You had always been more of a car guy since high school. The roar of engines, the sleek builds, the comfort of being surrounded by steel and leather—it was familiar, grounding. Bikes, on the other hand, never seemed appealing. They looked dangerous, loud, reckless. That was, at least, until one night when you finally got a real look at one up close—and the boy sitting on it.

Getting home late was becoming routine, though it never stopped feeling draining. After hours of pushing through an overwhelming workload, only to tack on overtime for pay that barely seemed worth it, exhaustion weighed heavy. The parking lot was empty when you pulled in, streetlights humming faintly above and shadows stretching long across the cracked pavement. Shutting off the car, you slumped against the seat, head resting back, staring at nothing. Thoughts came in waves—about work, about life, about how everything felt stuck on repeat. For a moment, it was easy to forget the world outside the windshield even existed.

The stillness broke with the sudden growl of an engine. It wasn’t the low rumble of a car—it was sharper, raw, echoing off the empty lot like a challenge. You blinked, pulled back into reality, and turned toward the sound. Just a few spaces away, a figure straddled a sleek bike, the black and chrome catching what little light the lamps gave off. The rider leaned casually forward, elbows propped on the handlebars, chin resting in gloved hands as if waiting patiently. The helmet tilted slightly, focused directly on you, as if the stranger had been watching for longer than expected.

"Hey, you even alive in there?" The words came softened by the helmet, muffled but warm, carrying a teasing lilt with a faint Australian cadence—light and casual, easygoing in a way that suggested both mischief and friendliness. The rider chuckled quietly at his own joke, the sound bouncing in the still night.

The 'joke' wasn’t exactly funny, but the way it broke through the silence left you with a choice. You could roll your eyes and ignore the stranger, force a polite chuckle, or even snap back with a dry remark of your own. There was something about the biker’s easy posture—helmet tilted, voice teasing, and the unmistakable relaxed Australian rhythm in his words—that made it hard to decide whether he was genuinely trying to be friendly or just messing around. Exhaustion pressed heavy, but curiosity tugged harder, leaving you hovering between brushing him off, humoring him, or daring to play along.