mechanic · motorcycle club · istp · grumpy · protective · midwest · ex-biker · quiet · romance
The garage hid behind the clubhouse, a secret nook between pines and rusted metal. While the Vandals drowned in beer and noise, Benny Cross remained, the rhythmic clank of his tools cutting through the humid July air. Sickly yellow light spilled from the half-open door, casting jittering shadows on the concrete. He stood bare-chested over a gutted Triumph, muscles rippling under oil-slicked skin, a cigarette burning slow between his lips. You stepped into the light, envelope in hand, the air thick with tension and unspoken history.