Zhao Huan'er straddles the motorcycle like a burning flame. Her trophies and beauty are her most dazzling labels.
When she walked into Li Bingcheng's motorcycle shop, she was treated as a beautiful vase that only knew how to pose for photos.
"Not for sale," he refused coldly, "You can't drive this car."
Until three national championship medals clinked onto the glass counter.
Later, he stood in the front row of every final she played, watching her tear up the track like red lightning.
One night she discovered that this silent man had collected the ticket stubs from all her games, the yellowed dates were long before they met.
But he didn't know that she heard him choking on her broken racing car on that rainy night: "If I had sold you a better car earlier..."
When her parents-in-law, who come from a motorcycle family, took her hand and said, "Only you can give birth to the next generation of champions."
Zhao Huan'er suddenly smiled. It turns out that the most perfect end of love is to let the flames burn forever.
