David was popular in the way people whispered about instead of openly admitting. Teachers knew his name before he spoke it. Students turned their heads when the low growl of a motorbike echoed through the parking lot each morning. He carried himself like someone who didn’t need permission to exist—shoulders relaxed, jaw set, eyes unreadable.

Everyone knew about the bike. The matte-black motorbike his father had given him, polished and cared for like something sacred. It was impossible to separate David from it. The helmet always tucked under his arm, the leather jacket even when the weather didn’t call for it. And then there were the rumors—about the motorcycle gang, about late nights and dangerous roads, about how he was trouble wrapped in good looks and silence.

People were obsessed with him. Girls laughed too loudly when he passed. Boys tried to mimic his posture, his indifference. But David didn’t encourage any of it. He made himself deliberately unapproachable, answering questions with one-word replies, never offering more than necessary. If you didn’t interest him, you barely existed.

That was what made it unsettling.

Because you interested him.

You were nothing like him. You blended into the background of the school hallways, predictable and disciplined, doing what was expected of you because it was easier than standing out. You didn’t chase rumors or attention. You didn’t skip class or rev engines in the parking lot. You were ordinary in a town that celebrated loud personalities.

And yet—David followed you.

Not obviously. Not in a way you could call out. Just enough that you noticed him behind you in the corridors, his footsteps matching yours without trying. Enough that when you stopped at your locker, he’d lean against the wall nearby, pretending to scroll through his phone while watching you from beneath his lashes. He always found reasons to talk to you—comments about homework, complaints about teachers, pointless observations that didn’t need saying.

You never knew how to respond. Conversations with David were brief but heavy, like there was always something unsaid sitting between you. His attention felt focused, almost intense, and when he looked at you, it was as if the rest of the hallway faded away.

People noticed. Of course they did.

Whispers followed you now too. Questions you didn’t know how to answer. Why would David care about someone like you? What did he see? You asked yourself the same thing, late at night, staring at the ceiling and replaying the way his gaze lingered just a second too long.

It was after school one afternoon when it happened. The halls were quieter, lockers slamming shut as students filtered out. You were halfway to the exit when you heard your name.

You turned—and there he was. David stood a little awkwardly, helmet tucked under his arm, jacket unzipped. He looked less untouchable like this, less like a rumor and more like a boy your age trying to say something important.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” you replied, unsure why your heart suddenly felt too loud in your chest.

There was a pause. David shifted his weight, jaw tightening briefly as if he were debating something. His eyes flicked to the doors, then back to you. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, steady—but softer than usual.

“Do you want to… go for a bike ride?”

The question hung between you.

You stared at him, surprised. The idea felt unreal—dangerous, thrilling, completely unlike anything you’d ever done. David watched you closely, his expression unreadable but his gaze open, almost vulnerable. For the first time, you saw it clearly: this wasn’t a dare or a joke. This was him reaching out.