traffic light | suna rintarou
synopsis; you flirt with a biker at a red light
-> featuring best friend iwa!
a/n: biker!suna yayayayaya
You and Iwaizumi are on your way back from a meal out with friends, cruising through the quiet streets as he drives you home. It’s that in between hour where it’s not quite day, not quite night, where the sky is the colour of cotton candy and the sun is barely peeking out between the clouds.
You’re halfway into a rant about one of your friend’s questionable love life when something—or someone, rather—stops you dead in your tracks.
Literally, because Iwa brakes at the red light.
“So then I told her, why don’t you just dump his ass if he’s so—holy crap he’s cool.”
You barely register Iwa’s inquisitive hum when the low growl of a motorbike creeps up beside the car.
He’s like the personification of an eclipse.
Black helmet. Black jacket. Black jeans. Slick black bike. You can’t even see this man’s face, but his demeanour alone is enough to do something to your pulse.
You bite your lip to contain the cheesy grin that’s about to break out onto your face and turn to Iwa. “He is so fine."
Iwa gives the stranger a quick side glance and huffs something close to a laugh. “You into bikers now?”
“Didn’t used to be. I’ve been getting a bunch of videos on my Instagram, though, and I’ve kinda been converted.”
Iwa shakes his head in either amusement, or bemusement—hard to tell. What’s clear is that he’s not fully grasping the appeal of this majestic individual, so you smack his arm like it might knock some sense into him.
“No, Haji, look. I’m serious.” You ball your hand into a fist and gnaw on your knuckles to contain a squeal. Your brain replays the time Maki and Mattsun called you a crazed lunatic and said Hajime was your carer—only to stomp the thought back down.
“What do I do?” you breathe.
“You can’t even see his face."
“Doesn’t matter,” you chide, ignoring Iwa's painfully typical male response. “It’s all about the body language. The aura, you know?"
You’re leaning forward now, peeking through the side mirror, heart kicking up as you admire the handsome stranger. Iwa’s right—you can hardly see the guy’s face through the helmet visor, but your imagination does all the work for you. Sharp jaw. High cheekbones. He’s got a lazy slouch that fits the brooding image you’ve painted of him perfectly. One hand rests on the throttle, the other tapping a rhythm on his thigh like he’s got nowhere better to be.
“Should I say something?” you whisper, rocking in your seat like a kid who just spotted a celebrity and is building up the courage to ask for an autograph.
“Want me to open the window?”
You stare frantically at Iwa as the window slides down with a mechanical whir, and the purr of the biker's engine fills the silence.
"How could you do this to me—"
Iwa just clears his throat, gaze fixed on the road ahead as if to say, from now on, I am no longer present. Good luck.
It's fine. You're overthinking. Maybe he didn't even hear. Maybe you can play this off. For all he knows, you just rolled down the window for some fresh air.
The biker turns his head.
Annnd you just made eye contact.
Well, you think you did. It's impossible to tell with his visor tinted so dark, but it definitely felt like eye contact. You realise you're still staring when the biker subtly jerks his chin at you in silent question.
You’ve barely got time to think. The light will turn green any minute and it dawns on you that you might miss your chance.
And so—because you’re well-versed in the art of biker Instagram reels and see these kinds of interactions all the time—you lean out the window just a little and put on your best smile.
“I like your bike,” you call, only to immediately regret it because surely you could’ve said something better than that.
The man tilts his helmet slightly, like he wasn’t expecting the compliment. His voice is muffled, low, and amused when he replies:
Oh. Does he think you’re a fellow biker?
You snort at the thought. “God, no. I don't think that'd be safe for anyone." You wave a dismissive hand before adding, "I'm just the co-pilot."
He rolls his shoulder back, spine straightening just enough to give you a better look.
Hm. He’s broader than you imagined. Taller, too.
Guess being hunched over was hiding all that potential.
“Mm. The hard job,” he says—and if your ears aren't deceiving you, you'd say he was teasing.
Perfect. You can't help but grin. Now's your chance.
"The hard job," you echo. "Are you hiring?"
Iwa lets out a sound caught between a laugh and a groan.
The guy laughs—just a little. Deep and dry and unfairly attractive. Success, you think. At least you made him laugh.
Then, without looking away, he flips his visor up.
Dark, tired eyes. Green like freshly picked apples. Strands of messy brown hair falling over his forehead. It feels like a tease—one that has you impatiently wondering what the rest of him looks like under all that gear.
“What’s your name, passenger princess?”
You can hardly believe your ears. As if he's actually going along with this.
“Suna,” he says. “You free Friday?”
“You don’t even know what I like,” you goad, emboldened now that you've confirmed his interest.
He revs the engine once in response—slow and suggestive. “I know one thing.”
Then he shifts forward slightly, one hand reaching into his jacket pocket. When it re-emerges, he’s holding a phone—already unlocked, already open on the “new contact” screen.
He doesn’t say anything, just gives a little tilt of his head as he extends it toward you through the window.
You take it and blink down at the screen.
Suddenly, you no longer remember your own name.
Your mind scrambles, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard as your brain reboots. When it finally does, your thumbs fly across the keyboard. You add your name, number, and a cute little emoji for good measure (a bike and princess emoji), then you hand it back, biting back a grin like a kid in a candy store.
He glances at the screen. His shoulders bounce, just once, like he laughed under his breath. Then he slides the phone back into his jacket.
The light turns green just in time.
“See you Friday, (y/n),” he says. And somehow, you have a feeling he’s smirking.
He lifts two fingers off the handle in a lazy little salute, then peels off into the night.
You spin in your seat so fast the seatbelt locks in place. “Haji, did you see that?! I got a date in like under two minutes!”
He’s already turning the corner, half smiling at your success. “Sure did. Guess that means I’m dropping you off on Friday?”
You giggle into your palms.
Best. Red light interaction Ever.
thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️
