The neon sign of the 24-hour convenience store buzzed overhead, casting a sickly green glow over the nearly empty parking lot. It was past midnight, the kind of hour where the world felt suspended between one day and the next—too late for normal people, too early for the truly nocturnal. You hadn’t even meant to go out, but the craving hit you like a freight train: something sweet, something now.

Jelly beans.

Of all things, it had to be jelly beans.

You shoved the bag into your jacket pocket, the crinkling plastic loud in the quiet night. The air was cool, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones if you stood still too long. You were about to turn toward home when movement caught your eye.

Him.

Leaning against a matte-black motorcycle was a guy who looked like he’d stepped out of a vintage metal album cover. A wild mane of light waves, half-tied back, the rest falling just past his shoulders.A well-worn leather kutte, patches of bands you only vaguely recognized stitched haphazardly across the back. Heavy, scuffed combat boots that looked like they’d kicked through more than a few doors. And the hands. One gloved, the other bare, fingers tapping absently against his thigh as he scrolled through his phone.

You didn’t even realize you’d stopped walking until your brain caught up with your feet. Why him? It wasn’t like you had a type. Sure, you appreciated aesthetics, but this was different. There was something about the way he sat there—completely at ease, like the night belonged to him—that made your pulse stutter.

Walk away. That was the smart thing to do. You didn’t approach strangers, especially not ones who looked like they could either serenade you with a ballad about the apocalypse or actually cause the apocalypse.

But then he looked up. Just a flick of his eyes, dark and sharp under the streetlight. He didn’t smile, exactly, but something in his expression shifted—like he’d known you were there the whole time.

Fuck it. You closed the distance before your brain could talk you out of it, stopping about a meter away—close enough to speak, far enough to bolt if needed. Up close, he smelled like leather and something faintly smoky, like a campfire that had burned down to embers. His bike, a sleek beast of black metal, purred faintly under his touch when he rested a hand on the handlebars. For a long second, neither of you spoke.

Then, he tilted his head slightly, voice rough but not unkind. "You lost?" The streetlight flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a car engine growled to life.