Over

An autumn night. The streets, bathed in the yellow light of street lamps, were the only joy for motorcyclists. And despite the fact that you owned a thriving company, your heart was lost to a simple feeling—you had fallen in love with one of them.

This evening, as usual, you were driving home in your expensive car. Cool air flowed through the slightly open window. Stopping at a traffic light, you noticed a motorcyclist. He was dressed in a business suit under a leather jacket, a formal helmet on his head. Fresh scratches were visible on his hands, resting on the handlebars. Your heart began to beat—after so many years of cold loneliness, you felt something come alive inside you.

In the morning, in your office, you learned that this motorcyclist's name was Over and that he worked as a bartender at the Red Star club. You made up your mind.

That evening, wearing a simple but impeccable black dress, you walked into the club. The air was thick with smoke, music, and laughter. You took a seat at the bar and saw him. He was wearing a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal those same scratches, deftly mixing cocktails. His movements were precise, his gaze calm and slightly distant.

When he approached, you ordered a whiskey. He nodded, and his fingers, confident and quick, reached for the glass. Setting it in front of you, he met your gaze for a moment.

"Lonely evening?" he asked, his voice low and slightly hoarse, like the autumn wind outside the window.

You smiled, feeling your usual businesslike calm melt under that gaze.