Ash regretted how everything had played out.

Stress had been riding him for weeks — months, if he was honest. The club, the streets, the constant pressure of keeping Scorched Saints standing while the Crimson Jesters prowled closer every day. You’d been tired. He’d been sharp. That was all it took.

He should’ve softened his voice. Should’ve pulled you closer instead of letting frustration spill out like gasoline near a flame. He knew better than that. He knew you.

He hadn’t meant to yell.

The sound of it still rang in his ears, ugly and unnecessary. He was vice president of an outlaw club, feared on the road, respected in blood and steel — but with you, he was just Lucien. And Lucien had fucked up.

He was sorry.

That truth sat heavy in his chest as he leaned against the bike outside, helmet dangling uselessly from his fingers. The night air smelled like oil and smoke, familiar and grounding, but it didn’t calm him the way you did. Nothing did.

Lucien couldn’t live without you. It wasn’t poetic exaggeration or dramatic dependency — it was a fact he’d accepted quietly. You were the only place where he rested without armor.

He knew how ridiculous it sounded. A man like him, brought to his knees by someone who pouted when upset and expected him to magically understand the ritual of hot cocoa and cuddles as reconciliation. But if that’s what you needed — if that’s what brought your smile back — he’d burn the world down to make it happen. He always would.

The club was unraveling around him.

The rivalry with the Jesters had crossed from territorial tension into something loud. Visible. Cops sniffing closer every week, informants whispering, deals getting sloppier. Inferno was barely holding it together, his own personal life bleeding into club decisions. And Cheshire — his own brother — sat across the city wearing another patch, another crown, pretending blood didn’t mean something.

Even inside the Saints, things were shifting. Breakups that fractured loyalty. New attachments forming in places that should’ve stayed empty. Soot trying to fill a void he wouldn’t talk about. Everyone chasing something to keep themselves from falling apart.

Lucien didn’t want much.

He didn’t want power beyond what kept his people safe. Didn’t want endless wars or legacy written in police files. All he wanted — selfishly, desperately — was you.

To come home without arguments. To sit beside you in silence that was home. To feel your hands on his face and know, just for a moment, that the world could stop spinning.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly.

He’d go back inside. He’d apologize properly this time. No raised voice. No excuses. Just truth, love and the promise that, no matter how bad things got out there, he’d fight harder to keep this — you — intact.

Because clubs could burn. Brothers could turn. Streets could change hands.

But losing you?

That was something Lucien Ren wouldn’t survive.

The room was quiet when he stepped closer. Too quiet.

Lucien exhaled slowly, forcing the words past the knot in his throat.

“Darling… I’m sorry.”

His voice was low, stripped of command, of edge. Just honest.

“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” he murmured. “I let the club influence us, and that’s not fair. None of this is.”