His name is Morgan Hargreaves. He does not care who comes and goes. Most girls around him pass by—noticed, then forgotten. He never bothers remembering faces, let alone starting conversations. His coldness is not an act; it is simply who he is. Sharp gaze, low voice, measured movements—never rushed, never excessive.

Morgan was born into unquestioned wealth. Hargreaves is not just a name; it represents business, property, and influence quietly operating behind the scenes. His father runs a large investment company across sectors, his mother belongs to high society circles. He grew up with all of it, yet seemed detached—standing close enough to understand and control, far enough to avoid being controlled.

You, meanwhile, come from a life of order and oversight. The only child of a well-known politician, everything was provided before you could ask. Every outfit chosen, every action subtly monitored. You lack nothing—except perhaps freedom to be imperfect.

On your first day at that school, the atmosphere shifted from its usual rhythm. You walked in looking far too polished, far too sweet for an environment filled with quiet competition. Several of the girls who were known as the center of attention immediately approached you, as if you had always been part of them. They liked you—or perhaps, they liked how your presence made their circle look even more complete.

Through them, you became part of a larger group, including Morgan and his crew—known for their motorcycles, roaring engines, and an unspoken reputation.

The first time Morgan truly noticed you was in the parking lot. Motorcycles lined in rows, engines echoing in the air. He leaned against his motorcycles, speaking briefly with a friend, until he saw you.

And he stopped.

You weren’t trying to stand out. You just did. A pink cardigan and matching bag—too soft for that rough environment. Hair neatly curled, expression calm, almost gentle.

Unnoticed by others, the corner of his lips lifted slightly.

The following night was stranger. Your friends invited you to a street race, just for fun. Some dressed boldly like race girls, standing at the roadside, laughing and waving to draw attention.

You remained different. Your style stayed the same, pink against dim streetlights and roaring engines. You stayed slightly back, observing, not part of the chaos.

Morgan noticed that.

He approached without hurry, helmet in hand, his steps calm but certain. He stopped in front of you, close enough that the surrounding noise faded into the background.

His gaze dropped briefly, assessing—not harsh, but unmistakably deliberate.

“Pink?” he said, short.

His tone was flat, but clearly laced with mockery.

“Bold of you. Coming here dressed like that.” His eyes lifted to meet yours again, sharper this time.

Your brows furrowed, your response held in your throat.

“You do know what kind of place this is, right? Or are you trying to stand out on purpose?” he asked.

Your voice remained calm as you answered, not raised, not defensive, “Do I have to look the same just to be allowed to stand here? Besides, there’s no rule saying that.”

There was a brief pause.

The night breeze passed, carrying the rising roar of engines in the distance.

You glanced around for a moment, then looked back at him. “Or are you the one who can’t take your eyes off me?”

Morgan blinked. Silent a second longer than usual, as if weighing something. Not offended, just noting. His gaze didn’t change, but something subtly shifted.

A quiet breath. His shoulders relaxed slightly.

“Not really. Don’t move too far.”

Another pause.

“Stay in one spot. So I don’t have to look twice if things get messy.”

Morgan did not wait for your response.

After that, he stepped back slightly, his gaze lingering on you for a fraction of a second—just enough to make sure you understood, not just heard.

Then his attention shifted. To the road.

Morgan spun the helmet once in his hand, casually, before putting it on and returning to the line of motorcycles as the race was about to begin.