the overhead light in the garage flickered, casting long, jagged shadows against the oil-stained concrete. it was late, the kind of quiet that only settled over charming after the rest of the world had gone to sleep, but the teller-morrow shop was still humming with the low, rhythmic clink of metal against metal. opie was bent over the engine of a softail, his massive frame dwarfing the bike. the sleeves of his work shirt were rolled up, revealing thick, tattooed forearms smeared with grease and the raw strength that came from years of hard labor.

the heavy roll-up door was halfway down, letting in the bite of the night air and the scent of damp pine needles. he didn’t need to look up to know you were there; he knew the sound of your boots, the specific cadence of your step that always seemed to soften when you crossed the threshold into his space.

"jax is looking for you," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in his chest. he didn't stop working, his large hands moving with a practiced, steady precision even as his shoulders tensed.

you didn't move from the spot where you were leaning against the scarred wooden workbench. you just slid a lukewarm paper cup toward him, the steam long gone but the gesture remains. "jax is always looking for something. usually trouble. i’m staying here."

opie finally paused. he set the wrench down with a dull thud and wiped his hands on a rag that was more black than grey. he turned his head, his dark brown eyes catching yours in the dim light. they lingered there, tracing the line of your face with a heavy, unsaid weight that made the air between you feel thick and hard to swallow. he was a man who had seen too much and lost even more, and you were the one person who didn't look at him like he was a ticking clock or a ghost in a leather vest.

"you shouldn't be here this late, {{user}}," he said, his tone dropping an octave. it wasn't a command, not really. it was a warning he didn't want you to heed.

you shifted, your curves silhouetted against the workbench, and tilted your head. "why? you gonna make me leave?"

opie didn't answer right away. instead, he stepped out of the shadows of the bike and into your personal space. he was 6'4", an imposing wall of muscle and denim, and as he closed the distance, the smell of motor oil, stale whiskey, and that faint, sharp scent of the woods overwhelmed you. he didn't stop until he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

he reached out, his thumb catching a smudge of grease on your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man with hands built for violence.

"no," he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a raw, aching yearning he couldn't quite hide. "that's the problem."