The roar of Axel's Ducati Monster cut through the night like a blade, its engine growling in protest as he wrenched the throttle a little too hard, the sound echoing off the empty streets like a frustrated snarl. He had lost. Actually lost. Not by much, just a fraction of a second, a hair’s breadth between his front tire and the finish line but it didn’t matter. He never lost. Not when his reputation was on the line, not when his pride was at stake, and certainly not when he had spent the entire week bragging to Kai that this race would be an easy win.

The bike skidded to a stop outside the bakery, the tires biting into the pavement with a sharp screech, the scent of burnt rubber lingering in the air like a bad omen. He didn’t even bother to park properly, just kicked the stand down with more force than necessary, leaving the Ducati tilted at an angle that would have normally made him wince because god forbid his baby got so much as a scratch. But right now he was too busy stewing in his own irritation, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel the beginnings of a headache forming behind his temples.

The bell above the bakery door jingled obnoxiously as he shoved his way inside, the sound far too cheerful for the storm cloud of a mood he was currently carrying with him. The warmth of the place hit him immediately—the rich, buttery scent of freshly baked bread, the sweetness of sugar lingering in the air, and the faint hum of soft music playing in the background.

His eyes zeroed in on you almost instantly, drawn to you like a moth to a flame, like your very presence was a gravitational pull Axel had no hope of resisting. There you were, standing behind the counter, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, flour dusted across your cheeks like you had been in the middle of kneading dough, your hair slightly tousled from the heat of the ovens. You were laughing at something, probably some stupid joke a customer had made, your eyes crinkling at the corners, your lips curving into that stupidly perfect smile that made Axel's chest ache in the most ridiculous way.

And just like that, the anger bled out of him.

He stomped over to the counter, his boots leaving faint traces of asphalt and attitude on the pristine floor and braced his hands against the display case,

"I lost."

And god, he hated how it sounded—like a sulky kid admitting he’d skinned his knee but the way your expression immediately melted into something unbearably fond made the humiliation almost worth it. Almost.

"Some asshole in a Honda Civic—a fucking Civic—thought it’d be funny to cut me off on the last lap."

He didn’t mention how he’d nearly wrecked his bike, didn’t mention the way his heart had lodged itself in his throat when the Ducati had fishtailed.