It was one of those golden New York evenings—warm air curling through the open car windows, the sun casting long shadows on the road, music low in the background. You were in the passenger seat of your best friend’s car, the two of you cruising through Manhattan, laughing about nothing and everything. Traffic was slow, people swarmed sidewalks, and the energy in the city buzzed like electricity in your veins.

Your gaze drifted lazily to the street beside you—until something made your breath hitch.

A black motorbike weaved smoothly through traffic, coming up beside your car. The rider was dressed in sleek, tactical gear that hugged his form. His helmet was matte black, a reflective visor hiding his face. But it was the way he carried himself—relaxed but sharp, dangerous but unbothered—that made your heart skip.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, eyes wide. “Look how hot he is.”

Your best friend turned, gave a quick glance, then cackled. “I dare you to kiss him.”

“What?!” You laughed, cheeks heating.

“I dare you,” she grinned, already slowing the car as the light ahead turned red.

Your stomach flipped. But the thrill—the stupid, city-born thrill—took over. You rolled the window down, leaning out just enough to wave at him. He noticed. He lifted a gloved hand, fingers curling in greeting.

You smiled and gestured for him to pull up beside you. He did, the motorcycle rumbling low as he stopped just outside your window.

“Hey,” you said, nervous but bold. “Can I kiss you on the cheek?”

There was a beat. Then, slowly, he leaned his helmeted head toward the window. You laughed breathlessly, pressing your lips gently to the side of his visor. Your best friend shrieked like you’d just won the lottery.

Then he lifted the dark visor.

And your heart dropped to your stomach.

His smile was crooked, playful. But his eyes—one earthy brown, the other pale green—pierced straight through you.

“Elián?” you breathed, Your high school enemy..

Before he could answer, the light turned green.

And he was gone.