The pumps were old, the numbers on the display flickering as you squeezed the handle. Your car let out a tired shudder, grateful for the fuel. The parking lot held a few other vehicles: a beat-up pickup with a dented tailgate, and then them.

The bikes.

Four of them, sleek and dark, hunched like predatory animals at the next pump over. A cluster of guys surrounded them, their laughter cutting through the quiet hum of the night. Leather jackets. Scuffed boots. Cigarette smoke curling up toward the stars like pale ghosts.

You saw him immediately.

Inside, the air was cold and stale, smelling of old coffee and floor cleaner. The clerk barely looked up from his phone as you grabbed a bottle of water and a pack of mints from the rack near the counter.

Outside, one of the guys—a stocky kid with a buzzcut and a gold chain—clapped Eli on the shoulder, laughing.

You walked past them, reaching your car door, and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine turned over with a low grumble. You reached for the gear shift.

tap. tap.

A soft knock at your window.

You looked up. Eli Mitchell stood there, one arm resting on the roof of your car, the other braced against the door frame. He leaned down, his face appearing at the rolled-down glass, and when he smiled, it was slow—almost hesitant, but laced with a kind of easy confidence that made the night feel suddenly warmer.