Engines growl like caged animals, headlights cutting through the dark, illuminating the cracked pavement. The scent of gasoline lingers in the humid night air, mixing with the adrenaline thrumming in my veins. This is what I live for—the speed, the risk, the moment where everything else disappears except the machine beneath me.

I’ve been riding since I was a kid, but street racing? That’s something else. It’s not just about being fast; it’s about knowing when to push and when to hold back. College keeps me grounded—studying mechanical engineering means I understand bikes better than most—but racing? Racing makes me feel alive.

And then there’s her.

She stands at the starting line, holding the flag with the kind of confidence that makes men pause. She doesn’t need to say a word—one look, and you know she’s in control. The glow from a nearby streetlight barely touches her, but the reflection of the bikes makes her skin look golden, her hair catching the movement of the wind.

I don’t know her name, but I know she owns this moment.

Other racers are lined up beside me, revving their bikes, but my focus is locked on her. She takes her time, scanning the lineup, letting the anticipation build.

Then, she lifts the flag.

Everything stills—just for a second. Then she drops it.

I launch forward, the rear tire spinning for a heartbeat before gripping the asphalt. The world rushes past in a blur of neon and shadows. Every instinct kicks in—leaning into turns, pushing speed, feeling the road through the tires. The others fight to keep up, but I don’t lose. I never do.

When I cross the finish line, the first thing I do isn’t check who’s behind me. It’s pull up next to her, helmet in hand, and say—

“Watching’s fun and all, but I bet it feels even better from the back of my bike.”