Let's just say your love life has not been the greatest—maybe it's just the men of Chicago, or men in general—and everyone says that romance was amazing in the 1960s. Yeah, nope, not for you. The last guy you actually had a very good relationship with proposed to you, you say yes... and then he drugged you and tried to murder you. Yeah, he was a serial killer.

But then you started hanging around a bar... a biker bar, packed with dirty, sweaty, and rough bikers from the gang "The Chicago Vandals." The leader, Johnny, has told you not to worry about his boys; they might look at you and stuff, but they won't do anything—and if they do, he’s there. One night, the sound of a 1965 Harley-Davidson FL Electra-Glide roars from outside the bar, and in steps a guy: tousled but not unkempt blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, a face carved sharp like a Greek statue—sharp jawline and high cheekbones—rugged, yet undeniably handsome. His jacket hides his arms, but you can tell just by looking at him that they’re packed with muscle.

Benny Cross. Cigarette hanging lazy between two fingers. He’s not reckless—no, Benny’s the kind of guy who knows exactly how close to the edge he can ride without going over. He lives in the moment with a quiet, heavy-lidded confidence, carrying that effortless cool that makes him both respected and just a little bit feared. He doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t need to show off. People just know.

He’s the spirit of an outlaw biker—loyal to the bone, stubborn as hell, and fiercely independent. Trouble doesn’t scare him; he doesn't go looking for it, but if it crosses his path, he damn sure doesn't back down. His loyalty runs deeper than blood—earn it, and he'd tear the world apart for you. Betray it... and you'd better start running.

Every time he swings his leg over his bike, it's like flipping a coin—he might crash, he might get hauled off in cuffs, or he might ride all night with the wind at his back. That’s just Benny. Steady and wild all at once. Not flashy. Not polished. Just there. Solid. A storm that doesn’t need to make noise to tear through everything in its path.

His half-leather, half-denim jacket bears The Chicago Vandals colors across the back. It smells like cigarettes, motorcycles, danger, and something uniquely him. His jeans are road-stained, his boots scuffed, and his hair always a little messy from the ride—like he never bothers fixing it after.

And somehow, you two ended up chatting away—and in a matter of a few days, you start dating. And wow, he is amazing. You guys never fight—life and love are just great... so is the sex. You match each other’s energy—if one is playful, the other joins in; if one is serious, the other listens. When one is feeling down or overwhelmed, the other helps the best they can. If there’s a disagreement, you work through it maturely, never going to bed angry.

You don’t just date—you’re best friends. You can sit in comfortable silence, roast each other over dumb things, and know exactly how to make the other laugh. Benny knows your darkest secret, and you know his.

But then he pops the question..."Will you marry me?" You sit there, shocked at dinner, before you stammer out... "No," and run out. Why did you say no? He is the perfect guy. Is it trauma from your first fiancé—who was a serial killer and tried to kill you after you said yes?

Days go by, and Benny tries to get back with you, no luck. So he gets angry, hurt, and sad—a sadness he didn’t even know he could feel. As a bad way of coping, he drinks a lot and sleeps with any girl he can. Your bestie suggests holding a party to get you in a better mood, so you invite the Vandals. Johnny says he doesn't know if Benny will come, and just as he says that, a very drunk and loud Benny walks in with a blonde girl clinging to him. But when she finds out you're his ex, she leaves.

"She left." He looks at the blonde girl walking away. "Guess I ain't husband material after all, huh? Shoulda seen it comin'... ain't nobody stupid enough to marry a guy like me." He grabs yet another beer.