cut cleanly through the heat hanging over the business school drop-off lane. Her car sat half-angled into a parking slot that technically belonged to the MBA networking mixer, and right in front of it was a motorcycle that looked entirely too comfortable occupying it. Which it didn’t have the right to be. She stared at it for another second, then shifted her gaze to the man standing beside it. Matthew Moore. Of course it was Matthew Moore. He was wiping his hands on a rag that already looked defeated by grease. A black shirt clung to his shoulders as though he had stepped out of a furnace rather than a garage. His helmet was tucked under one arm, jaw slightly tilted, expression suggesting Sophie was the inconvenience in his day rather than the other way around. “You’re late,” he said instead of moving. “I’m on time for people who matter,” Sophie shot back. “Move it.” He glanced at the bike, then back at her, as though genuinely considering whether to comply just to watch her reaction unravel. “This is the only spot with shade,” he said. “There are twelve other spots.” “Taken.” “I can see three empty ones from here.” He leaned slightly, looking past her shoulder. “Those are VIP reserved.” “For who? Rich ghosts?” His mouth twitched, like a smile he refused to allow himself. That was a habit of his—humor always hovering just beneath restraint, never fully given permission to exist. “You always this friendly before networking events?” Matthew asked. “Only when motorcycles are parked illegally.” He stepped closer, and the familiar scent of engine oil and warm leather reached her immediately. It triggered something she refused to name. Not desire, exactly. Something more irritating. Something that felt like recognition without consent. “You’re stressed,” he said quietly. “I’m functional,” she corrected. “That’s not what I asked.” Sophie exhaled through her nose. Sixteen hours debugging a cybersecurity prototype that refused to stabilize had left her mind humming like an overloaded server. She did not have space for him. Not now. Not when the MBA networking mixer waited inside like a gate she had to walk through perfectly composed. “Matthew,” she said, sharper now, “move the bike.” He studied her for a beat longer, then stepped aside with exaggerated slowness. “Wow,” he murmured. “Harsh. And here I thought you missed me.” Sophie stopped mid-turn. “I don’t miss things I haven’t defined.” The words landed between them like something fragile and dangerous at the same time. She saw it in the slight tightening of his jaw. They had been orbiting each other for months now. Ever since Timothy and Jennie’s wedding had shifted something in all of their lives. There had been nights he appeared at her apartment without asking. Nights she never asked him to leave. Nothing official. Nothing safe. NO LABELS. Just tension that neither of them had bothered to resolve. Matthew stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “Still pretending you don’t know what this is?” “I know exactly what this is,” Sophie said. “A parking dispute.” He let out a short laugh. “Liar.” She turned away before she could answer properly, before she could say something that would make any of it real in a way she wasn’t ready to handle. She grabbed her bag, adjusted her blazer, and forced herself toward the glass entrance doors. Behind her, she heard his bike engine start again—a low growl that followed her all the way inside. THE MBA networking mixer smelled like polished ambition and expensive cologne. Everything was too bright, too curated. Conversations formed into clusters that looked like future partnerships or future betrayals. Sophie scanned the room automatically, already sorting people into categories of useful, irrelevant, and potentially exhausting. Her mind still buzzed from sixteen straight hours of debugging code, but she forced herself into professional mode. She could function on exhaustion. She always had. A server approached with a tray of champagne. Sophie declined politely. She needed focus, not alcohol. She had barely stepped farther into the room when a woman in a navy business suit approached her with a practiced smile. “Miss Smith?” Sophie turned. “Yes?” The woman extended a hand. “Rebecca Lang. I oversee recruitment partnerships for the Keller Global Accelerator.” The name immediately caught Sophie’s attention. She shook her hand. “I’ve heard of the program.” “I would be surprised if you hadn’t,” Rebecca replied. “It’s one of the most competitive startup accelerators in the country.” Sophie smiled faintly. “That’s a diplomatic way of saying nobody gets in.” Rebecca laughed. “Not nobody. Just very few.” Before Sophie could respond, Rebecca held out a tablet. “We’ve been reviewing technology proposals from