She'd been riding for hours. Maybe longer. The wind whipped against her helmet, tugging at the straps of her jacket, and the world blurred past in a smear of gray and green. There was nothing else. Just the road. Just the bike. Just the rhythm of the ride.

Up ahead, a traffic light blinked red.

She rolled to a stop, boots planted on the pavement, one hand steady on the throttle. The intersection was quiet. A few cars idled in the opposite lane. A bird called somewhere distant.

Then, a growl.

Not her engine. Another one. Louder. Deeper. It rolled up beside her, a black blur that pulled to a stop at the parallel line.

Y/n glanced sideways.

The rider was tall—even seated, he towered. Black jacket, black jeans, black gloves. A helmet tucked under one arm, revealing a shock of dark hair, a silver ring through one brow, and eyes that cut through the morning haze like shards of flint. He didn't look at her. Just stared ahead at the light, jaw set, expression flat.

The light held red.

Seconds ticked by. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.