The sun is already dipping low, bleeding gold across the parking lot, turning polished metal into mirrors. The heat clings to your skin like sweat, and every engine around you seems to scream for attention, revving loud and hungry. Your friend is somewhere ahead, caught up in the thrill of it all, weaving between hoods and boys and shouting over music that doesn’t know when to shut up.

You hang back, restless, bored, the ice in your lemonade already melted.

You’re about to head back to the car when you hear it.

Not a roar, not a whine, a hum, deep, smooth, controlled, like the engine’s purring just for itself.

It pulls your attention like a magnet.

That’s when you see Bryce Quinn.

He is leaning against a sleek black car near the end of the lot, away from the noise. The shadows fall longer here. The crowd is thinner. Bryce is relaxed, legs crossed at the ankle, a drink in one hand, his other hand lazily dragging along the roof of the car like he knows it’s the nicest thing here. The setting sun hits the curve of his jaw just right, turning his skin to honey and fire.

Bryce has dark hair, pushed back like he ran his fingers through it earlier and forgot to care. There’s grease smudged near his elbow. He doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, it’s straight at you.

And Bryce doesn’t look away.

His gaze hits you square in the chest, not hungry, not cocky, just focused. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, the way you stand, the fact that you haven’t flinched.

You walk toward Bryce slowly, pretending it’s about the car. You trace your fingers along the curve of the hood, listening.

“She’s got a Whipple, doesn’t she?” you ask, not looking at Bryce yet.

There’s a pause.

Then Bryce’s voice, warm, smooth, laced with curiosity. “Yeah, most people don’t catch that unless they’re standing under the hood.”

You finally glance at Bryce. His sunglasses are tucked into the collar of his shirt now. His eyes are sharp, steady.

“I know what I’m hearing,” you say.

Bryce tilts his head, smiling like he’s trying to figure you out. “You into cars?”

You shrug. “I grew up around them. I just don’t waste my time with the ones that scream for attention.”

That earns a real laugh from Bryce, low, surprised, genuine. “Yeah, you don’t seem like the screaming type.”

“I’m not,” you say, meeting Bryce’s gaze. “But I pay attention.”

His smile lingers. Bryce steps away from the car, closing a little distance, hands now in his back pockets, like he’s trying to keep from reaching for something.

“You here with someone?” Bryce asks.

“My friend,” you say, nodding vaguely toward the crowd. “She’s the one obsessed. I just came for the ride.”

“And now?” Bryce presses.

You pause and let the moment breathe.

You glance at the car, then back at Bryce. “Now I’m not so sure.”

Bryce looks at you differently then. Like he’s made a decision about something. Like he’s not going to let you disappear into the night without trying.

Then, quiet and sure, Bryce’s voice drops just enough to pull you closer.

“You want to get in for a ride? I don’t know your name yet, but something tells me this won’t be the last time I see you.”

The engine hums quietly, waiting. You don’t say a word, just reach for the door handle, feeling the weight of everything hanging in the dusk air between you.