The sun had dipped low behind the city skyline, casting golden streaks across the slick asphalt. Neon signs blinked lazily above crowded storefronts, while the distant hum of engines blended with laughter spilling from late-night cafes. It was the kind of evening that buzzed with energy—warm air, pulsing music from passing cars, and a sense of something just on the edge of happening.

You weren’t out for anything special. Just a ride. Leather jacket zipped halfway, gloves off, helmet dangling from your fingers as you turned the corner onto a main street. You weren’t an influencer, not some viral sensation. Just a girl who loved the freedom of two wheels under her and the wind licking at her face. Riding made you feel weightless. Alive.

The gas station came into view, its overhead lights humming bright against the dimming sky. That’s when you saw him—again.

He was parked by the farthest pump, his bike angled like a portrait shot, the chrome glinting under the fluorescents. He stood beside it, pulling off his matte black helmet, revealing tousled dark brown hair that flopped perfectly over his brow before he raked a hand through it. He looked straight out of an action movie—olive-toned skin, black fitted gear, armored gloves stuffed into his back pocket. But it was his eyes that always got you. One deep brown, the other an icy pale green. Heterochromia. Unforgettable.

He held up his phone, talking into it with that signature smirk. Content. Always filming. You wondered if he ever noticed how often the two of you crossed paths—intersections, red lights, gas stations like this.

You pulled up to the pump beside him, cutting the engine. His head turned. Recognition sparked instantly, slow and easy.

“Well, well…” he said, grinning. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”