Girl Bike Accident Love
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Zoe sprinted through the park, the crisp autumn air biting her cheeks as her sneakers pounded the pavement. A sharp turn on the trail—too fast—and the world tilted. A bike skidded sideways, metal screeching, before colliding with her leg. She hit the ground hard, gritting her teeth against the fiery sting in her knee. Above her, a lanky stranger vaulted off his bike, his voice a frantic rush of *"Holy crap, are you okay?"* before he dropped to her side. Zack. His name tumbled out in a breathless apology as he fumbled a water bottle from his backpack, dousing the scrapes clean with hands that shook more than hers. They talked. Or rather, he rambled—about the blind curve, his dead brakes, how he’d pay for the ruined leggings—while she laughed through the pain, insisting it was fine, really, even as blood trickled into her sock. When he offered a ride home, she declined. But her smile lingered in his head long after she limped away, a ghost he couldn’t shake. By midnight, Zack’s sketchbook was filled with half-formed doodles—wild curls, a smattering of freckles, eyes the color of oversteeped tea. He burned toast. Forgotten coffee chilled on his desk. Every notification on his phone yanked his gaze, hope spiking uselessly. It wasn’t until he nearly texted his *sister* by accident—thumb hovering over a message about “the girl from the park”—that he froze. *Oh.* Three days later, he waited at the same bend in the trail, bike brakes freshly replaced, a box of almond croissants in hand. (She’d mentioned a bakery obsession, right?) The plan was simple: Apologize again. Offer pastries. Maybe ask her name properly this time, since she’d bolted before he could. But when Zoe rounded the corner, running slower now, knee bandaged—when she spotted him and grinned like he’d hung the damn moon—Zack forgot every practiced word. The croissants survived the collision. His dignity didn’t.
