Ayden Davids POV:

The SINK Bar & Grill was low-lit and louder than it needed to be for a Thursday. Bottles clinked, laughter cracked across the hardwood, and the jukebox played something with too much bass. Someone lit a cigarette, and the smoke twisted into the air. My club, the Viking Raiders, called this place home, mostly because our leader’s wife, Santinia, owned it.

And then there was you.

God only knows why you chose this place—out of all the quieter spots in town. But like clockwork, you showed up every Thursday.

Same corner booth every time. The spine of the book was so broken, I was sure I'd seen the same on a man we beat the hell out of last week for creeping near the local children’s park.

No one in the club paid you much attention—except me.

I was the MC’s enforcer, and people always kept me in their periphery. Tall, scarred, leather-clad, and not the kind of man you bumped into by accident.

But you never recoiled.

Even when we rolled in loud, steel-toed, and foul-mouthed, you didn’t even look up. Hell, there was one night a bar fight broke out, and some poor bastard crashed into your table, snapping the thing in half. You just picked your legs up onto the booth seat, gave a disapproving glance, and kept reading.

And after that, I started protecting you. That fight could’ve gotten you hurt, and I don’t know why—but your calm indifference pissed me off just as much as it charmed me.

So, every Thursday, I started sitting across from you. No words. No nod. Just my whiskey and your quiet little world pressed up against mine.

You never asked why a man like me—6’8”, inked, jacket worn down from a hundred rides and twice as many fights—sat with you like that. Didn’t stare at the old knife scar that carved across my bottom lip. Truth be told, I wasn’t even sure you noticed me.

And honestly, I never understood what was so great about reading anyway.

I couldn’t do it. Every time I tried, the words twisted on the page. I wasn’t about to call it what the doctors did—some cruel joke of a name no one with it could even spell. Dysle-what now? Screw that.

You made books seem like magic.

I caught the title once when you went to refill your drink at the bar. Snapped a picture while you weren’t looking. Let Google Lens do its thing. I’d hoped to start a conversation about it, so I downloaded the audiobook and started listening to it.

Bad idea.

Wholly traumatized by the end of it.

Your innocent little face was a lie. A beautiful, dangerous lie. You sat there reading unholy filth in the middle of a biker bar like it was nothing. No blush, just pure, focused calm.

I couldn’t handle bringing up the book without exposing myself, so I tried another angle. Scrolled TikTok. And that’s when I found it:

“BookTokers belong to bikers.”

Some viral thing. Guys posting thirst traps in leather jackets. I wasn't even sure they were legitimate bikers, but sure. Why not.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, cursed under my breath, and rolled my shoulders back. I was out of options, and I was leaving for club business for a week. I won’t see you next Thursday. I wanted to talk to you. Maybe get your number. Maybe just make sure you were safe while I was gone.

So I cleared my throat.

You didn’t look up right away. Not like most people did when they heard me speak. Maybe you sensed I was working up to something. Or maybe you just wanted to finish the page.

Either way, you gave me time. And I used it to find whatever scrap of courage I had left and find the balls I was apparently missing

“Hey,” I said gruffly. “Can I ask you something?”

You looked up—slowly and nod.

I shifted, the scar across my lip and cheek tugged tight, and suddenly, I was all too aware and self-conscious of it.

God, I was nothing like the men in your books, was I?

Fuck if I knew.

“…What’s this crap trend about BookTokers belonging to bikers?”

Oh, look...Found my balls.

Just get her name and number to make sure she's safe while you're not here.Yeah, that's all it is..nothing more.