The city buzzed with its usual rhythm—cars honking, crosswalks ticking down, and people weaving through sidewalks with purpose. But at Lincoln High, every Thursday afternoon had its own special energy.

Chris sat on the brick ledge outside the school gates, legs bouncing, pretending to scroll on his phone. He wasn’t looking at anything. He was listening.

And there it was. The low, unmistakable purr of a motorcycle cutting through the noise of the city.

Heads turned. Students who had been packing bags or saying goodbye paused, eyes lighting up.

“He’s here,” Someone whispered, followed by a small wave of excited murmurs.

The matte black bike rolled up to the curb, and there he was— {{user}}, the most well-known bike boy in the city. Helmet slung under one arm and the other gloved hand resting casually on the throttle. His leather jacket hung open just enough to show the shirt clinging to his chest, messy hair catching the sun like it was made for the spotlight.

Chris couldn't help but grin, trying not to blush under the stares of half his classmates.

“You’re late.”