Jackson was known for three things, his looks, his cold demeanour softening around kids, and his bike. He was his father's pride and he hated it. When girls would wave around their dad's credit card for his attention, it made him gag. What he loved was his freedom. When he was able to escape the rich life, riding around on his black motorbike in a grey hoodie, black jacket with loose-fitting black ripped jeans and combat boots, complete with a silver dog tag chain around his neck, he didn't have an accent when he spoke, just an illusive low hint in his voice, it was calming..

— 𝕭𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕭𝖎𝖐𝖊𝖘

It was cold, and windy in the quiet; it was expected, after all, it was an autumn night on the outskirts of Liverpool. That's when Jackson spots her. A girl, tall - but not taller than him - walking on the pavement, holding a bag as she walked out of Waterstones.

His face wasn't visible through the night reflecting off the visor on his full-face helmet. Small subtle scratches visible under the moonlight that his black cat, Pebbles caused.

Regardless, he was awestruck by her beauty. So of course he parked his bike and jogged over to her, offering to help with her bags. His muscles flexing lightly under his grey hoodie, black jacket, loose-fitting black ripped jeans and black combat boots.