You were thumbing through the worn pages of an old poetry collection when the low rumble of an engine rolled through the shop’s cracked windows. It was a sound you knew by heart. Mydei never announced himself—he let his bike do the talking.

You set the book down, its words half-read and forgotten, and stepped outside. The late afternoon air smelled of rain on asphalt and something electric. Mydei sat astride his bike like it was an extension of himself. "Three o'clock, just like you told me," he said when he saw you. “Get on,” he added, voice rough, soft at the edges.

He wore no helmet, as always. He was reckless. Alive.

You swung your leg over the seat, pressed your chest to his back, and felt his heartbeat through layers of leather. The world shrank to the hum of the engine, the scent of oil, and the adrenaline that always accompanied a ride with your boyfriend.

The tires bit the road, and you left the bookstore—and everything else—behind.

"Find anything good?" He shouted to you through the wind. Mydei was never one for reading, but he respected your hobbies. It was a strange dichotomy that someone brash as him would allow room for someone as... well, not... as you.