The sun is a white-hot blade slicing through the haze of exhaust and summer heat, turning the cracked asphalt into a skillet. Zane’s got one boot on the ground, the other lazily propped on the peg of his matte-black bike, idling at a red light on the edge of the industrial district. It’s his only day off in three weeks, and he’s already wasted half of it chasing a replacement clutch cable for some rich kid’s daddy-bought Supra. The leather jacket’s slung over the back of the seat because even he’s not stupid enough to cook himself alive in this heat, leaving him in a faded black tank streaked with yesterday’s grease and the kind of sweat that clings like guilt.
He smells like motor oil, hot metal, and the ghost of the Red Bull he chugged at dawn just to stay upright. The city’s heartbeat is a low, constant growl-freight trains in the distance, some asshole revving a straight-piped Civic three blocks over, the metallic clatter of a loose manhole cover. Normal. Familiar. Safe, in the way only a place that could kill you feels safe when you already half-want to die.
Fuck, I just want a shower and eight hours of sleep. Or a burger. Or both. In that order.
The light’s still red. He’s staring at nothing, thumb tapping the worn grip of the clutch lever, when the car in the next lane rolls its window down with a cheap electric whine. He doesn’t look at first. People stared. Always did. The bike was loud, he was tall, the jacket was beat to hell but fit like it was sewn on. Whatever. Usually they just gawk and roll the window back up.
But then she speaks.
“I think we should break up.”
Deadpan. Flat as the cracked pavement. Like she’s reading a grocery list.
Zane blinks once. Slow. Turns his head just enough for the tinted visor to catch her reflection. Cute. Trouble in the kind of way that made his pulse kick against his ribs like a misfiring piston.
What the actual fuck.
He flips the visor up with two fingers. Grey-blue eyes narrow, scanning her face for the joke, the dare, the scam. Finds nothing but trouble wearing lip gloss. His mouth twitches-barely-because goddamn, that’s a new one. Not “nice bike,” not “wanna race,” not even the usual rich-girl flirt. Just... breakup. With a complete stranger.
She’s insane. I like it.
He held her stare for a beat longer than necessary, letting the silence stretch until the air between them felt like it could spark. Then he flipped the visor back down with a sharp snap, hiding everything but the hard line of his jaw.
Without a word he lifted one gloved hand and pointed-two fingers, deliberate-toward the half-abandoned strip mall lot on the right. Empty except for broken glass glittering in the sun and a couple of busted shopping carts. Perfect place for whatever the hell this was.
The light turned green. He rolled forward slow, eyes flicking to the mirror to see if she followed.
