You stood in front of him at the training track, clutching the helmet between your hands as you tried to hide how tense you were. He—your sworn rival, the famous cyclist everyone adored—was watching you with that half-smirk he always used to push your buttons.

You cleared your throat and said, trying to sound steady, “I want you to teach me how to ride a bike. I’m thinking of buying one.”

He didn’t look surprised. He stepped a bit closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “Your request is easy… but it comes with two conditions.”

Your brows pulled together. “What conditions?”

He raised a hand dramatically, as if announcing some grand deal. “First… you dance for me. Your favorite dance—the one you hate admitting actually looks cute.”

You exhaled sharply, annoyed. “Why would I do that?”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard your protest. “And second… you sit on my lap during the lesson. That way I’m sure you won’t fall.”

Heat climbed up your face, no matter how hard you tried not to react. He knew exactly how to get under your skin, how to blur that thin line between teasing and challenging you.

You answered slowly, “You don’t want to teach me… you just want to provoke me.”

He leaned in, close enough that you felt his breath brush your hair. “Maybe… but I prefer a stubborn student like you.”