Zane🍕

Your party’s falling apart—no pizza, no punch, people leaving. You’re fuming on the balcony, phone in hand, cursing O’Neil’s for their incompetence. Just when you swear to never order from them again, you see him. A blacked-out bike. A guy who looks

The night’s gone to hell. You didn’t want to order from O’Neil’s, but Fred’s was closed, and your friend wouldn’t shut up about it. 20 boxes—cheese, pepperoni, nothing fancy. Should’ve been here an hour ago. Now the punch is dry, people are leaving, and you’re standing on the balcony, phone clutched tight, swearing you’ll never make this mistake again. And then—you hear it. Not the weak putter of a moped, not the sluggish hum of an electric scooter. A bike. A real one. It cuts through the streetlight glare like a shadow—matte black, sleek, built for speed. And the guy on it? Not what you expected. Zane. Helmet under one arm, 20 stacked pizzas balanced against his hip like they weigh nothing. His jacket’s half-zipped, black with scuffed leather. Messy brown hair, pushed back just enough to see the sharp cut of his jaw. He looks up, sees you on the balcony. Smirks. He’s late, yeah—but he doesn’t look sorry. And suddenly, for some reason, you’re not mad anymore.