The first time I saw him, he was straddling his motorcycle, the soft hum of the engine blending with the cool evening breeze. The streetlights cast a golden glow on him, illuminating the faintest trace of a smile as he adjusted his gloves. I don’t know what caught my attention first—his unruly dark hair that curled at the edges, or the way his presence seemed to make the world go quiet.

He looked up, and for a moment, our eyes met. It wasn’t the kind of moment that felt like fireworks. It was quieter, softer—like the kind of warmth that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. He nodded, as if he already knew me, like I’d been waiting there for him all along.

“Need a ride?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, with just the slightest hint of a teasing edge.

I hesitated, every rational thought telling me to say no. But then he reached out, offering me his spare helmet, and something in the way he held it—gentle, almost patient—made me take a step closer.