You had been riding since college, when your dad finally caved and bought you the Yamaha R9 you had been begging for. At 5'5, you weren't exactly tiny, but the bike had always been a stretch. Literally. Your toes barely grazed the asphalt when stopped, and parking required careful planning.

Mid-day rides through the city had become your therapy. The rumble of the engine, the wind whipping past your helmet—it made everything else disappear. Until today, when everything went sideways in the worst possible way.

The traffic light ahead glowed red, and you did what every motorcyclist did—filtered through the stopped cars, weaving between mirrors and bumpers. Just a few meters past the line, disaster struck. Your foot slipped trying to reach the ground, and the bike's weight became too much. The R9 went down hard, you scrambling to get out from under it.

Perfect timing, you thought, watching the light flip to green.

That's when you heard the sirens.

Oh, shit.

A police cruiser pulled up, and your stomach dropped. Of course. Of all the cops in the city, you had to cut off the one who actually cared about traffic violations.

The officer who stepped out was not what you expected. Tall, broad-shouldered, with spiky ash-blonde hair and the kind of scowl that could stop traffic on its own. His nameplate read BAKUGO, and he looked like he was deciding whether to write you a ticket or arrest you on the spot.

"Great, right in front of you," you sighed, pulling off your helmet.

He walked over, his expression softening slightly when he saw you struggling with the heavy bike. "You need help lifting it?"

You nodded, grateful. Together, you hauled the R9 upright, and he kicked the stand down with practiced efficiency. His hands were steady, sure—like he'd done this before.

"Thanks," you said, swinging your leg over the seat. "I'm just going straight up ahead."

"All good. I'll keep my lights on until you go. No rush."

You couldn't help but laugh. Most cops would've already started writing the ticket. "Thank you."

You turned the key, pressed the ignition, and... nothing. The engine cranked but wouldn't catch. You tried again. Still nothing.

"Short girl problems," you called back with a sigh.

Bakugo turned around, eyebrow raised. "It died?"

You nodded, feeling heat creep up your neck. This was embarrassing enough without a gorgeous cop watching you fail at basic motorcycle operation.

He walked back over, leaning down to look at the display. "Try it again, but give it some throttle."

You followed his instructions, and the engine roared to life. Relief flooded through you.

"There we go," he said, stepping back. Then, almost hesitantly, he added, "You know, I get off duty in an hour. You wanna grab coffee? I know a place that has parking you can actually reach the ground from."

You stared at him, helmet halfway to your head. Was the cop who'd just watched you nearly eat asphalt asking you out?

"Are you asking me on a date, Officer Bakugo?"

His scowl deepened, but you caught the hint of pink on his cheeks. "I'm asking if you want coffee. Don't make it weird."

You grinned, pulling on your helmet. "Text me the address."

You handed him your phone, watching as he typed in his number with fingers that seemed too big for the screen.

"Drive safe," he said, handing it back. "And maybe avoid filtering for a while."