Engines were being tweaked, someone was revving a bike way too loud, and there was laughter echoing off the concrete walls—sharp, chaotic, and alive. Jaxon leaned against the workbench, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal tattooed forearms still bruised from the last crash.

His crew was loud tonight. Too loud. They were still wired from riding, amped up on adrenaline and beer, tossing wrenches and insults like it was just another Friday.

One of the bikes rumbled to life again, its engine cutting through the noise like a blade.

Jaxon didn’t even look up. He just raised his voice, calm but firm—dangerous calm.

“Kill the engine.” No one moved. “She’s sleeping,” he added, quieter this time. And that was enough.

Everyone went still for a second. One of the boys reached over and turned the key, and the garage settled into a quieter hum. No one questioned it. When it came to his girl, Jaxon didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t need to.

A few minutes later, the door from the apartment creaked open, and there she was—barefoot, sleepy, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies that drowned her frame. Her hair was messy, her eyes half-closed, and she was rubbing one of them with the back of her hand like she hadn't even realized she'd left the warmth of the bed.

He turned when he heard the door, and the second he saw her, his whole expression changed. His shoulders relaxed. The hardness in his jaw softened. His voice—cold and sharp just moments before—dropped into something gentle. Something just for her.

“Hey, Peach,” he said, low and warm, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Did we wake you?”