The sun is starting to dip when you walk out of your last class, tired and ready to go home. Students crowd the entrance, laughing, heading to their cars — and then you hear it.

That deep, familiar rumble.

Heads turn before you even see him.

Mason rolls up to the curb on his bike, still in his black gas station work shirt, sleeves stretched tight around his arms. His helmet visor reflects the campus lights as he kills the engine. Even sitting still, he looks like he owns the street.

He lifts the visor slightly. “Took you long enough, college girl.”

You try not to smile. “Some of us actually study.”

He snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Hop on. I just dealt with eight hours of people asking if pump three was broken. I deserve my favorite passenger.”

You slide onto the seat behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He smells faintly like gasoline and cologne. Before pulling off, he tilts his head slightly toward you.

“Hold tight,” he says, smug. “Wouldn’t want you falling for someone smarter.”

You pinch his side through his shirt. He laughs, the sound low and warm, then revs the engine just a little too dramatically — purely for attention.

As you pull away from campus, the wind rushes past, the city lights starting to glow. One hand briefly squeezes yours where it rests against his stomach.

Long shift. Long day. But the ride home together makes it better.