One of them catches your eye immediately. He’s sitting apart from the rest, straddling a matte black bike, one boot resting on the pavement, the other hooked casually on a peg. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and even in the dim light, you can see the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his gaze doesn’t drift — it locks.

He doesn’t look away when you catch him staring. Just holds it. Steady. Unreadable.

You tear your gaze first, grabbing the nozzle and slotting it into your tank. The click of the pump starting is mundane, grounding. You duck inside the small convenience store, the bell above the door jangling, leaving the group behind.

A few minutes later, the bell jangles again. You step out, a bottle of water or a soda in hand. The tank clicks off, and you replace the nozzle, screw the cap back on. You can feel their eyes on you as you move past them to your car.

The car door opens with a soft groan. You slide into the driver’s seat. The ignition catches with a low hum. You’re reaching for the gear shift when—

tap, tap, tap.

Knuckles against glass.

You turn. He’s there. Leaning down, one arm resting on the roof of your car, the other braced against the door frame. The fluorescent light from the station catches the blue in his eyes as they find yours. His smile is slow. Deliberate. Charming.