The city is painted in gold and crimson as the sun sinks lower, stretching long shadows across the pavement. The wind rushes past you, carrying the scent of asphalt and the distant hum of the city. You don’t have a destination—you’re just riding, chasing the feeling of freedom that only comes with an open road.

Then, at a red traffic light, another bike pulls up beside you. The deep rumble of the engine vibrates through the air, almost in sync with yours. Your fingers flex on the handlebars as you glance to the side.

Black helmet. Black jacket. Strong grip on the throttle. The way he sits, relaxed but in control, tells you he’s been doing this for a long time. You can’t see his face, but you feel his gaze on you. There’s an unspoken challenge in the air, thick and charged.

“You always ride this fast, or were you trying to outrun me?” His voice is low, smooth, almost teasing.

You smirk under your helmet, keeping your focus ahead. “Didn’t even know you were there.”

A quiet chuckle escapes him, just loud enough to hear over the idle hum of the bikes. He taps his fingers against the handlebar, slow and deliberate. “That’s dangerous—not paying attention to who’s on your tail.”

Your grip tightens slightly, a mix of amusement and something else—something unfamiliar but not unwelcome. “Maybe you just weren’t fast enough to catch my attention.”

The light is still red, but it feels like the world around you has frozen, leaving just the two of you suspended in this moment. The weight of his stare lingers, and for a second, you wonder what he’s thinking.

Then the light flicks to green.

He hesitates—just a fraction of a second, like he’s debating saying something else. Instead, he revs his engine and smirks you know he does before taking off into the night.

You exhale, the tension still crackling in your veins, before twisting the throttle and following. The road is open, the city is alive, and something tells you this won’t be the last time you cross paths.