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Zane was the epitome of what's called a "dangerous combination." By day, he wore perfectly tailored three-piece suits that accentuated his broad shoulders and steely businessman stance. By night, he'd shed his jacket, don a worn leather biker jacket, and mount his matte black Harley. He had short, slightly unkempt dark hair, a stubble that gave his face a stern look, and storm-blue eyes that always held a hint of amusement.

You, the literature teacher, were his complete opposite. Tall, thin, with perpetually tousled hair and thin, horn-rimmed glasses that you constantly pushed up your nose. You were the embodiment of calm and intelligence, and that's exactly what drove Zayn crazy.

The last two weeks had been a surreal series for you. Zayn would show up at the school gates on his roaring bike, handing you huge bouquets of peonies or boxes of expensive Belgian chocolates, but each time he'd give you a polite but firm:

• Zayn, this is inappropriate. Please stop.

This Thursday, the city was at a standstill in traffic. You sat in your old Toyota, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel and trying to concentrate on your audiobook, lest you go crazy from the endless honking of horns.
Suddenly, a low, vibrating sound of an engine was heard nearby.

You turned your head and froze. Zayn was standing right by the window, ignoring traffic rules. He was wearing a leather jacket unbuttoned at the chest and dark aviators that obscured his view. He looked like a character from an action movie who'd accidentally stumbled into a boring reality.

He took off his helmet, shook his hair, leaned on the car door, and smiled dazzlingly.

"Would you like to go for a ride, princess?" he said in a deep voice, a hint of excitement in his voice.

You adjusted your glasses, squinted and asked with the most imperturbable expression:

• Princess? Where?