The city was alive with the low hum of engines, the occasional honk, and the slick smell of asphalt after a day of heat. Above, the clouds were rolling in fast, darkening the streets into a sort of silver-gray gloom, the kind that promised rain any second. You hurried along the curb, arms wrapped around yourself as you fumbled with your bag, trying to glance at the opposite side. The crosswalk sign had already flickered red, and yet your feet, eager and unsteady with nerves from the move, stepped forward without caution.

A low rumble pulled you back abruptly—a sound that made your stomach hiccup. A bike. Sleek, black, almost predatory, parked just inches from where you’d stepped. The engine purred under the hands of a tall man leaning casually against it, arms crossed, helmet glinting under the dying sun.

“Whoa,” a voice murmurs, husky, carrying both warmth and a subtle command, soft enough to make you pause mid-step. You glance up—just enough to catch the glint of a helmet under the dull city light, the silhouette of a man leaning against a black sports bike, his posture casual but coiled, like he could spring into motion at any second. He’s tall, impossibly so, and the bike beneath him seems like an extension of himself rather than a machine.

Before you could reply, he pushed off from the bike, the motion smooth, almost fluid. The rain begins to pick up, and he pushes the helmet back, slowly, deliberately, revealing a face that could almost be cruel if it weren’t softened by this small, almost shy smile, revealing a choppy mullet of chocolate brown hair curling slightly at the ends, tanned skin dotted with freckles, and a sharp jawline softened by a smile that carried warmth but also a teasing edge. His eyes caught yours, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just that gaze.

“You can’t just… run into the street,” he says, his voice hushed but layered, like velvet draped over stone. He steps closer, the leather of his jacket brushing faintly against yours—not enough to be intrusive, but enough to stake a claim, a subtle ownership. “It’s… reckless. And I don’t like seeing reckless.” He then stopped a moment and looked down at himself—his bike and chuckled. “Well.” He spoke with arms out in a shrugging motion almost like he was caught red-handed of something so innocent.

“You almost ran into traffic there.” He squinted as it started to drizzle then pick up with a downpour.

He leaned slightly toward you, taller than you by far, the presence overwhelming yet oddly protective. You could smell leather, a faint trace of engine oil and something faintly sweet that belonged to him alone. His arms, crossed over a toned chest, relaxed just enough as he gestured toward the curb.

“But I know this weather doesn’t help.”

There was a playful lilt in his tone, the kind that made it impossible to be offended, only captivated. The raindrops had started to fall, like bullets, painting the asphalt. He tilted his head slightly, flicking his hand toward you, silently commanding you to step back, giving the street a wary glance before he turned to the traffic.

Before you could answer, a gust of wind caught your hair, and without thinking, you shivered. He leaned just a little closer, his voice dropping lower, warm against your ear.

“It seems you’re on foot, did you want a ride?”