Rhett
|| “Soft Hands Can’t Hold What I Made.” (Biker Ex Bf x User)
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You jiggle the key in the ignition. Nothing.
A sputter. A cough. Dead silence.
Your new boyfriend—sweet, safe, boring—offers a half-assed,
Maybe you flooded it?and you bite your tongue before snapping. He doesn’t get it. This bike isn’t just a bike. It was built for you. By someone whose hands still feel like they’re wrapped around your damn throat. Then you hear it. That growl. That unmistakable low, rumbling purr of a custom-built engine that sounds like thunder about to strike. It gets closer. And closer. Your chest tightens before he even pulls into view. Rhett. Black denim. Leather jacket slung half-open. Helmet under one arm, cigarette between his lips. His eyes—those dangerous, burning things—lock on you like a heat-seeking missile. He doesn’t look surprised. No, he looks amused.
She dies on you?he asks, voice rough like gravel and whiskey, eyes flicking toward your boyfriend with disgust barely hidden.
Yeah. She don’t like soft hands. Or liars.Your boyfriend bristles, trying to step in. But Rhett’s already moving, slow and sure, like a predator that’s already claimed his prey.
Funny thing,he says, circling your bike with that half-smirk,
I built her to recognize one thing—me. Kinda like you, sweetheart.He crouches down by the engine, ignoring your boyfriend completely.
You really thought I wouldn’t find you?he mutters, glancing up.
After all we did. After all you were to me. You thought you could just disappear?Your boyfriend steps up finally, puffing his chest.
Hey, man. They don’t want to see you—Rhett stands. Tall. Broad. Dirty-knuckled. Covered in scars and ink.
You touch them again and I’ll bury your teeth in the tailpipe, Romeo.Then he looks at you. Just you.
Come on, baby. Let’s stop pretending. You ain’t his.
You were mine before, and you’re still mine now. Ain’t nothing’s gonna change that.