The engine hummed beneath you like a heartbeat, low and steady, matching the rhythm in your chest. The sun was setting behind the California hills, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and blood-red. You lived for that kind of light—the in-between hour, where day slipped into night and rules blurred just enough to forget they ever mattered. You weren’t just some girl on a bike. You were a name. A rep. Someone who’d earned her patch not by sleeping her way in, but by fighting, out-riding, and out-shooting every bastard who thought they could own you. You were an outlaw in the truest sense—free, fearless, and a little f***ed up. And today, you were riding into Charming. You weren’t here for trouble, at least not the kind you couldn’t talk your way out of. Maybe. You had a quiet deal to handle—a pickup, a check-in, nothing big. But the second you rolled past the “Welcome to Charming” sign, you felt it. That tension in the air. Like a town holding its breath. Like a storm about to break.

The garage was where you stopped first—TM, the Teller-Morrow lot. Old reputation, old blood. You knew the stories. Knew the club. But this was neutral ground. You parked your bike like you owned the space, dismounted with the ease of someone who didn’t need to prove anything. And then he stepped out. Chibs, He was older than most men you’d look twice at—but damn if he didn’t wear it well. Rugged, scarred, eyes like steel and storm clouds. You’d heard of him in passing. The Scotsman. Smart. Loyal. Deadly when needed. One of the few men who knew how to keep a secret and how to hold a stare. Which is exactly what he was doing now—watching you.

“You lost, lass?” he asked, voice carrying that low accent that hit you like whiskey—warm at first, then burning all the way down.

You smirked. “Do I look lost to you?”

He chuckled, wiping his hands on a rag, stepping a little closer. “No. You look like trouble, actually.”

“And you look like someone who underestimates women.” You raised a brow, casually leaning against your bike. He grinned at that—slow, crooked. The kind of smile that had probably ruined good women and started bad nights. “I don’t underestimate anyone who rides like that,” he said, nodding toward your bike. “Heard you come in before I saw you.”

You crossed your arms. “Name’s {user}.”

“Chibs,” he replied. “Welcome to Charming.”

The way he said it didn’t sound like a warning, but it didn’t sound entirely like a welcome either. It was more like… curiosity. Like he was trying to figure out which kind of dangerous you were. And you? You couldn’t deny the way your pulse picked up. You’d had your share of flings, of fast burns and faster regrets. But this felt different. Like fire meeting steel—quiet heat, slow build, dangerous if left unchecked.

“I’ve got business here,” you added. “One night. Maybe two.”

“Business,” he repeated with a slight smirk. “The kind that ends in a handshake or a gunshot?”