The rain had started as a gentle mist, the kind that London does best—barely noticeable until you realize you're thoroughly damp. Lola Constantinou hurried down the cobblestone street, her heels clicking an urgent rhythm as she clutched her laptop bag against her charcoal blazer. The financial district was emptying out for the evening, and she was already late for dinner with Marcus. Again.

She ducked under the awning of Murphy's Garage, a grimy little place wedged between a coffee shop and a dry cleaner's, hoping to wait out the sudden downpour. The smell of motor oil and metal hit her immediately, triggering something deep in her memory—summer afternoons, the sound of engines, calloused hands...

"Well, I'll be damned."

The voice made her freeze. Deep, rough around the edges, with that same hint of mischief she remembered from seventeen years ago. She turned slowly, her heart doing something entirely inappropriate for a thirty-five-year-old married woman.

Jake Morrison emerged from behind a vintage motorcycle, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better days. His dark hair was shorter now, peppered with silver at the temples, and there was a thin scar running from his left temple to his cheekbone that hadn't been there in sixth form. But those green eyes were exactly the same—the kind that could make a sensible girl do very foolish things.

"Jake Morrison," she said, trying to sound casual while her pulse hammered against her throat. "Still making things go vroom, I see."

He grinned, that lopsided smile that had once convinced her to skip double Physics to ride on the back of his ancient Honda. "Lola Papadakis. Though I heard it's something else now?"

"Constantinou," she corrected, then immediately wondered why she'd felt the need to. "My husband's name."

"Right." Something flickered across his face, but he kept smiling. "And what brings the successful accountant—because I heard about that, small world—to my humble establishment? Need an oil change for the Beamer, Benz?"

She laughed despite herself. "Actually, I drive a Prius now."

"Christ, Lola. What happened to you?"

"I grew up. Apparently." The words came out sharper than she'd intended, and she saw him notice. Jake had always been good at reading between the lines.

The rain intensified, drumming against the metal roof with increasing urgency. Lola glanced at her watch—Marcus would be wondering where she was, probably ordering his usual starter without her.

"You waiting for someone?" Jake asked, nodding toward the street.

"Just the rain to stop. I'm meeting my husband for dinner."

"Right." He tossed the rag onto his workbench, where it landed next to an impressive collection of tools that looked like they could dismantle a tank. "Well, you could wait in here if you want. I've got tea. Real tea, not that herbal rubbish."

She should have said no. Should have braved the rain, hailed a taxi, arrived at the restaurant damp but virtuous. Instead, she found herself stepping further into the garage, her heels clicking against the concrete floor.

"I can't believe you own this place," she said, looking around at the controlled chaos of parts and tools and half-assembled engines. It was exactly the kind of place Jake would end up—messy, functional, completely honest about what it was.

"Bought it three years ago from old Murphy himself. Turns out all those hours I spent fixing my bike instead of studying chemistry actually counted for something." He moved to a small kitchenette tucked in the corner, filling a kettle that had probably been there since the Thatcher years. "Milk, two sugars, right?"

The fact that he remembered how she took her tea shouldn't have been significant. People remembered details about their past. It was perfectly normal. It didn't mean anything.

"You have a good memory," she said carefully. "Although I must admit I'm trying to cut down on the dairy." She grimaced internally, knowing how it would be the sort of thing he would expect her to say. "Why not live dangerously though," she recovered with a disarming smile.

"Hold onto your hat then, I'm going to fire her up," he played along, mock-dramatically plugging in the kettle and turning back to her, crossing his arms over his chest. The sleeves of his work shirt were rolled up, revealing forearms that were definitely more muscled than they'd been at eighteen. And the tattoos—she could see the edge of something intricate curling around his left bicep, disappearing under the fabric.

"So," he said, "husband. Kids?"

"No kids yet. We keep saying 'next year,' but..." She shrugged, surprised by her own honesty. "Marcus thinks we should wait until we've bought the house in Richmond. And before that it was wait until his promotion came through. And before that..."

"He sounds practical."

"He is. Very." She set her laptop bag down on a clean section of workbench, suddenly feeling ridiculous in her tailored blazer and pencil skirt. "What about you? Wife? Little Jakes running around causing havoc?"

Something complicated crossed his face. "Divorced. Two years now."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Sarah was... we wanted different things. She wanted someone who'd come home clean every day, talk about feelings, remember anniversaries." He shrugged. "Turned out I'm still the same disaster I was at eighteen."

