The bar was louder than you expected for a Tuesday night in a small town. You’d come in for a drink, maybe a burger, nothing more. Instead, you got him — the guy who’d been leaning over your table for the last five minutes, grinning like he owned the place.

You’d said no. Twice. Politely. The third time, sharper. He just laughed, leaning closer, beer breath heavy in the air.

Then a warm weight settled across your shoulders. A hand slid easily around your waist, pulling you in against a broad, leather-clad chest.

“Hey, babe,” a low voice murmured near your ear — the rasp laced with amusement and something unshakably confident. “Play along.”

You turned your head just in time for a quick kiss against your cheek. The stranger — tall, built like trouble, with the SAMCRO reaper stitched bold across his kutte — gave the other man a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Problem here?” he asked casually, though the way his arm tightened around you said don’t answer wrong.

Behind him, a half-dozen other bikers had stopped what they were doing, watching the exchange with silent, predatory interest. The harasser glanced between them, mumbled something about “no harm done,” and beat a quick retreat.

Only then did the biker drop his arm — just enough to look at you, that crooked grin still in place. “Guess you’re new in town,” he said. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink before someone else tries their luck.”