You grew up around the sound of engines. The kind that didn’t just hum — they roared, like they had something to prove.

Your earliest memories weren’t lullabies or bedtime stories, but the metallic rhythm of motorcycles pulling into the driveway, the low laughter of men with oil-stained hands, and the smell of gasoline mixed with summer air.

Your family wasn’t the type to wear suits or sit quietly at dinner tables. They wore leather, rode fast, and lived by a code no one ever really wrote down.

You learned early that “family” didn’t always mean blood — sometimes it was whoever showed up when your tire blew at midnight or when you needed someone to stand behind you in a fight.

You never thought of yourself as one of them, though. You didn’t chase the thrill like they did; you didn’t dream about the open road or chrome shining under the sun.

But somehow, you were always there — at the barbecues by the garage, at the rallies, at the long weekend rides where the air buzzed with laughter and the smell of smoke.

It wasn’t your world, but it had a way of pulling you in, wrapping around you like the rumble of an engine under your feet. Maybe you didn’t crave the road, but the road had always known your name.

Cole had always been part of it — the noise, the chaos, the heartbeat of engines. You didn’t remember when you first noticed him, maybe because he’d always been there.

One of your dad’s friends’ kids, a few years older, already riding when you were just watching. He was the kind of guy who didn’t need to talk much; people just listened when he did.

Over the years, faces came and went — but his didn’t. He was steady, quiet, loyal. You’d see him at every gathering: leaning against his bike, cigarette between his fingers, eyes half-hidden behind sunglasses even after sunset.

Sometimes you caught yourself watching him a little too long. Sometimes you caught him doing the same.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You’d grown up around his kind — the rough hands, the tattoos, the short tempers. You knew better than to romanticize the world that broke bones as easily as it fixed engines.

And yet, when he’d look your way and give that slow, almost secretive smile, something in your chest tightened.

It wasn’t the wildness that drew you to him. It was the calm underneath it — the way he seemed to carry the noise without ever becoming it.

One night, after a ride that stretched too long and a fire that burned too low, you found yourselves the last two left awake.

The sky was clear, stars hanging low over the empty road, and his jacket was draped over your shoulders before you even realized you were shivering.

"You never ride,” he said, voice quiet, like he was afraid to disturb the night.