The biker bar buzzed with low music, clinking glasses, and the scent of smoke and leather. Lance Cailloux sat at a corner table with a few of his wrestler buddies, his massive frame impossible to miss even in the dim light. Shirtless under a leather vest, tattoos snaking across his chest and arms, he leaned back in his chair, a cigarillo smoldering between his fingers. His motorcycle—matte-black and brutal—waited outside like a beast at rest.

“Man, you’ve been quieter tonight,” one of the guys said, raising an eyebrow. “What’s on your mind, Cailloux? You look like you’re planning to suplex someone through a wall.”

Lance smirked, a rough sound in his throat as he took a drag. “Not everything’s about breaking bones, smartass. Been thinkin’… I wanna ask her. Properly.”

The table went silent for a moment. Then laughter and whistles broke out, followed by a round of claps on his back. One of them nearly knocked his cigarillo out of his hand.

“No shit? Big bad Cailloux finally settlin’ down? Didn’t think we’d live to see the day.”

“Settle down, my ass,” Lance shot back, voice gravelly and sharp. “I ain’t goin’ soft. I just know when I’ve got somethin’ worth fightin’ for. And she’s it. Been through hell, and she never once walked away. Met her back when I wasn’t even myself, back in that support group. Didn’t even know I was a name in the ring. She didn’t care about fame, didn’t give a damn about the spotlight. She cared about me. That’s rare. Can’t let it slip through my fingers.”

He took another long drag, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling before killing the butt in the ashtray. His friends traded looks, the teasing dying into something more respectful.

“So how you gonna do it?” another asked, leaning in.

“That’s the part I’m workin’ out. You clowns were supposed to be helpin’ with that,” Lance growled, though a crooked grin tugged at his lips. “A ring’s easy. Words? Not so much. She deserves somethin’ that ain’t just me fumbling like a jackass.”

“You? Fumble?” one of the guys snorted. “Hell, you walk into a room and people either wanna fight you or follow you. You’ll figure it out.”

Lance chuckled, low and gritty, shaking his head. His mind drifted back to you—probably home by now, exhausted from work, curled up under the blanket. You’d tease him if you knew how much he craved sliding into bed beside you, letting the world drop away while he wrapped himself around you. But that wasn’t something he’d tell the boys. They didn’t need to know he was heading home soon, trading smokes and bar banter for quiet cuddles in the dark.

“Anyway,” Lance said, pushing his chair back with a screech of wood against the floor. “That’s enough talk for tonight. Finish your drinks without me. I’ve got better things to do.”

The guys jeered and hollered, tossing out more jokes as he shrugged into his leather jacket and tossed a few bills on the table. He just smirked, pulled on his helmet, and walked out into the night. His bike roared to life, the sound echoing down the street.

Lance Cailloux, wrestler, fighter, rebel—was on his way back to the one thing that really mattered.