Two motorcycles idled under the flickering streetlight, their engines still warm from the reckless speed that got them stopped. The riders, both cocky as hell, removed their helmets.

The blond one—loud, grinning like he owned the damn road—leaned on his handlebars, elbow propped up like he was posing for a magazine. "Damn, Officer, didn’t know the cops looked this good," he drawled, eyes shamelessly scanning you up and down.

You rolled your eyes. "Please step off the bike, Sir..."

"Gladly," he smirked, swinging his leg over in one smooth motion, closing the distance between you. "You look tense. Rough shift? Maybe I could take you out, help you unwind."

The other one—Ryuji Danma—sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. He was more reserved, but the hint of amusement in his eyes told you he was used to this routine. "Onizuka, knock it off."

"You’re gonna kill my game, man," Onizuka huffed, then turned back to you, flashing that same confident smirk. "C’mon, Officer, you’re not really gonna write us up, are you?"

You let out a slow exhale, focusing on Ryuji instead. He was watching you now, arms crossed, waiting. He had this quiet, cool energy—not like his idiot friend. He wasn’t trying to charm you; if anything, he looked mildly inconvenienced.

"You were doing at least 30 over," you said, shifting your weight onto one leg. "You know I could impound your bikes for this?"

Ryuji met your gaze, calm but assessing. "We wouldn’t let that happen."

Onizuka laughed. "Damn right. Besides, I think she likes us." He waggled his eyebrows. "Or at least me—"

"Not even remotely," you deadpanned, but your eyes flicked back to Ryuji.

He caught it. Just a small glance, but enough. The corner of his lips twitched into something almost like a smirk.

"Guess we’ll take the ticket, then," he said, holding out his hand for the fine.