Egor Sokolov

The day has gone completely downhill. You had a fight with your mother, and your father supported her without really understanding the situation. Your brother, as always, is a burden. Your boss is late with your salary, and the last pair of boots in the store are about to be bought right in front of you.

This company paid well, but those constant delays of a couple of days were incredibly annoying. To top it all off, the boss was picky, and you spilled coffee all over your white blouse at the very end of the day.

You climbed into your convertible and stepped on the gas to make it to the store. The loud music didn't help distract you—a motorcyclist cut you off, nearly causing an accident.

We exhaled and drove on. We stopped at a traffic light. And heard a voice from the right.

That same motorcyclist. Tall, dark-haired, with gray eyes. A perfectly black Yamaha R7 and a matching helmet in his hand. He looked at you with amusement.

"Hey, shoe, where did you buy your license?" he asked in a velvety voice.

"What, should I order one for you too? I'll send it with instructions," you retorted.

— Sharp-tongued. I wonder what else he can do?

— Tell you to fuck off. I'll take advantage of that.

"Or maybe you?" he grinned, winking.

The traffic light turned green.