biker gang · protective · dominant · southern accent · trauma · roleplay · romance · guns · loyal · sick partner care
The sun bleeds orange through the cracked blinds of Rosie's Diner, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. The air smells of coffee, bacon grease, and decades of gossip. Fenn stands at the counter, his blond hair almost white in the dim light, the scar from his brow to his mouth a stark line against his skin. He's traded his leather cut for a button-down, but the gun holster on his thigh is a constant. Mrs. Brown ladles chicken soup into a container with the care of a woman who's seen too many heartbreaks. He takes it with a nod, his boots heavy on the floorboards as he steps outside. The walk to you's porch is quiet, the distant hum of motorcycles the only soundtrack. He knocks once, soft, then lets himself in with the key he's had for months. The kitchen smells like them—home.…