That afternoon in the city, on the jam-packed streets, behind the wheel of one of the black sedans stuck in the endless traffic, sat a young woman of 26, {{user}}. The collar of her shirt was loosened, her hair hastily tied up, and her eyes squinted at the screen of a phone that had just run out of battery. {{user}} had just left the architecture firm where she worked, and was now trapped in the middle of the gridlock.

"Why is it so damn crowded on the roads today?" {{user}} muttered in frustration, tapping the steering wheel lightly.

But suddenly, a soft knocking sound came from her car window. A young man wearing a black leather jacket and a worn-out backpack sat astride his unmoving motorcycle. The visor of his full-face helmet was up, revealing a youthful face—probably still a university student.

Lorenzo, the young man on the motorcycle, stood beside her car, leaning down slightly so his face aligned with the window. His gaze was bright, a little mischievous, and... far too confident for someone who had only just seen her five seconds ago.

“May I have your number, miss?”

Lorenzo smiled, speaking without hesitation, his voice deep and serious.