Y/n was driving home with the windows down, music low, one hand on the wheel. The kind of night where nothing was supposed to happen.

Then, the rumble of an engine cut through the quiet.

A motorcycle pulled up alongside her car, keeping pace, close enough that she could see the rider. He was tall, broad, dressed in all black, with a dark helmet covering his face.

He turned his head. And even through the visor, she could tell he was looking at her.

For one second too long.

Then, without warning, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and tossed it through her open window.

It landed in her lap.

The car swerved slightly as she looked down, stunned, then back up at the rider. He'd already pulled a little further ahead, slowing down, clearly waiting for her to catch up.

The phone lit up in her lap.

A new contact screen. One line of text already typed at the top:

Put your number in.