You’re on your way home, the rain coming down in heavy sheets, blurring the city lights into streaks of gold and red. The windshield wipers struggle to keep up. You’re exhausted, ready to crawl into bed, when suddenly—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A sharp knock on your car window startles you. You turn, heart skipping.

A man is perched beside your driver’s side door, still astride his motorcycle. Rain drips from the sleek black helmet covering his face. The engine of his bike hums low beneath him, headlights casting a pale beam into the wet street.

You crack the window open an inch, the cold rain immediately sneaking in. He leans closer, muffled through the helmet. “Hey—your tire. It’s flat.”

Before you can say anything, he’s off the bike, already moving.

Moments later, you’re outside too, standing in the rain with an umbrella clutched tightly in your hands, holding it above him as he crouches next to your car, working.

The rain patters against the fabric of the umbrella. You watch water bead and run down the sides, your arm slowly growing tired. But your eyes keep drifting—down the strong line of his back, his shoulders shifting under a soaked, black compression shirt that clings to his frame like second skin. You can see the way his muscles tense and flex with each movement.

Then—suddenly—he stands. You take an unconscious step back.

He towers over you, helmet still on. For a beat, he says nothing. Then, with a soft mechanical click, he lifts the helmet off his head—and your breath catches.

He’s beautiful.

He holds the helmet out to you.. You don’t move. So he presses it gently to your stomach, a soft push to bring you back to earth.

You snap out of it, cheeks warming as you take it. “Oh—sorry.”

He finishes tightening the last lug nut, rising again with fluid, practiced ease.

“All done,” he says, A slow smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “My helmet?”, His english is broken, voice thick with an Italian accent.