The sun was slipping beneath the skyline, casting long amber shadows across the city. Neon signs buzzed to life above liquor stores, burger joints, and mechanic shops, giving the streets a gritty glow. The smell of gas and asphalt lingered in the air, mixing with the bite of the evening breeze. You weren’t in a rush—just riding to clear your head. No destination. Just the sound of your engine and the freedom of being unknown.

You pulled into a gas station off a main strip, tires crunching on cracked concrete. As your bike rolled to a stop, you spotted them before you killed the ignition.

A small crew of riders clustered around pump seven—three guys and one girl. Laughter, loud voices, the smell of cheap cigars. And him.

Nico Valezzi.

He leaned against his bike like it was part of him, helmet off and tucked under one arm. Tousled dark hair, olive skin glowing under the station lights, sleeves tight over lean muscle and tattooed arms. His mismatched eyes—one earthy brown, one pale green—flicked up casually as if he’d felt you before he saw you.

“Look who it is,” he murmured, a crooked smile spreading across his face.

Before you could respond, the girl beside him turned sharply. Short, dark curls, cropped jacket, and attitude dripping off her. She leaned into Nico’s side, fingers grazing his arm. “She follows you now?” she asked, loud enough for you to hear. “Cute.”

You said nothing. Just popped your visor and stared back.

Nico’s smirk deepened, brushing the girl off without a word as he took slow steps toward you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said, voice low, eyes never leaving yours. “We gotta stop meeting like this, Il Mio Cuore...”