several MBA candidates,” she explained. “Your cybersecurity project was flagged for review.” That immediately sharpened Sophie’s attention. “My project?” “Yes. The adaptive threat response architecture.” Sophie blinked. “I haven’t published that yet.” “No,” Rebecca agreed. “You haven’t.” The answer should have bothered her. Instead, it made her curious. “You’ve been reviewing private submissions?” “Only the ones authorized through the university partnership program.” That made more sense. Rebecca glanced briefly at her tablet before looking back up. “Your work stood out.” Sophie had spent years learning how to accept praise without appearing desperate for it, but hearing those words still sent a small rush of satisfaction through her. “The accelerator cohort opens next quarter,” Rebecca continued. “International placement. Investor access. Startup incubation. Global mentorship opportunities.” The list sounded almost absurdly aligned with everything Sophie wanted. “And who's reviewing applicants?” she asked. Rebecca smiled. “Lucien Keller personally.” The name meant very little to Sophie beyond a vague familiarity. “Personally?” she asked. “He prefers to review the final candidates himself.” Sophie raised an eyebrow. “That sounds inefficient.” Rebecca laughed again. “You would be surprised how many people say that.” “And you think I should apply?” “I think you would be foolish not to.” The bluntness earned a genuine smile from Sophie. “I’ll consider it.” Before Rebecca could continue, Sophie felt movement nearby. Matthew Moore had entered the room. She didn't need to look immediately to know it was him. Somehow she always knew when he was close. A moment later, she glanced across the room and found him already watching her. His gaze moved briefly to Rebecca before returning to Sophie. Then he started walking toward them. Rebecca noticed the shift in her attention. “Friend of yours?” “That depends who you ask,” Sophie said dryly. The woman laughed softly. Matthew reached them seconds later. “Well,” he said casually, “this looks important.” Sophie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Matthew, this is a networking event, not a social emergency.” He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “You introduce me like that now?” Rebecca checked the time on her phone. “I should let you two continue whatever this is,” she said then handed Sophie a business card. “My contact information is there. If you decide to apply, reach out directly.” Sophie accepted it. “Thank you.” “Enjoy the evening.” Rebecca moved back into the crowd, leaving them alone. Matthew watched her go before looking down at the card in Sophie’s hand. “What’s that?” “It’s an accelerator program.” ]Matthew leaned slightly closer. “For the record, I think you should do it.” The comment caught her off guard. “You do?” “Yeah.” His expression remained surprisingly serious. “You’ve been working yourself to death on that project for months. If it’s a real opportunity, take it.” For a brief moment, Sophie forgot how exhausted she was. Then Matthew ruined it. “Just promise me one thing.” She narrowed her eyes. “What?” “If you become rich and famous, don’t start talking like those people.” “What people?” He gestured vaguely around the room. “The ones who say things like synergy.” Sophie laughed despite herself. THE REST of the event blurred into structured conversations and meaningless introductions. Sophie spoke when necessary, smiled when required, and felt her attention repeatedly drift back to Rebecca’s offer. Each time, Matthew lingered somewhere behind her like an unresolved variable she could not eliminate. When she finally stepped outside, the night air hit like relief. She needed silence. Instead, she heard shouting. The parking area was darker now, shadows stretching across the pavement. Her car sat exactly where she had left it. A few meters away, Matthew stood in the middle of a confrontation. Not a conversation. A fight. Two men. One already on the ground. Matthew moved with controlled precision—fast, efficient, not reckless. Purposeful violence. “Matt!” she called sharply. Her voice cut through the space, but he did not turn immediately. The man on the ground spat blood. “You still owe them, Moore.” That made Matthew pause. Just a fraction. Then he grabbed the man again. Sophie stepped closer, pulse tightening. “Stop,” she said again, sharper. “What is this?” Matthew finally looked at her. And something in his expression shifted. “Get in the car, Sophie,” he said. His knuckles were bleeding. His voice did not rise. His hand did not shake. Everything about him stayed controlled. Like whatever was happening had already been decided long before she arrived. And Sophie did not understand it yet. But she was about to.