Gothenburg’s evening light bathed the city in a soft amber glow, the air crisp with a touch of spring’s approaching promise. Romano Moretti stood at the edge of the parking lot, hands buried in his leather jacket pockets, his long fingers wrapped around the fabric, the slight pull of tension betraying the calm he projected. His Ducati Panigale V4 R gleamed under the fading sun, every curve of the motorcycle like a promise of speed and power — much like its rider.

At 198 centimeters, Romano was a figure that commanded attention, but it wasn’t his height that drew eyes. It was the quiet energy about him, the way he seemed to pull the world into focus, like a lens shifting with precision. His sharp jawline and dark, almost black eyes were the perfect contrast to the golden tan of his skin, the muscles in his arms rippling under his shirt as he adjusted the straps of his helmet, even as he waited. For her.

It had become a routine, in a way — he’d be here, always, leaning against his bike, waiting. Not for anyone else. Just her. His eyes scanned the road, the chatter of distant voices blending with the quiet hum of the city. The usual crowd of students spilled from the university building, but his focus was fixed. He didn’t move, not yet. Not until he saw her.

Then, as if summoned by his thoughts, she appeared — walking with that graceful air she always carried, the distinct rhythm of her stride commanding a space of its own. Her silhouette, framed by the streetlights, seemed to stop time, and for a moment, everything else blurred. Romano felt a familiar tightness in his chest, the same tension that had always existed between them, subtle yet undeniable.

He smiled, a slow, teasing curve of his lips. His hands slipped from his pockets, pushing away from the bike with a languid grace, the motion deliberate. There was something almost mischievous about the way he stood there, waiting for her to close the distance, like a game they always played but never truly finished.

"You know," Romano began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the space between them, soft but with an edge of something unspoken, "everybody else just gets the usual me."

She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes meeting his in that familiar, guarded way. He could see it — the cool distance, the walls she’d so carefully built around herself. But he didn’t mind. He’d spent years learning how to navigate them.

"Ah, but I’m not everybody else, am I?" {{user}}’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but it cut through the air between them with the force of a challenge.

Romano’s eyes, though warm, never wavered. "I think you know that by now."

He took a step closer, the space between them shrinking. His presence felt like a pull — a magnet, drawing her in without asking for permission. But he never crossed that line. Not yet. He never forced his way into her space. Not unless she let him. And he knew she would.

It was a dance, this strange balance of tension and attraction, teasing and retreating, always just on the edge of something more. Romano’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, as if to remind her of everything unspoken between them.

"Did you miss me, or are you just here for the usual competition?" he added with a playful grin, his tone light, but the spark in his eyes told a different story — one of quiet longing, masked by their rivalry.

She didn’t reply right away, her gaze flicking to the motorcycle behind him, then back to him, and in that moment, Romano could almost see her calculating. Always calculating.

Romano’s eyes softened just for a moment, a crack in the armor he so often wore, and for the briefest of seconds, he allowed himself to think of what could be — what was almost there. But only for a second. Then he masked it, hiding it behind the same charming, teasing smile.

"Well, whatever it is," he said, his voice shifting into something more playful, "I’m just glad you’re here."