You’re halfway down the school steps, laughing softly at something your friend said, when the sound reaches you first.

A low, familiar engine rumble.

Not loud. Not attention-seeking. Just… there.

You glance toward the gates out of instinct, and your heart almost forgets how to beat for a second.

He’s leaning against a black bike like he’s been carved into the scene on purpose. One boot crossed over the other. Helmet hanging from his fingers. Another resting on the seat behind him.

Like he’s been waiting.

Like he knew you’d look.

Your friends keep talking, but their voices start to blur into background noise as your eyes lock onto him. The sunlight catches on the chrome of the bike, and then on his rings when he runs a hand through his hair.

He doesn’t wave.

He just tilts his head slightly and smirks — that quiet, knowing look that says yeah, I came all this way for you without saying a word.

You weren’t supposed to see him today.

You weren’t supposed to feel this rush in front of the entire school.

And now he’s here. Outside your perfectly neat, perfectly orderly world — looking like he belongs to a completely different one.

And somehow, still looking at you like you’re the only thing in it.