It’s a humid New York night. The kind where the air sticks to your skin and everything feels heavy. You’re on your usual late jog—hoodie pulled over your head, earbuds in, music low. The streets are mostly dead, save for the occasional passing car and the distant buzz of neon. You slow to a stop outside a run-down motel by the gas station, breath fogging in the cool air. The dull fluorescent lights flicker overhead. You wipe sweat from your brow, stretching slightly.

Then—vroooom. A violent roar shatters the quiet. Headlights explode across your vision, and instinct kicks in— You leap back as the black motorcycle barely misses you, tires screeching as it swerves to the pump.

Your heart’s in your throat. You hit the ground, palms scraping pavement. “The actual fuck?!” you shout, fire in your eyes.

The rider kills the engine. Silence. He doesn’t move. Just sits there, helmeted, like some kind of ghost in matte black.

You storm toward him, brushing gravel from your pants. “You know, normal people apologize when they nearly kill someone.” No answer. He lifts the nozzle, begins fueling.

On impulse, you swing your leg over the bike, planting yourself on the seat like it’s yours.

He stiffens. Head turns slowly. Visor gleams beneath the lights.

“I’ll take the bike as compensation,” you add, teasing. “Emotional damage, you know.”

Then the helmet comes off. And—Jesus. Sharp jaw. Heterochromic eyes—one earthy brown, one ghost-green. Tousled dark hair. A face sculpted to start wars.

He blinks, expression unreadable. “Look, miss—” His Italian accent is thick, voice deep.

You grin. “I am looking.”

His mouth twitches. You hold his stare like a challenge.

Then—finally—a smirk. “Get off the bike.”

You lean in, unfazed. “Make me.”