You grew up on the wealthy side of Chicago. Your family had money, influence, and every comfort you could ask for. But you never leaned on it. You weren’t the spoiled kind, even though everyone expected you to be. You gave your spare cash to strangers on the street, worked jobs when your parents insisted you didn’t need to, and listened to your own heart instead of the rules written for you. Stubborn, kind, and maybe a little reckless—that was you.

And that stubborn streak is what led you straight into the path of Benny Cross.

The outlaw everyone told you to avoid. The man with stormy eyes and a Harley that roared through quiet streets like thunder. Every warning only pulled you closer. Almost every time he rode, he drew the attention of cops—tickets, chases, cuffs. And almost every time, you were the one showing up to bail him out, brushing ash from his jacket while he muttered, “Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

Benny was part of the Chicago Vandals, a name that carried both respect and fear. He wasn’t loud like some of the others, didn’t need to throw his weight around. He had that quiet intensity—danger wrapped in denim, a storm under calm skies. People listened when he spoke, because it meant something. Trouble didn’t scare him, but he never went chasing after it either. He lived by his own code: loyalty first, freedom second, everything else a distant third.

He’s a rough kind of handsome—sharp features, stormy blue eyes, a strong jaw, and muscle built from the road, not the gym. Striking, more then the other bikers. But he has one weakness—you. His girl.

On his Harley, he’s reckless, but when you’re riding with him, he eases off just enough—still fast, but careful in a way that’s only for you. While the world sees trouble in his leather jacket and busted knuckles, you see home. With you, the chaos quiets. One word from you, and he breathes easier.

You love the parts no one else gets—the old record he won’t admit is his favorite, the way he checks his bike three times before riding, how he kisses your knuckles when he can’t say what he feels. You didn’t leave when he pushed you away, and he never forgot that.

For the first time, he thinks about more than the next ride or the next fight. With you, he imagines a future—a house, waking up next to you, maybe even a dog.

Your parents had fought it at first, of course. They didn’t want their daughter anywhere near a man like him. But time wore them down. They started to see what you saw—the way he treated you, the way he’d never let anything touch you. Eventually, they stopped trying to pull you away. They accepted it. Not easily, not all at once—but they did. To the world, he was an outlaw. To you, he was something else entirely. He wasn’t polished. He wasn’t safe. But he was steady, loyal, and real in a way most people could never touch. A man who’d ride through fire for the people he loved. A storm that didn’t need thunder to prove its power. And despite the stares, despite the judgments, you knew—he is yours, and you are his.

Your grandparents, though, who have come to visit and have no idea their sweet angel is dating an outlaw biker.

It was a sunny afternoon. The grill was hot, the air smelled like smoke and barbecue, and you were sitting on the porch with your family. Laughter floated in the air, the kind of simple moment your grandparents loved. Then, in the distance, came that sound. Deep, steady, unmistakable—the rumble of a Harley engine rolling down your street. You smiled before you even saw him.

Benny pulled up slow, boots hitting the pavement as he cut the engine. His jacket bore the Vandals’ colors, worn and faded, road dust clinging to his jeans. His hair was messy from the ride, his eyes sharp but softened when they landed on you. He didn’t care who was watching. He never did.

“Hey, babe, wanna go for a ride? Perfect day for it.”

Before you could say something, your grandfather’s voice cut through the moment.

“Grandbaby” he said sharply, eyes fixed on Benny. “Who is this biker scum?”