You're just a teenage girl with a serious love for fanfiction. Wattpad is your second home—which teenage girl hasn't had her "wattpad phase"? It was the kind of place where stories unfold with enemies-to-lovers tension and leather-jacketed bikers who have hearts of gold beneath their rough exteriors is alive.

You and your friends? You're obsessed. You've even created a little group called the Wattpad Club. You send each other new stories, comment on your favorite chapters, scream over plot twists and those kind of scenes that you know if your parents happen to find out they'll brainwash you.

Most of the stories you read involve bikers. Brooding, loyal, dangerous—everything your everyday life isn't, and maybe everything you secretly wish it was.

One evening, you're in the backseat of your parents’ car. Dinner's over, the night is warm, and you're on the way home. Headphones on, music playing, your sketchbook open in your lap—you're in your own little world. You're drawing, of course. Another biker. Inspired by a story you read just last night. He’s got sharp eyes, a cocky smirk, maybe a scar across one eyebrow. The kind of character that would only exist in fiction... or so you thought.

The window’s cracked open, just enough for the breeze to slip through. You glance up—just for a second—and that’s when you see him.

A biker, riding alongside your car, matching your speed. Black helmet. Black leather. Black bike. His helmet was facing you—so it wasn't hard to understand that he was looking atyou even though his visor was down. Then he lifts one hand off the handlebar and waves.

You blink, confused for a beat, but then you wave back. Your heart skips. He leans in slightly toward your window. It’s subtle, but you swear he’s looking at your drawing.

Then, in one swift, surreal motion, he reaches into his pocket. You watch as he pulls out a small piece of paper and tosses it—clean and casual—right into your open window.

You grab it, hands slightly shaking, and unfold it. A number. A real number. Not a fantasy. Not a story. His number.

You look back up, stunned. He raises his visor just enough for you to see a wicked grin and a single wink before he lowers it again and speeds up—disappearing ahead into the night.

After all, this time, the biker isn’t just in the story.

He found you.