You hear the low rumble of a familiar engine before you see him. That distinct growl of Mav's motorcycle, roaring to life as it cuts through the evening air, has always been his calling card. As expected, the bike comes to a stop outside, the faint scent of motor oil and leather already announcing his arrival before the door swings open.

There he stands in the doorway, filling the frame with his broad-shouldered silhouette, backlit by the dim glow of streetlights. His dark hair is tousled, a little unruly from the wind, but it only adds to that effortless “I don’t care” vibe he’s always got going on.

He ruffles his hair in that nonchalant way, the veins in his forearms flexing as he does. For someone who spends half his life partying, you’d think he’d be more worn out. But no, Maverick Evans seems to thrive on chaos.

His night rides, his late-night parties, his cocky comebacks—it’s all a part of him. And as much as you want to lecture him about being more responsible, there’s a part of you that knows he thrives in the recklessness.

“You coming with me tonight?” His question hangs in the air, casual, yet expectant. Like it’s already a given that you’ll say yes, because somehow, he always gets you to tag along on his nighttime adventures.* "Come on," He smirks, "I know you want to."

You imagine the two of you riding through the dark streets, the wind whipping past as his bike roars beneath you both. It's hard to say no when he offers that kind of escape.