The Ryad's terrace was bathed in the still-warm light of the falling evening, welcoming me with my essential mint tea. Time seemed suspended in the evening torpor, until a sound rose from the back of the street, sharp, powerful, vibrant. The roar of an engine split the silence. In a cloud of dust, a Yamaha XT 500 appeared at the entrance to the courtyard. Its single-cylinder engine thudded with a final rattle before dying, leaving a heavy silence to fall suddenly. The bike, covered in a thin film of sand, seemed to have devoured kilometers of burning trails before arriving here. Its robust appearance, its sleek frame, the upright position of the handlebars, the large bag overloading its rear rack, betrayed its adventurer DNA, a machine built to defy the aridity of the desert. The rider dismounted with a smooth, almost feline movement. With a precise gesture, he cut the ignition, tilted the kickstand, and dismounted, sweeping his gaze across the terrace where I stood. He had the confidence of those who ride far and wide, alone, carrying the dust of the great outdoors with them. He wore very tight motocross pants, a matching multicolored motocross jacket, and big, worn motorcycle boots. He slowly removed his helmet and shook his head, revealing a shock of long, abundant strawberry-red hair. His gaze, shining with an almost fierce intensity, caught mine for a moment, like a silent promise of experiences, stories, and adventures. The young biker advanced with a confident step, his heavy boots echoing gently on the uneven cobblestones. He opened his motocross jacket wide with a broad, relaxed gesture. The multicolored leather parted, revealing a white t-shirt pressed against his chest, drenched in sweat after hours of riding under the blazing sun. The soggy fabric hugged his muscles, highlighting the line of his pecs and the tension in his abdomen. Opening up like this, his jacket more clearly revealed his tight motocross pants, which were ridden high on the waist and tight at the hips. The cut accentuated the slimness of his waist before widening slightly on his thighs, where the fabric is reinforced for protection and riding comfort. His knees were wrapped in large protective plates, molded into the pants like a second skin, adding a touch of futuristic armor to his modern-day rider silhouette. I couldn't help but glance at his fly, where the leather plating revealed a beautiful shape.He shook his jacket a little over his shoulders, trying to evacuate the heat that stuck his T-shirt to his skin. His gaze slid silently over me, an amused shadow in his tired eyes, before he continued his advance, crossing the threshold with the nonchalance of those who have seen the world. He gave me a quick hello, in guttural tones accompanied by a kind, almost brotherly smile, and disappeared through the reception hall. I was stunned by this apparition - because it truly was one for me, an almost unreal vision, emerging from reality with the force of a myth. There was something elusive, chivalrous, in this silhouette that stood out against the declining sun, and an image came back to me, emerging from the depths of my adolescence: a lithograph of the Germanic god Höd. Höd… that blond ephebe of the Nordic pantheon, son of light and yet destined for darkness. I remembered his enigmatic gaze, his tragic destiny, that beauty tinged with shadow that had troubled me without me knowing why, at the time. And suddenly, before me, he seemed to have come to life. Everything about him resonated with that mythological figure: his almost divine bearing, his sure and fluid gait, his broad shoulders, no doubt accentuated by the protections of his jacket, which gave him a warrior's presence. His sweat-soaked t-shirt, stuck to his sculpturally flat stomach, highlighted every muscular relief beneath the soaked fabric. And then, there was this detail, this visual disturbance haunting for me, these tight leather pants, where a moderate but very obvious bulge could be guessed, like a secret offered to the gaze but never completely revealed. It was a fascinating picture, a mixture of raw virility and instinctive elegance, a presence that evoked both invincible youth and the aura of a being forged by destiny. For a moment, I felt as if I were standing before an incarnation of the past, a pagan hero thrust into our modern world, a contemporary Höd, all power and confusion, whose vision left a lasting impression on me. That same evening, I found myself seated at a table for dinner with Madeleine, who, decidedly, clung to me like a spider, clinging to me with that almost charming, but slightly stifling, constancy. Around us, a few tourist couples exchanged pleasantries about their day, a gentle languor floating in the warm air of the Riad, punctuated by the clinking of cutlery and the murmur of water in the central fountain. I was about to distractedly answer Madeleine when a silhouette caught my eye towards the entrance of the room: it was him, "my biker."But this time, freed from his leather shell and his colorful jacket, he was nothing like the dust rider I had discovered a few hours earlier. He wore the clothes of a light traveler, a man who lives on the road, with little luggage and a lot of ease. He was wearing a simple faded gray cotton T-shirt, probably buried at the bottom of a bag for days. The fabric, a little stretched, hugged the shape of his torso, revealing in spite of itself the dry and sinewy contours of his body, the outline of his pectorals, the discreet shadow of his collarbones. His faded blue jeans, which he clearly hadn't worn on the road, had that typical cut of the era: tight at the pelvis and thighs, molding his hips with disturbing precision before flaring slightly towards the bottom, like elephant legs. It fell low on his hips, perhaps a little too low, revealing a thin strip of golden skin when, with a mechanical gesture, he adjusted a worn belt, a simple brown leather strap. Yet it held perfectly in place, pressed against him like a second skin, revealing the curve of his muscles with every movement. At his feet, simple tennis shoes. His hair, still slightly damp—no doubt from a quick shower after the journey—fell in soft, unruly strands around his face. This time, without a helmet or dust, he appeared more vulnerable, almost younger… And I was stunned on the spot. There was something unreal about this transformation. No more armor, no more stiff leather or reinforced boots, just a body, a moving silhouette, a presence that suddenly seemed closer, more accessible… and perhaps even more disturbing. Madeleine, always on the lookout, was quick to notice my silent confusion. She didn't say anything immediately, but I felt her sideways glance, that way she had of picking up on what wasn't said, of reading what hadn't yet been expressed. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, scanning the room, as if waiting for a waiter to come and seat him. A suspended moment, an imperceptible hesitation. Then, his gaze met mine. A direct, frank look, which lasted barely a second but was enough to trigger an indefinable shiver in the pit of my stomach. I raised my hand slightly, beckoning him to come and sit at our table. A smile then stretched his lips—a smile of acceptance, discreet but sincere, as if he felt relieved to have an anchor in this unfamiliar room. He nodded slightly, then moved. And it was another slap in the face.His gait, fluid and natural, exuded a controlled nonchalance, a balance between relaxation and confidence. Each step seemed calculated without being so, each movement had a fascinating precision, an almost hypnotic rhythm. His tight jeans emphasized the tension in his thighs with each step, and his T-shirt accompanied the balance of his torso with a disturbing gentleness. He moved forward like someone who had never had to force himself to captivate. When he reached our height, he graced us with a nod and said simply, without emphasis: "Peter." His voice grabbed me instantly. A raspy, deep timbre, with those marked Germanic intonations, almost guttural, but which, paradoxically, carried an unexpected sweetness. I felt this timbre deep within me. A discreet, diffuse shiver, something distant and instinctive, an echo in my body long before my mind tried to ana ...

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