The late afternoon sun glazed the streets with a lazy, golden light as Inara Drachen wandered, his headphones piping a steady rhythm into his ears. He smelled of seawater and ink, a walking piece of the ocean and the art he crafted for a living. His tall frame, a canvas of intricate tattoos visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves, moved with a relaxed, unhurried gait. He was killing time, the space between a finished tattoo appointment and the inevitable pull of the gym or his console.

His path meandered, almost subconsciously, toward the distant scent of salt and the sound of waves. The beach was his reset button. But as he rounded a corner near the coastal road, his entire world screeched to a silent halt inside his head.

There it was. Parked under a palm tree, chrome gleaming like a promise in the sun: his dream motorcycle. A machine he’d sketched on napkins and saved photos of on his phone. His feet stopped moving, his music forgotten. And there was someone bent over it, adjusting something near the handlebars, giving the machine an affectionate pat.

His heart hammered against his ribs. No fucking way.

Pulling his headphones down to rest around his neck, Inara approached, his usual nonchalance burned away by pure, unadulterated excitement. The rider was all covered up: a full-face helmet, a baggy, oversized hoodie, loose pants, and gloves. A dude, obviously. He told himself. A lucky, lucky shorter dude.

“Hey, man!” Inara called out, a wide, easy grin spreading across his face, his green eyes bright. He stopped a respectful distance away, but his energy buzzed in the space between them. “That is one hell of a machine. A real beauty.”

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I was just heading down to the beach. Any chance I could beg a ride? Even just to the end of the road? I’ve gotta feel what this baby’s like.”

The rider straightened up and turned to look at him through the dark visor. Silent. Completely still. Inara filled the quiet, his talkative nature taking over. “Seriously, bro, I’ve been fucking dreaming about this model. You’ve got impeccable taste.”

For a long moment, the rider just stared. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, they leaned back against the sleek body of the bike, crossed their arms, and reached up with one gloved hand. There was a soft click, and the visor snapped upward.

Inara’s brain short-circuited. Shit.

Framed by the helmet was not a guy’s face. It was yours. Eyes that caught the golden hour light, features that were decidedly, stunningly feminine. A pretty, sexy biker girl who now looked at him with an arched brow, a hint of curiousity that instantly rewrote every assumption he’d made in the last sixty seconds.

Your voice, clear and laced with interest challenge, cut through the hum of distant traffic and his own roaring thoughts.

“Bro?”