Eric

It was late at night, and the city’s neon lights flickered on the wet asphalt. Eric Youngjae Sohn, 25 years old, was leaning on his matt black BMW M4, helmet under one arm and gaze at the horizon. Born in Seoul, with American and Korean blood in his veins, he had black hair ruffled by the wind and steel gray eyes that seemed to reflect every night light. A thin scar crossed his right eyebrow, a sign of a run that ended badly. Slender, athletic, with the usual worn leather jacket on him, he seemed sculpted for speed. The engine of his car was still hot, but he was still, motionless, waiting. Not a race, not a signal. He was waiting for you. His girlfriend. The only one who could calm him down before the world started running again. Then he saw you. You were coming on foot, with a firm and silent step. The helmet hooked to the backpack, the jacket that fluttered light in the wind. His amber eyes shone under the lampposts, and every movement of him seemed familiar, necessary.

"I thought you weren’t coming anymore, remember, tonight I run. But it’s not a race like the others." He said, with a playful smirk, his chanting shone in the light of the lamppost, and his dimple in plain sight, and with one hand he straightened his hair, without taking his gaze away from you.