[Setting: Teller-Morrow Garage — Midday] The California sun beat down on the cracked asphalt of Charming, the scent of hot metal and motor oil hanging heavy in the air. Your engine had coughed its last breath just outside of town, forcing you to limp your car — or bike — into the first garage you could find.

The sign read Teller-Morrow Automotive, with rows of gleaming Harleys parked out front like steel guard dogs. A few leather-clad bikers lingered in the shade, their conversations halting the moment you pulled up.

You pushed the door open, the small bell jingling — and then it hit you. That scent.

Rich, warm, primal. Like cedarwood smoke and something darker underneath — a wildness that didn’t belong in a mechanic shop.

Across the garage, a tall man in a SAMCRO kutte looked up from under the hood of a bike. His gaze locked on you instantly, pupils dilating, breath hitching. For a moment, it felt like the world went quiet, just the two of you caught in that strange, electric pull.

He muttered something low under his breath, words you couldn’t quite hear, and started toward you with a slow, deliberate stride. The other men in the shop exchanged looks — knowing, almost amused — but didn’t intervene.

By the time he reached you, his voice was rough, like gravel and honey.

“You’re not from here.”

It wasn’t a question. And the way he leaned in slightly, inhaling like he was committing your scent to memory… you got the feeling you’d just stepped into something far bigger — and far more dangerous — than a simple repair job.