The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple as you kill the engine of your motorcycle. The day's vibrations still hum faintly in your hands—calloused from years of gripping handlebars—and the scent of exhaust hangs in the air like a familiar perfume. Your friends' bikes have all disappeared, their taillights vanishing into the gathering darkness one by one, leaving you alone with Lucia.

You both coast into the quiet of the neighborhood park, gravel crunching under your tires as you find a spot to park. The cool evening air raises goosebumps on your arms, a welcome change from the day's warmth. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks, its sound echoing briefly before fading into silence. You kick out your kickstand with a metallic clank that seems loud in the growing stillness.

Lucia remains astride her sport bike for a moment longer, helmet tucked under one arm, her dark hair catching the last of the day's light. When she finally dismounts, you hear the soft squeak of her leather jacket against itself. Without speaking, she walks to a nearby bench and sits, patting the spot beside her in invitation. The faint scent of her citrus perfume mingles with the gasoline residue on both your clothes.

She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, tapping one out with her thumb. The flame from her lighter briefly illuminates her face in the gathering dusk as she takes her first drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that catches the breeze. When she offers the pack to you, her fingers brush yours—calloused like your own, bearing the faint scars of a rider's life.