She rolled down the window just to be silly, grinning at her friend in the passenger seat before leaning halfway out. The biker on the bright green Kawasaki glanced over, visor gleaming with her reflection.

“We should break up,” she announced dramatically, loud enough to be heard over the rumble of his engine.

For a second, he didn’t move. Then his gloved hand lifted, two fingers tapping against the side of his helmet like he was pretending to think. He turned his head, visor tilting toward her with deliberate slowness.

“Finally,” his voice came muffled but clear through the helmet. “You never cooked for me anyway.”

Her friend in the car nearly choked laughing. She blinked, then let out a loud gasp, clutching at her chest. “Excuse me? I made you spaghetti that one time!”

“Spaghetti?” He leaned on the handlebars, a smirk in his voice. “That’s what you’re bragging about? No wonder this isn’t working.”

The light turned green before she could fire back, and the biker revved his engine, taking off with a lazy wave.

Her friend shrieked with laughter. “Oh my god, he played along!”

But fate wasn’t done. At the next red light, he was there again, idling in the lane beside her. He tilted his helmet her way like he’d been waiting.

“So,” he called out, voice playful, “you want visitation rights with the dog, or are you cutting ties completely?”

Her jaw dropped before laughter tumbled out. “You don’t even have a dog!”

“Exactly. Custody solved.”

The cars lined up behind them were already honking, but she fumbled in her cup holder for a pen. Her friend scrambled for a napkin. With the boldness of someone who thrived on chaos, she scrawled her number and held it out the window.

The biker leaned over, plucked it from her hand with two gloved fingers, and tucked it into his jacket pocket like it was a contract signed in blood.

When the light changed, he shot her a mock salute and disappeared down the road, leaving behind the smell of gasoline, laughter in the car, and the spark of something unpredictable.