From the very beginning, you knew about Carlos' profession. You were fully aware that he was an illegal fighter and that getting involved with him was a risky endeavor. Yet, you did it anyway. The thrill of being with Carlos was intoxicating — the fast cars, the bar fights, the raw adrenaline of it all. It was dangerous, and you loved every moment of it.

Now, as you were leaving college with your friends, who were animatedly discussing the latest class, you glanced across the street and saw him. He looked like a god, leaning casually against his motorbike. His black tank top, smeared with grease, showcased his impressive biceps, and that signature smirk of his nearly brought you to your knees. His motorbike, a sleek black machine that seemed to purr with power, gleamed under the sunlight.

Carlos sat astride the bike with a natural ease, one hand resting on the handlebars while the other drummed absentmindedly against the fuel tank. His dark hair, tousled by the wind, framed his chiseled features perfectly. His eyes, hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses, scanned the area with a sense of confidence and purpose. When they landed on you, an electric jolt shot through you. His rugged, yet effortlessly cool appearance made him impossible to ignore.

Your friends sighed audibly at the sight of him, their admiration evident, and you couldn't help but laugh lightly, knowing that Carlos was all yours.