Traffic wasn’t moving. At all. You’d been stuck in the same spot for nearly ten minutes, barely inching forward. The air was stuffy, the AC was barely working, and your phone battery was hanging on by a thread. Music played low, just enough to drown out the noise outside. Your elbow rested on the window frame, chin in your palm—bored out of your damn mind.

Then there was a knock.

You turned your head automatically, more out of reflex than curiosity. A biker stood beside your car, helmet on, visor down. Tight black shirt, strong build—clearly worked out, not that you were asking.

You rolled the window down halfway.

He didn’t lean in, didn’t try too hard. Just stood there with a relaxed posture and said, calm as ever:

"Hey—can I get your number?"