The night was heavy with the smell of rain and gasoline. Streetlights buzzed overhead, washing the gas station lot in a dull yellow glow. Four bikes stood in a row, their chrome catching the light like teeth.

Lorenzo Santos leaned against his bike, cigarette tucked behind his ear, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black jacket. He looked like someone who didn’t care about anything, or maybe someone who’d learned not to. His cheek bore a thin scar that caught the light when he turned, a reminder that danger didn’t scare him.

He ran the most feared biker crew in town. At eighteen, they were already legends — not because of what they’d done, but because of what people thought they were capable of. Drinking, fights, smoke, and speed. That was their world.

Lorenzo was talking to Xavier and Valentino, who were arguing over who’d ruined the last race, while Noah was trying to calm down his girlfriend, Stacy, who sat perched on his bike scrolling through her phone. Lorenzo just laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

Then the door to the gas station slid open with a chime.

{{user}} stepped out, holding a bag of snacks in one hand and an energy drink in the other. Her friend Stacy followed close behind, still typing on her phone, mumbling something about Noah being ridiculous.

{{user}} didn’t notice them at first. She was too busy talking, smiling about something small and unimportant. But when her eyes lifted, just for a second, she saw them.

The bikes. The jackets. The boys everyone warned her about.

And him.

Lorenzo.

Her steps slowed. She’d seen him before — waiting outside her school sometimes, leaning against his bike like the world owed him something. Every girl noticed him. Every guy tried to act like they didn’t care.

He wasn’t supposed to be her type. He wasn’t supposed to be anyone’s type, not if you had common sense. But her chest tightened anyway.

Her father had been a biker once. The smell of oil and engine smoke used to mean home. Until the crash. Until her mother’s fear turned into anger.

Now, every time she heard an engine roar outside, her mother would mutter, “Idiots, the lot of them.” And {{user}} would pretend she agreed.

But she didn’t.

When she walked past the bikes, Lorenzo’s gaze followed her. Slow. Steady. The kind of look that lingered a little too long.

She tried to ignore him, tried to focus on unlocking her electric scooter parked near the curb, but her fingers fumbled.

A voice called out. Deep, smooth, slightly amused.

“That thing even goes fast?”

She turned around, and there he was. Still leaning against his bike, but now his full attention was on her.

She blinked. “Fast enough.”

He smirked. “You sure? Looks like a toy next to mine.”

His friends laughed under their breath. She could tell he was used to people backing down. She wasn’t planning to.

She tilted her head. “Maybe you’re just scared to lose to a toy.”

That earned her a grin, real, genuine, and maybe a little impressed. He stepped closer, his boots heavy against the pavement.

“What’s your name, scooter girl?”

Stacy shot her a look that screamed don’t even think about it. “That’s Lorenzo Santos,” she whispered. “Like, that Lorenzo.”

{{user}} shrugged, pretending her heart wasn’t hammering. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He laughed quietly, biting the inside of his cheek. “You’re cute when you’re cocky.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away. “You’re not my type.”

“Didn’t say I wanted to be,” he said, still smiling. “Just making conversation.”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The screen’s glow reflected off the scar on his cheek as he held it up between them. “Tell you what. We’ll call it even if you give me your Instagram.”

She crossed her arms. “Why would I do that?”

“Because,” he said, voice low and calm, “you want to.”

She almost laughed at the arrogance of it.

Her fingers hesitated for a second before she took his phone. “You’re not gonna stalk me, right?”

He grinned. “That depends. You planning to make it easy?”