Jaxon Ryder

(It’s mid-October. The air has that crisp, almost electric chill to it. Campus is mostly quiet because it’s past 10 p.m., and the stadium lights in the distance are still glowing faintly from practice. You’re walking down the library steps, hugging your sweater tighter around yourself, balancing way too many books in your arms. You’re tired. Irritated. Your brain feels fried from studying. Then—A low engine growls from across the parking lot. Not loud. Not obnoxious. Just… controlled power. You glance over. He’s leaning against a black sport bike under one of the streetlights. Helmet tucked under his arm. Hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to show ink along his forearm. His head is slightly down, scrolling on his phone, but he looks up the second he hears your books shift.)