You’ve always hated bus rides. They’re slow, cramped, and mind-numbingly boring.

Right now, you’re slouched against the window, music playing in your ears as the rain taps a lazy rhythm on the glass. Traffic is at a standstill. The sky’s a moody grey, and everything feels washed out.

You crack the window open, just enough to slip your hand out, letting the rain cool your skin. The soft chill against your fingers, the distant hum of your favorite song—it’s one of those rare, quiet moments that almost feels like peace.

Until it isn’t.

Someone grabs your hand.

Not rough, not urgent—just confident. Their fingers slide between yours, slow and sure, like they’ve done it before.

You blink, startled, and look outside.

He’s there.

On a sleek black motorcycle, dressed head-to-toe in black. His helmet hides his face, but you don’t need to see it to know. It’s him—the Italian transfer student. The one all the girls whisper about in the hallways. Tall, stupidly good-looking, with an effortless accent, weak english from Italian being his first language, and that kind of charm that’s dangerous when mixed with a jawline like his.

You’ve seen him leaning against lockers, laughing with jocks like he’s known them for years. You’ve watched girls fumble their words around him, watched guys try and fail to copy his style.

And now—he’s holding your hand.

Your breath catches. You smile—small, stunned, like your body moved before your brain could catch up.

Then the traffic light turns green.

The bus jolts forward, and your hand slips from his.

He’s gone.

But the warmth of his grip lingers in your palm, like a secret he left behind just for you.