The kettle clicked off, and he busied himself with mugs and tea bags. Lola watched his hands as he worked—still quick and sure, but with new scars across the knuckles. Working hands. Marcus's hands were soft, manicured. He moisturized them every night before bed.

"I don't remember you being a disaster," she said quietly.

Jake glanced up at her, something shifting in his expression. "You were the only one who didn't. Your parents certainly had opinions."

The memory hit her like a physical blow—her mother's voice, sharp with disapproval: "That boy is going nowhere, Lola. You'll throw away your future for what? Romance? Love doesn't pay the bills, koukla."

"They were protecting me," she said, but the words felt hollow.

"Were they?" He handed her a mug, their fingers brushing briefly. The contact sent a small shock up her arm that she pretended not to notice. "Or were they protecting their idea of who you should be?"

She wrapped her hands around the mug, grateful for something to hold onto. "I got into Cambridge. Full scholarship. It was an incredible opportunity."

"I know. I was proud of you."

The simple statement hit harder than any accusation could have. She looked up at him, standing there in his oil-stained clothes in his tiny garage, and remembered eighteen-year-old Jake saying almost the exact same thing the night before she left for university. The night they'd broken up because they both knew long-distance was impossible when you were eighteen and one of you was going to Cambridge while the other was staying behind to fix motorcycles. God, he looked great and she seemed to be drawn to him, like a magnet.

"I tried to find you," she said suddenly. "On Facebook, LinkedIn. You're not on anything."

"Technology and I never really got along. Too many buttons." He grinned, but there was something careful about it. "Besides, seemed like you were doing well. Didn't want to complicate things."

"Complicate things how?"

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with seventeen years of unspoken history. Outside, the rain continued its relentless drumming, and Lola realized she hadn't thought about Marcus or dinner or being late in the last ten minutes.

Jake moved closer, ostensibly to lean against the workbench beside her, but close enough that she could smell his cologne—something woodsy and warm that was nothing like Marcus's expensive, sanitized scent.

"You know how," he said quietly, looking straight at her, disarming her.

She did know. That was the problem.

"Tell me about the scar," she spluttered, nodding toward his temple.

He touched it unconsciously, a gesture that seemed automatic. "Bar fight. Three years ago. Guy thought he could take liberties with one of the waitresses."

"And you thought differently?"

"I did," he shrugged.

The simple statement, delivered without bravado or apology, sent a small thrill through her that she had no business feeling. Marcus would have called the manager, possibly the police. He would have handled it properly, through the appropriate channels. He would never have ended up with a scar.

"You always were a knight errant," she said, trying to keep her tone light.

"Is that what you called it?" His voice was amused, but his eyes were intent on her face. "I remember you calling it other things when I got suspended for punching Tommy Richards."

"I genuinely thought you were going to kill him, innocent as I was."

"When that red mist drops I can get a little out of control."

She remembered that about him—how he always seemed to be getting into fights and the subsequent visits to the see the head. He'd hit his growth spurt early and the other boys had been slightly afraid of him even as they'd wanted to be friends with him.

Jake had never used his size to intimidate though, only to reply to what he considered were injustices.

James Grant, a couple of years older than them had kissed her once - in a playful way but after she had said no. Jake had ended up literally throwing him headfirst into the neighbouring bramble bush. He had come out with blood streaking down his face, like something out of a horror film. She felt a little dreamy, remembering how she had always felt so safe with him.

"I should go," she said, but made no move toward her bag.

"Probably," he agreed, but didn't step away from the workbench.

"Marcus will be wondering where I am."

"Will he?"

The question was casual, but something in his tone made her look at him sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just..." He shrugged, that easy movement that had always indicated he was about to say something she wouldn't want to hear. "Guy lets his wife walk around London alone after dark, doesn't seem like the worrying type."

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"I know you are. Always were." His eyes traced over her face, cataloguing changes. "You look good, Lola. Happy."

It should have been a compliment. Instead, it felt like a question.

"I am happy," she said, but even to her own ears it sounded defensive.

"Good. That's... good."

The silence stretched between them, filled with the sound of rain and the distant hum of traffic. Lola found herself studying his face, noting the new lines around his eyes, the way his jaw had become squarer with age. He'd grown into his features, she realized. The boyish prettiness had hardened into something more masculine, more dangerous.

"What happened to your bike?" she asked suddenly. "The Honda."

