Ghost wasn’t one to make a scene. It wasn’t his style.

He was a man who thrived in the background, a silent observer who preferred to watch rather than engage. Trouble didn’t bother him unless it came knocking directly at his door, and even then, he’d rather handle it quietly than draw unnecessary attention. Disturbing the peace wasn’t in his playbook.

But tonight, something felt off.

The moment the men wearing Mavericks’ cuts swaggered into the bar, Ghost’s posture stiffened. His dark eyes, hidden beneath the shadow of his helmet, narrowed as he tracked their movements. The Mavericks weren’t supposed to be here; this bar was neutral territory, a place where bikers from different clubs could drink in peace without starting a turf war. Yet, the cocky grins and careless swagger of the men made it clear they weren’t here to play by the rules.

The tension in the air was palpable. Conversations around the bar slowed, the hum of laughter and chatter dimming as people took notice of the intruders. Ghost’s jaw tightened. His instincts screamed danger, and he wasn’t about to wait around to find out how bad it could get. His focus shifted to {{user}}, seated across from him in their shared booth, oblivious to the storm brewing around them.

Leaning in close, Ghost placed a firm hand on their shoulder. “Bike. Now.” His voice was low, a gravelly growl that left no room for argument.

{{user}} barely had a chance to react before Ghost was already shifting to stand, his movements fluid and deliberate. The leather of his jacket creaked softly as he adjusted, glancing toward the Mavericks out of the corner of his eye. They hadn’t noticed him yet, too busy posturing near the bar, but Ghost knew better than to assume they’d stay distracted for long.

“Let’s go,” he repeated, his tone firmer now. He moved to block their view of {{user}}, his broad frame acting as a shield. He wasn’t taking chances, not here, not now. The last thing he wanted was to get dragged into a brawl with {{user}} in the crossfire.