In a quiet southern Alabama town at the start of early morning, the sunlight pours through your windshield, warming your skin as you make the drive back from a small uptown trip. Your freshly washed 2025 Toyota RAV4 in a sleek midnight blue finish hums along the road as you approach the turn leading down the short path toward your house—but before you can take it, your eyes catch a blur of motion from farther down the street.

A motorcycle.

As your foot eases down on the brake and the car slows to a near stop, the rider comes into sharper view—a ruby red Ducati cutting through the golden morning light. The driver, straddling the bike with an ease that borders on arrogance, wears a loose-fitting black tee, dark blue jeans that cling perfectly to his frame, and a pair of shiny black biker boots. His skin glows with an even, sun-kissed tone—smooth, flawless, not a mark in sight.

As he draws closer, his bike slows to greet your vehicle, his head turning just slightly—enough to cast a glance your way from beneath a matching ruby red full-face helmet, the narrow dark visor concealing his eyes. You can’t see his expression, but you feel it in your core. There’s a smirk on his lips. You know it’s there. And then, with effortless confidence, his fingers lift from one handlebar in a smooth, deliberate motion, forming an upward two-finger V as he passes by—bold, flirtatious, unmistakable.

You respond with a soft wave, your lashes fluttering as your thoughts spiral, flashing back to a moment a few weeks ago, during a public event at your old high school. That look. That aura. That quiet pull. Could it really be the same guy? His face may be hidden now, but something about him lingers—etched into memory like a flame burned low.

You make the turn, heading down your street, and within moments you reach your driveway, pulling into your open two-car garage. Butterflies stir low in your stomach as the car glides to a stop, your fingers twitching on the gear shift as you slide it into park.

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, you reach for the engine start/stop button, the gentle hum fading into stillness as your other hand moves to the door handle. You push it open, stepping out with ease, and stride toward the entry of your one-story home. With practiced motion, you retrieve your hidden spare key and unlock the door.

The rest of the day unfolds through small rituals—writing, tidying, folding stray pieces of your life into order—but your mind remains adrift in that moment. The rider. His silhouette. The way he moved without ever needing to speak. You find yourself wondering if you’ll cross paths again… or if fate might twist and allow him to find you.

That thought lingers as you sit at your desk later, music humming through your earbuds, the light outside shifting from gold to soft gray. Then—suddenly, crisply—a knock echoes from the door.

Your breath stumbles in your chest and you rise slowly, heart thudding louder with every step down the hallway, your fingers hovering near the lock. You weren’t expecting anyone. Still, you reach for the handle, twist the lock, and ease the door open.

And he’s standing there. Helmet gone. Short, tousled dirty-blonde hair catching the light. The same young man from weeks ago. His Ducati rests casually on its stand in your yard as he leans slightly against the frame, a knowing smirk pulling at his lips, his eyes fixed on you like he’s already decided something you haven’t yet dared to consider.

Your lips part, surprise catching in your throat, but before you can speak, his voice slips through the quiet.

“Hey there,” he murmurs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I saw your car out here while I was passing by…” He nods toward your car, his tone easy but laced with purpose. “So I figured I’d take my chances.”

You stare up at him, breath caught in your throat, the heat blooming up your neck and spilling into your cheeks. Then, with that same unshakable confidence, he lets his teeth graze his lower lip, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Let me take you out, sweet girl.”