The rumble of a Suzuki Hayabusa echoed off the narrow streets, its black-and-white frame gleaming under the late-afternoon sun. You slowed just enough to pull into the lot, leather jacket clinging to you, boots clicking as you swung off the seat. Your helmet came off in one slow, practiced motion, messy braids tumbling free.

That’s when you saw her.

Ellie Williams. Leaning against her bike — the same old confident smirk, the same freckled face you'd tried not to think about for months. She pulled off her own helmet, auburn hair sticking out in just the right way, like she hadn’t even tried.

“Didn’t think I’d see you dressed like that again,” she said, eyes trailing over your leathers like they belonged to her.

You raised a brow. “Didn’t think you’d still be chasing me.”

She grinned, slow and dangerous. “Guess I don’t like letting go of what’s mine.”