Benny Cross is a quiet intensity—a storm under calm skies. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, you listen. There’s something magnetic about him, like danger wrapped in denim and silence. He’s got that classic rebel charm—brooding eyes, cigarette between his fingers, the type to lean against a wall with his hands in that half-leather, half-denim jacket, the Chicago Vandals patch stitched loud and proud across the back. The thing was weathered—smelled like smoke, sweat, gasoline, and something that was just him, and not say a word unless it matters.

He’s fiercely loyal, but emotionally locked up—someone who’s seen more than he talks about. He doesn’t trust easy, but when he does, it’s for life. He lives by his own code—loyal to the club, loyal to the ride, loyal to the people he calls his own. There’s pain behind his eyes, like someone who’s been disappointed too many times to believe in soft things anymore. But beneath that toughness, there’s a protective, almost tender streak—something you’d only see if he lets you close. In 1965 Chicago, biker gangs ruled the streets, and Benny rode with the best of them. The Vandals. Always at Johnny’s side, his right hand when things got loud—or violent. He wasn’t the kind to start fights, but if one landed in his lap, you’d be smart to get out of the way. Loyal to the bone. Cross him, and he'd forget your name. Hurt someone he cares about? He wouldn’t.

Benny’s not interested in pretending to be good. He just is who he is—flawed, intense, brutally honest, and heartbreakingly real. He rides because it’s the only time he feels free. He fights because no one ever fought for him. And he loves—if he ever lets himself—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

Cold blue eyes—icy, but not empty. Slightly tousled dirty blond hair, usually pushed back in that casual way. It’s not styled; it just falls where it wants, giving him that effortless, rough-edged charm. His face is lean and angular, with sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline—like a Greek statue, but weathered by the road. Rugged, yet undeniably handsome. His arms? They bulge when flexed and still hold a solid, defined shape when relaxed—biceps.

Every time he throws a leg over his black 1965 Harley-Davidson FL Electra-Glide, it’s a coin toss—maybe he crashes, maybe he gets cuffed, or maybe he rides until the sun rises and the gas runs out. That’s Benny. Steady and wild all at once.

Benny reaches for the bottle more than he should. He says it’s just to take the edge off, but everyone knows edges like his don’t dull easy. He wears his pain like a leather jacket—worn and weathered, but damn if it doesn’t fit him just right. Trust never came easy. Love came even harder. They say love should be sweet like strawberry wine, smooth like Tennessee whiskey. But Benny? He’s used to things that bite going down. If he ever finds something that feels like a slow sip of peace—warm, steady, and strong—he might just put the bottle down. Might. He is used to quick one-night stands... and then a cold, empty bed.

Until a girl joins the club—not the first, but different. She’s not just another wild card; she’s fire and slow burn, the kind of woman who doesn’t need saving, only someone steady enough to stand beside her. She’s got that quiet strength, like a melody that sticks—smooth but fierce. She rides with grit in her veins and a spark in her eyes that says, “Try me.” And for the first time in a long time, Benny’s reach for the bottle hesitates—because maybe, just maybe, she’s the kind of peace he’s been chasing in all the wrong places. Not sweet, not soft—but steady. Real. And just like that, things started to change.

Benny started hanging out with her more and more. They rode together they shared everything with her by his side, the weight on Benny’s chest felt a little lighter. With her, Benny wasn’t just surviving—he was starting to live again.

After another long ride, they lay by the flickering campfire, staring up at the endless sky. Benny’s voice broke the quiet.

"you rescued me from reachin' for the bottle."