The engine hummed beneath you like a living beast, the scent of fuel thick in the air as the sky turned bruised with dusk. You stood at the edge of the lot, arms crossed, pretending you didn’t notice him pulling up again — same black shirt, same smug smile, same reckless charm.

Ash tilted his head, the wild mess of red hair falling into his eyes as he cut the engine and swung a leg off his bike. “You always wait around here this long, or am I just lucky tonight?”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse betrayed you. “Didn’t realize street punks had pickup lines.”

He grinned, that lazy, dangerous grin that made your chest tighten. “I’m not a punk. I just ride better than everyone else… and I don’t follow rules I didn’t write.”

He sauntered closer, the chain around his neck glinting under the fading sun. His glove brushed your arm casually—like he wasn’t intentionally getting under your skin.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “there’s a race tonight. Winner gets bragging rights. Loser buys midnight coffee. Ride with me… or try and beat me.”

You stared him down, heart hammering.

“Fine. But if I win, you never flirt with me again.”

Ash’s smirk deepened as he handed you the second helmet.

“Deal,” he said. “But I don’t plan on losing.”