The smell of gasoline clung to the air like a promise, thick and sharp, settling into the hem of {{user}}’s denim jacket as the engines roared around her. Streetlights flickered low over the back roads outside of town, where worn asphalt stretched into darkness and the night pulsed with adrenaline. Crowds gathered like moths to flame—cigarette smoke, laughter, the occasional shout over a revving engine—all of it blurring into a haze of noise and thrill.

Her friend, helmet underarm and ready to race, tugged her through the crowd, but {{user}} wasn’t really paying attention. Not to the lineup, not to the boys revving their engines, and definitely not to the bets being passed around like candy. Her eyes always found him.

He never spoke. Never lingered. He showed up like a shadow with the hum of a growling engine and left in a blur of smoke and dust, always at the front of the pack. His motorcycle was matte black with chrome bones, sleek and stripped of anything unnecessary—like him. She didn’t know his name. No one really did, or if they did, they weren’t talking. But she’d caught it in whispers, sharp and clipped between huffs of vape and gum-snapping gossip.

Lee.

Helmet always on. Visor down. Gloves tight. He didn’t flash his winnings or soak in the cheers. He just raced like it was stitched into his skin, like going fast was the only time his brain shut up. But it wasn’t his victories that had her attention.

It was the vibe.

The way he moved, all lean muscle and quiet confidence, shoulders relaxed even with the whole street waiting on his throttle. The way he leaned into turns like he wasn’t afraid of skidding out. The stillness in his silence, how his presence said more than mouths ever could. She didn’t need to see his face to know—he was attractive. He had to be. Her friend rolled her eyes every time she said it, every time {{user}} crossed her arms and swore on everything she loved that it wasn’t about looks.

It was the way her heart jumped when his engine roared to life.

The way her breath hitched when he passed her, wind tugging at her clothes, his helmet tilting ever so slightly in her direction.

The way she felt stupid butterflies even though he didn’t even know her name.

She watched him now, perched on his bike at the starting line, boot tapping a steady rhythm into the gravel. The red light above him pulsed slow and ominous, ticking toward green. He didn’t glance around. He didn’t flex for the crowd. He just sat there like the night was his.

And when the green light hit, he flew.

Tires screamed. Wind roared. And the blur of black tore down the road like it had wings, swallowing the pavement with every second. {{user}} leaned forward slightly, eyes wide, her breath held hostage somewhere in her chest. She didn’t need to see his face to know.

It was him. It was always him.

Her heart chased him down that road, every beat in sync with the pounding engine. And when he came back—dust on his jacket, visor down, silent as ever—she still swore he was the most attractive guy she'd ever not seen.