The engine of my motorcycle growled beneath me, cutting through the cool night air as the city lights blurred past. My friends had already crashed for the night, leaving me half-drunk and unsatisfied. The party was dead without noise to drown out my thoughts. I needed something to calm the spinning in my head, so I stopped at a small convenience store on the corner, the kind that glowed too bright for midnight.

I pushed open the glass door, helmet under my arm. The bell chimed, and there she was behind the counter, hair in a loose ponytail and a look that said she’d seen a hundred guys like me. Her eyes flicked up, unimpressed. “What’s up, pretty boy? Lose your way from the club?”

I smirked. “Just needed noodles. And maybe a little peace.”

“Peace?” she snorted softly. “You look like trouble on two wheels.”

“Depends who’s asking.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. “Go grab what you need, kid.”

Kid. The word hit harder than it should’ve. I was twenty-four, but something about the way she said it—half teasing, half amused—made me want to prove her wrong.

I came back the next night, and the one after that. Sometimes drunk, sometimes not. I told myself I was just hungry, but we both knew better. Every time I walked in, she’d look up with that smirk. “Back again? You know this isn’t a dating spot, right?”

“Didn’t say it was,” I’d reply, leaning on the counter. “But you’re still here.”

Her name was {{user}}. I found that out the third week, when I teased her about her sharp mouth. “{{user}},” I said, letting the name roll off my tongue, “you’ve got a dangerous way of talking.”

“And you’ve got a dangerous way of looking,” she shot back, eyebrows raised.

She was older—eight years, she said one night while restocking shelves. “You really shouldn’t hang around here, kid,” she warned, half smiling. “I’ve got baggage.”

“What kind?” I asked.

“The kind that calls me mom,” she said lightly, but her voice carried weight. “Seven-year-old boy. Smart mouth like mine.”

I paused, caught off guard. “You’re serious?”

She nodded, smiling faintly. “Single mom life. Not exactly the fantasy you’re chasing.”

I should’ve backed off. But instead, I admired her more. She wasn’t fragile; she was fierce, holding her world together with both hands.

One rainy night, I parked my bike outside, soaked and freezing. She sighed when she saw me. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” I said, shaking my hair dry. “But you’re the only one still awake when I need company.”

She tossed me a towel, pretending not to smile. “You’re lucky I don’t kick you out.”

“Yeah?” I said, stepping closer. “You’d miss me.”

Her eyes lingered on mine longer than before. “Cocky.”

“Honest,” I murmured.

Silence filled the space between us. The rain hit the windows like static. I could’ve kissed her, but I didn’t. “You calm me down, you know that?”

She blinked, startled. “Me?”

“Yeah. You make me forget the noise.”

Her gaze softened. “You talk too much for someone who claims to be calm.”

“Only when you’re around.”

After that night, the parties meant nothing. My friends teased me for trading clubs for a mom at a convenience store, but I didn’t care. I’d ride across the city just to see her roll her eyes at me again.

Weeks turned into months. I’d bring her coffee before my classes. Sometimes she’d lean on the counter, smirking. “You’re getting predictable, kid.”

“I like routine,” I’d say. “Especially when it involves you.”

One night, she finally took the passenger seat of my motorcycle. “Don’t think this means anything,” she warned.

“Sure,” I grinned, handing her the helmet. “Hold on tight anyway.”

She did. And as the wind roared around us, her laughter—real and unguarded—echoed louder than my engine.

That’s when I knew. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t chasing thrill. I was chasing her.