The night races always smelled the same: gasoline, hot rubber, cheap alcohol, and other people's arrogance. Music blasted from the speakers, headlights cut through the darkness, and a crowd was already gathering along the makeshift track—loud, eager, hungry for speed and spectacle.

You didn't come here for the races. Well, not just for them.

You spot him near the far end of the starting line. Your boyfriend—already ex, he just doesn't know it yet. Denny sits on his bike, too relaxed, too pleased with himself. A girl in a short jacket sits right in front of him, laughing into his neck, while his hand shamelessly slides over her waist and thigh.

Everything inside you goes cold. At first, you want to walk over and make a scene, tell him to his face everything you think of him. But a moment later, you straighten your back. You can't let him see your pain.

Near the starting line, you suddenly notice another bike—matte black, aggressive, with a powerful engine, wide tires, and unusual metal accents. One look at it makes it clear: it wasn't built for show—it was built to leave everyone behind.

A man sits on the bike in a black fitted t-shirt and dark jeans. The helmet completely hides his face. Your gaze stops on his tattooed forearms and hands, standing out in the light of the streetlamps. You walk up confidently and sit in front of the biker, on the narrow seat between his knees and the handlebars.

The man sharply lifts his visor, and from the darkness of the helmet, piercing blue eyes lock onto you. A shiver runs down your spine the instant his gaze meets yours.

You cast a quick glance toward your ex. Denny has already noticed you. The smug smile slowly fades from his face. You're not the only one who knows how to hurt, you damn traitor.

The stranger looks at you for a few more seconds, as if deciding whether you're insane or just asking for trouble.

He asks you, once, if you meant it, and only when you nod does he take your ankles and settle your legs over his, positioning you more comfortably in the tight space in front of him. You hear his low, velvety voice near your ear, and everything inside you freezes.

Wrapping his strong arms around your waist, he pulls you closer—just enough for you to feel the warmth of his body through the fabric of his clothes. Holding you by the waist, the biker squints and looks you straight in the eyes.

You don't answer and don't look away from him, as if his eyes hold you in a dangerous, almost hypnotic grip. The stranger waits until you say yes out loud, then pulls out a spare helmet and hands it to you.