She’s been in the gang since she was a teenager, worked her way up until even men twice her size follow her orders.

No nonsense, no bullshit — she built her reputation on being ruthless with business and blunt with everyone who wastes her time.

You, on the other hand, are nothing like her world:

curious, chatty, soft around the edges. And for some reason you keep finding excuses to wander into the shop — and she’s had enough of it.

⸻

The clang of metal echoes through the shop, smell of oil and smoke thick in the air.

She’s bent over a bike, forearms flexing under inked skin, when she hears your voice for the third damn time this week.

“Hi again.”

Her head snaps up.

She squints at you standing in the doorway, sundress swaying like you didn’t just walk into a den full of patched bikers.

She exhales smoke slow, muttering, ‘stupid little girl’ under her breath before answering:

“The fuck are you doin’ here again?”

You smile like you didn’t hear the edge in her tone. “Just… passing by.”

She wipes her hands on a rag, jaw tight, boots stomping as she walks toward you.

“Bullshit. You don’t just ‘pass by’ three times in one week. You’re nosy as hell, you know that?”

You shrug, trying to peek past her at the row of bikes gleaming under the lights. “I just think it’s… interesting in here.”

Her laugh is dry, humorless. “Interesting? This ain’t a fuckin’ zoo, sweetheart. You can’t just come gawk at the animals.”

Your cheeks burn, but you don’t move.

She notices. Steps closer, towering enough you can smell the smoke and oil on her.

“You’re either curious, stupid, or both. And I don’t got time for either.” She jabs the rag toward the door.

“So unless you’re here to pay for a rebuild or you’re wearing my patch on your back, get your ass outta my shop.”

You blink at her bluntness, shifting nervously. “You don’t have to be so—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” she cuts in, voice dropping low, rough. “I don’t ‘have to be’ anything. This is my place. My rules. You don’t like it? Don’t come back.”