"Sold it. Sarah said it was too dangerous." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Bought a sensible car instead. A bloody Volvo, if you can believe that."

"I can't, actually," her eyes sparkling as she laughed.

"Neither could I, apparently. Lasted about six months before I bought another means of transport." He smiled generously but she saw him looking her all over, a visceral look in his eyes. She felt a longing warmth spread through her body.

Again the silence stood there a little too long, before he nodded towards a vintage motorbike on the other side of the workshop. "1972 Norton Commando. Found her in a barn in Wales, completely seized up. Been bringing her back to life piece by piece."

"She's beautiful," Lola said, and meant it. The bike was all curves and chrome, elegant in a way that modern machines weren't.

"So are you," he hit straight back, before adding, "want to see her run?" before she was able to say anything.

"She runs?"

"Just finished the rebuild yesterday. Haven't taken her out yet, but..." He moved toward the bike, running a hand along the fuel tank with something approaching reverence. "Want to be my test pilot?"

Every sensible part of her brain screamed no. She was wearing a business suit and heels. She was married. She was supposed to be having dinner with her husband, who was probably checking his watch and wondering if she'd been hit by a bus.

"I don't have a helmet," she said weakly.

"I've got spares." He was already moving toward a cabinet, pulling out two helmets—one black, one red. "Come on, Lola. When's the last time you did something a little fun?"

The honest answer was seventeen years ago, the last time she'd been alone with Jake Morrison.

"Just around the block," she heard herself saying.

His grin was pure trouble. "Just around the block."

Ten minutes later, she was straddling the back of the Norton with her skirt hiked up to an entirely inappropriate level, her arms wrapped around Jake's waist. The engine beneath them rumbled like a caged animal, all barely contained power and potential energy.

"You remember how to hold on?" he called back to her.

"I remember."

He kicked the bike into gear, and they rolled out into the London evening. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and gleaming under the streetlights. Lola pressed closer to Jake's back, feeling the play of muscles under his leather jacket as he shifted and maneuvered through traffic.

This was insane. This was exactly the kind of impulsive, irresponsible thing she'd trained herself not to do. Marcus would be horrified if he could see her now—his sensible, practical wife wrapped around another man on a motorcycle, her carefully styled hair probably a disaster under the helmet.

The thought should have bothered her more than it did.

Jake took them through the winding streets of South London, past pubs and curry houses and the kind of neighborhoods where people still knew their neighbors' names. It was a different world from the sanitized efficiency of her daily movements, all rough edges and authentic life.

They stopped at a red light, and she felt Jake's hand cover hers where it rested against his stomach.

"You okay back there?" he called.

"Perfect," she called back, and realized she meant it. For the first time in months—maybe years—she felt completely, entirely present. Not thinking about quarterly reports or mortgage payments or the conversation she needed to have with Marcus about his mother's upcoming visit. Just here, now, alive.

The light turned green, and they were moving again. Jake took them down to the Thames, following the river path as the city lights reflected off the dark water. London looked different from the back of a motorcycle—more immediate, more real. Like she was part of it instead of just passing through in a climate-controlled bubble.

The vibrations of the old engine were running through her insistently and she could feel the damp between her legs. In an unguarded moment, she squeezed into him, turned her head to the side, closed her eyes and rested her cheek against the warm leather of his jacket. Her moral compass out of sync, she reasoned that he wouldn't notice and that there was no harm done, she would just enjoy the moment - it's not like there would be another.

When they finally returned to the garage, Lola was reluctant to let go. Jake seemed to sense her hesitation, because he sat still for a long moment after cutting the engine, her arms still around his waist.

"Still got it," he said finally.

"The bike?"

"The rider."

She laughed, but it came out breathless. "I thought it was all in the past."

"What?"

"How it feels to be..." She searched for the right word. "Reckless."

He turned in the seat to face her, his eyes serious under the streetlight. "Is that what this is? Reckless?"

The question was loaded with meaning, and they both knew it. This wasn't about the motorcycle ride anymore.

"I should go," she said again, but still didn't move.

"Lola." His voice was quiet, careful. "What happened to us?"

"We grew up. Made different choices."

"Did we? Or did other people make them for us?"

She thought about her parents, about the hours of arguments and tears and ultimatums. About Cambridge and the full scholarship that had been her ticket to a better life. About Marcus, steady and reliable and safe.

About the girl she'd been at eighteen, wild and fearless and so completely, desperately in love with the boy currently sitting inches away from her.

