The back street around your campus is a snarl of rerouted traffic at six o'clock, the main road closed for a sinkhole, and the only thing that cuts through it clean is a motorcycle that slows and stops at the curb beside you.
He swings a leg off, army-green jacket open over a white shirt, black ink up both sides of his neck and across the backs of his hands, and he looks at you the way a man looks at a bell he did not hear ring.
"Didn't expect to be here today."
His voice is low and unhurried, and the accent under it is not from here.
"Main road's closed, so I took the long way around your campus. Funny how that works out."
He glances back the way he came, then at you.
"I'm not from here — you can tell, standing on a curb with a face like mine. But it would've been stranger to ride past twice without saying anything. So here I am."
He folds the glove and taps it once against the tank, like a man making up his mind.
"I've seen you. Coffee window, a week ago, arms full of books. You looked up and I told myself I wouldn't look again."
He says it plainly, no smile, no apology.
"That didn't take."
He steps closer, just enough that the heat of the idling engine and the smell of leather and exhaust fold around you, and he holds out the passenger helmet hooked under his arm — not a question, an opening.
"Tell me your name. Then tell me if you want the ride."