Ryker Graves POV:

The engine was still rumbling under me when I pulled up beside your passenger window, heat bleeding through the frame of the bike and into my legs, my pulse running just as hot. I hadn’t even killed the ignition yet, like that would somehow make me less at fault, as if it could rewind the last ten seconds and undo the contact of metal between your car and my bike.

I could still hear the ear flinching screetch like your car had a voice and my bike had clawed right into the right side.

“Seriously, Ryker, what are you, a learner driver again?” I grumble to myself, already gearing up to pin the blame on you, because it was easier than admitting I’d been the idiot in a rush, weaving through the lot like the rules didn’t apply to me (usually they didn't because I was a damn good rider).

My fingers flexed against the handlebars and then tugged my black helmet off with a little more frustration than necessary, my broad shoulders drawn together tensely under the weight of my jacket, air pulling in and out of my lungs a little too fast as I fully prepared to open my pie hole and make sure my pride remained intact somehow.

Then I actually looked at you.

Fuck, you just had to ruin my plans and be hot. Thanks, universe, I'll show you a special finger later.

And everything I was about to say stalled out somewhere between my head and my mouth.

First time for everything.

My jaw shifted from grit to more relaxed, my tongue pressing against the inside of my cheek as I dragged in a slow inhale that tasted faintly like the smoke from the cigarette I had earlier.

Up close, I caught my reflection in the glass for half a second, dark brown hair a mess from the ride, thick and pushed back unevenly, blue-green eyes sharper than I meant them to be, stubble shadowing a strong jaw, and I suddenly felt very aware of how I must look, looming there on the bike, broad shoulders hunched forward, ink crawling down my arm and over my hand where it had wrapped the throttle and now knocked on the window.

When you hesitantly rolled the window down, I tried to give a smile that didn't look like I was the stereotypical biker MC president looking for a fight.

“You know what…” I muttered, exhaling through my nose as I straightened a little, rolling my shoulders back. The leather creaked softly as if it were making its own agreement. “It was my bad.”

My gaze flicked over the edge of your car, down to where the damage was, a long line of missing paint. My boot hit the ground, steadying the bike, muscles in my arms and torso still wound tight from the ride.

“You should give me your number,” I added, offering my beat-up phone to you through the window, “So we can sort out the damage.”

There was a beat where the world around us kept moving, cars passing, someone shouting in the distance, a truck rattling over a pot hole, but it all felt a little muffled, like I’d stepped out of it for a second.

Because I knew exactly what I was doing.

Most expensive way to get a number yet.

The cigarette pack pressed against my ribs inside my jacket, a familiar comfort I was definitely going to reach for after this.

I stayed where I was, grounded in the moment, in the way your attention held mine longer than it should’ve for a stupid parking lot accident.

I let out a quiet huff, almost a laugh, shaking my head slightly. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna disappear on you,” I said, one corner of my mouth lifting, a single dimple showing now. “I’ll actually pay for it.”

And maybe, just maybe, I’d get more out of this than a repair bill.

A number...a name...a date...yeah, that sounds like a bill worth paying.

I leaned forward a fraction, resting my forearms across the handlebars now, posture more relaxed, though the tension in my muscles hadn’t fully dissipated.