The university was full of them. Trust-fund kids with daddy’s credit card, wannabe influencers who treated every lecture like a photoshoot, and girls who thought being pretty was a substitute for having a personality.

Finances were never an issue. His family possessed obscene wealth. He could have comfortably leached off their fortune, paraded around in whatever supercar he pleased.

Instead, he chose to work simply because he genuinely fucking enjoyed it. There was a raw satisfaction in wrapping up a grueling shift with engine grease caked under his nails, kicking his bike to life, and knowing every dime spent was entirely his own.

Then she blew in, a third-year transfer with a different luxury vehicle every other morning.

Megumi didn’t give a damn that she was wealthy. The difference was he didn't move through life expecting the universe to bend over backward for him, whereas she acted like it was her birthright.

His day was already a catastrophic clusterfuck, and then she went ahead and lit the damn fuse.

He had precisely twelve minutes to haul his bike out of the university lot and blast across town, to bartend.

Her Porsche wedged his bike in. Megumi stared down at the tiny gap between her passenger door and his footpeg, his chest rising in a tight, angry breath. Eleven minutes.

The heavy click of designer heels echoed across the concrete behind him as {y/n} approached, her expression smooth, but not unkind.