"It doesn't matter now," she said finally. "We're different people."

"Are we?" He reached up and carefully removed her helmet, setting it aside. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, and she saw his eyes darken as he looked at her. "Because sitting here right now, I feel exactly like I did seventeen years ago."

"Jake..."

"I know. I know you're married. I know this is complicated. But Christ, Lola, seeing you again..." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she remembered from when he was frustrated or trying to work through a problem. "I thought I was over you. I really did. Built a whole life on the assumption that I was over you."

"And now?"

"Now I'm wondering if I was just lying to myself."

The admission hung between them, raw and honest. Lola felt something crack open in her chest, something she'd carefully sealed away years ago.

"We can't do this," she whispered.

"I know."

"I'm married."

"I know."

"I love my husband."

"Do you?"

The question was quiet, almost gentle, but it hit like a physical blow. Because the honest answer was complicated. She loved Marcus, but it was a comfortable love, a practical love. The kind of love that made sense on paper and looked good in Christmas cards.

Nothing like the wild, consuming thing she'd felt for Jake. Nothing like what was currently burning through her veins just from sitting this close to him.

"It's different," she said finally.

"Different how?"

"Safer. Easier. He's a good man, Jake. He provides for me, he's faithful, he wants the same things I want..."

"What things?"

"Security. Stability. A nice house, good schools for our future children, retirement plans..." She trailed off, hearing how hollow it all sounded.

"What about adventure? What about passion? What about feeling so alive you think you might combust?"

"Those things don't last."

"Don't they?" He shifted closer, and she could see the gold flecks in his green eyes. "Because I'm feeling pretty combustible right now."

She should have pulled away. Should have gotten off the bike and called a taxi and gone home to Marcus and never looked back. Instead, she found herself leaning closer.

"This is crazy," she whispered.

"Yeah," he agreed, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. "Completely mental."

His thumb traced across her lower lip, and she felt herself tremble. When had Marcus last touched her like this? When had he last looked at her like she was something precious and dangerous and completely irresistible?

"Jake, we can't."

"Can't what?" His voice was rough, low. "Can't pretend we don't still feel it? Can't admit that seeing you again has turned my world upside down? Can't acknowledge that whatever this is between us, it never went away?"

"It's been seventeen years."

"Has it?" He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers. "Because it feels like yesterday to me."

She could smell his cologne again, could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. It would be so easy to close the distance between them, to find out if his kiss still tasted like rebellion and possibility.

Her phone buzzed.

The sound cut through the moment like a knife, jarring them both back to reality. Lola fumbled for her handbag, her hands shaking slightly as she pulled out her phone.

Marcus. Three missed calls.

"I have to go," she said, but her voice came out thick and unsteady.

Jake sat back, giving her space, but his eyes never left her face. "Lola."

"This was..." She gestured helplessly between them. "This was a mistake."

"Was it?"

She slid off the bike, her legs unsteady. Her skirt had twisted around her hips, hiked all the way up her leg, exposing her knickers. He followed the movement with his eyes and put his hand on her hip, holding the skirt up around her waist.

"Jesus, I want you, Lola!" He pushed his hand down the back of her panties and grabbed her arse urgently, pulling her into him, holding eye contact the whole time, as if waiting for acquiescence. Her heart was pounding and her breath caught in her throat as she felt his hard length pushed up against her. Jesus, she wanted him, but against all odds she pulled her head to the side at the last moment and tugged her skirt back down with hands that wouldn't quite behave.

"I'm married, Jake. Happily married. And you're... You're everything I gave up. I made a decision. You're too late. Marcus is waiting for me," she pleaded, desperately.

"Fuck Marcus," he growled. "You want me, I can see it. When was the last time he bent you over and fucked the life out of you?"

Just the suggestion of having Jake bend her over now made her feel weak at the knees but she wasn't ready to admit that. "You're too late, Jake," she spat out. "And you have no right to talk to me like that."

He stood up from the bike, moving with that easy grace she remembered. Even now, disheveled and confused, he looked completely comfortable in his own skin in a way that Marcus never quite managed.

"If I'm too late," he said quietly, "why does this feel so right?"

She didn't have an answer for that. Couldn't afford to have an answer for that.

"I'm sorry," she said, grabbing her laptop bag. "I shouldn't have... This was a mistake."

She turned toward the street, already pulling out her phone to call a taxi, when his voice stopped her.

"Lola."

She looked back against her better judgment.

"You know where to find me."