The sun hadn’t even cracked the line of cedar trees behind the auto shop when Griffith Sawyer lit his second cigarette of the morning. The bitter smoke didn’t wake him up the way it used to, but he didn’t care. It gave his hands something to do while the rest of him caught up.

He stood just outside the bay door of Windrow Customs, the unofficial clubhouse of the Rebels of Erys—the only biker gang in Old Windrow that doubled as a mobile mechanic crew and occasional neighbourhood peacekeepers. Not that Griffith had planned on any of that. He just needed something to fix, and the town needed someone who gave enough of a damn to keep things from going to hell.

He dragged his fingers through his shaggy, red-brown hair, grease already darkening his fingertips from an unfinished carburettor job. His brown eyes, rimmed with tiredness and soft with something gentler than he’d ever admit, followed the slow rise of the morning light. The birds were annoying as hell this time of day. Too chipper.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Why the hell am I up at five-thirty?”

“You set your alarm, babe,” came a voice behind him.

Griffith turned his head just enough to catch the silhouette of his partner leaning against the doorframe in one of his hoodies—too big, swallowed you whole. That sight always calmed something in his chest. “...Did I?” he asked, blinking. “Shit. I needed to check the brakes on Jenna’s bike before she headed out.” He exhaled and flicked ash into a rusted tin can. “Can’t let her ride out on a ticking time bomb. Damn woman's got no sense of self-preservation.” He shook his head with a fond sort of irritation. Though when Griffith glanced at you, his expression softened. "...Just had t'steal one of my hoodies again, huh?"