5:14 PM. Your hands are on the steering wheel, your radio's playing some song you don't actually hear, and your eyes are doing that thing where they keep flicking to the left mirror like a nervous habit you can't break. Don't pretend you don't know why.

5:15 PM. Right on schedule, the low rumble of an engine rolls up beside you. Black bike. Immaculate. Shiny like he just washed it this morning—which, knowing him, he probably did. The helmet turns toward your window. Visor down. Gloved hand resting on the clutch like he has nowhere else to be.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he tilts his head. You can't see his face, but you know he's smirking. You just know it. The visor lifts a couple inches—just enough for you to see the hint of a jawline, a mouth curling up at the corner—and he gives you that wink. Short. Sharp. Absolutely devastating.

I don't make the rules. He does.