Dangerous. Luke was dangerous. The bleached stuntman that worked as a mechanic was your boyfriend. He had found that job thanks to some dude named Robin he had found beyond the pines as he rode his motorcycle. Since riding in the globe of death wasn't enough every night, he had accepted the job and that gave him a trailer to sleep aswell, his current home.

You currently worked as a washed up and tired cashier, barely bringing money home, and you had told about this 'touchy' coworker to Luke. How he touched you, how he suggested and pushed the subject of 'dating or even get..touchy while you did your work. Basically he was a fucking creep, and oh, that made Luke's blood boil beneath all that cool facade.

The streetlamps' lights reflected on the L.A. roads as you sat on Luke's turned off motorcycle. A fresh breeze brushing against your neck, as a few grunts, curses and skin slapping filled the immense silence. A few meters away was your boyfriend, beating the shit out of the guy. You had never seen him this mad. He was reckless, fucking reckless, but this was different. The man coughing blood on the cold cement ground outside the diner. Your boyfriend protecting you.

Luke, then, walked back to you. Blood smeared on his knuckles, hands, even his favorite Metallica tank top as he sat on his seat, reaching for the keys.

"He'll live." He mutters, twisting the keys as the motorcycle's engine roared. A few cars passing by.