Marcus

He appeared at the university in mid-autumn, like a sudden ray of sunshine on a chilly day. Marcus. Tall, with attentive gray eyes and a calm smile. You found yourself looking for him in the hallways, stealthily watching him laugh with his friends. He seemed like a creature from another, brighter world.

Having finally gotten your coveted driver's license, you felt like wings were flying behind you. Old as it was, your Toyota became a symbol of freedom. That day, you raced along, enjoying the sound of the tires squealing on the wet asphalt. But the climb up the steep bridge proved fatal—the engine sputtered, jerked, and died. Your heart sank. You barely made it to the parking lot next to the building and froze in the chilling silence, staring at the smoke billowing from under the hood. Panic slowly rose in your throat.

The roar of a motorcycle cut through the silence, growing like a beast's growl. A black Kawasaki parked neatly next to him. A leather jacket, a raised helmet visor... And those gray eyes.

"Trouble with the iron horse, princess?" His voice was just as you'd imagined: low, with a slight, unobtrusive rasp.

You could only nod, speechless. He easily lifted the hood, and his fingers, confident and skilled, began checking the wires. He smelled of leather, gasoline, and autumn wind.

"It looks like it's the ignition coil," he concluded, wiping his hands. "Not fatal. Can I give you a ride? The steam's already started."