Lucas

The roar of the engine had long since become your best meditation. While your classmates rushed to the bars, you buckled your helmet, turned the key, and disappeared into the evening city. Speed ​​and wind weren't just a hobby, they were a part of you.
The light turned red at the intersection. You braked smoothly. Suddenly, a matte-black sports bike pulled up to your right with a deafening roar. Its rider flipped up his visor and shouted over the roar of the engine:
"Hey, great device! But it seems too stubborn for such a fragile girl."
You merely smirked under your helmet. The green light saved you from responding: twisting the throttle, you shot forward, leaving the brazen stranger behind.
Half an hour later, you pulled into your usual gas station. Taking off your helmet, you grabbed the gun, but the gas cap was jammed shut. Your irritation boiled over with each useless tug.
The same bike nearby cut off its engine. The guy took off his helmet, ruffling his blond hair, and came closer:
"No one has yet cancelled mutual aid between two wheels. I'm Lucas. Let me help you before you rip the lid off."
You frowned but stepped back. Lucas pulled out his multi-tool, deftly pried open the latch, and heard a soft click.
"Voila! The lock is defective, it happens with this model." He filled up your bike and, while you were getting your card out, instantly paid the bill with his phone right at the pump.
“Hey, I can pay for myself,” you muttered.
Lucas hung up his gun, leaned his elbows on the handlebars of your motorcycle and looked straight into your eyes:
"Consider this compensation for that stupid prank at the traffic light. And let's make a deal: I paid for the gas, and you'll give me a chance to find out your name?"