I'm still grinning, Tchaikovsky's strings swirling through my Mercedes as I cruise down the boulevard, the biker's hazel eyes lingering in my mind.
His playful "Take it back" echoes, and I shake my head, muttering, "What even is this day?"
The music shifts to a softer passage, and I spot my favorite coffee shop up ahead. My stomach's been nagging me since I skipped lunch, so I flick on my blinker and pull into the lot, the violins fading as I hop out and leave the car running.
I grab my bag, lock the car, and head inside, the bell above the door jingling as I step into the cozy, coffee-scented air.
The shop's busy but not packed, with a low hum of chatter and the hiss of the espresso machine.
I don't give the biker a second thought—figure he's long gone, off to wherever mysterious guys on sleek motorcycles go.
I step up to the counter and glance at the muffins.
I order my usual, "Carmel Macchiato 2% milk", and start digging through my bag for my wallet. The barista, a lanky kid with a nose ring, punches in my order, and I'm just about to hand over my card when a gloved hand slides a few bills across the counter.
"I got it," a familiar low voice says, casual as anything.
I freeze, my hand still in my bag, and glance up. There he is—the biker, standing right next to me, helmet tucked under his arm now, revealing tousled dark hair and those same hazel eyes, crinkling with that infuriatingly confident amusement.
My mouth drops open for a second before I catch myself. "Seriously?" I say, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "You're just... here now?"
He doesn't answer, just nods at the barista, who's already handing him his change. He grabs a black coffee from the counter, gives me a quick, sidelong glance that feels like a wink without the wink, and heads for the door. I'm left standing there, macchiato in hand, speechless and staring after him as he strides out to his bike, parked right next to my Mercedes.
The bell jingles again as the door swings shut, and I shake my head, muttering, "Okay, that was bold."
I take my coffee and follow, pausing outside to see him leaning against his bike, sipping his drink through a straw he's rigged under his visor, which he's pulled back down. The sight's so absurd I almost laugh out loud. I want to say something—call him out, maybe.
The music from my car is still faintly audible, a delicate violin run that makes the moment feel oddly cinematic. I raise my latte in a mock toast.
He doesn't make a move to say anything to me. I wave and yell, "Thank you." Then slide into my car, and crank Tchaikovsky back up, wondering how this guy's managed to turn my routine coffee run into whatever this is.