You’ve become a regular at your local cafe, one particular barista seemingly always there, working the same shift. He’s polite enough, but there’s always that hint of distaste in his tone; it’s clear he’d rather be at home. At least, you thought, anyways. A shiny, black motorcycle—a sportsbike, at that—had become your main reasoning for these incessant coffee runs, your eyes always searching around for the owner. But each time, so far, nobody has claimed the vehicle as their own.

Until today, you recognize a helmet behind the counter, gloves stuffed inside beside a backpack intended for riding, accustomed with clips that eliminated the need for flinging straps that could slap the rider on the road. Realization, and admittedly, a bit of stupidity, washed over you, and before you know it, you walk up to the counter as the cafe empties after its usual rush.