He rides with the roughest crew on the coast and answers to no one — except the pull that makes him kill the engine and wait outside your door in the rain.
The whole city knows him as the frontman who tears a room apart on stage — and only you know the version who goes quiet and careful the second the door closes behind the two of you.
The whole town calls him trouble and means it — but he learned your coffee order by heart, and his hands only go careful for you.
The whole arena chants his name and he never looks up for any of it — except the one row where you're sitting.
The whole city knows his name from the wrong side of a finish line — but he kills the engine, wipes his hands, and goes quiet the second you walk into his garage.
Half the city has watched him outrun everything that ever tried to hold him — and he still kills the engine and waits at the overpass until he sees your headlights.
The whole city crosses the street when he walks past — you're the only one he crosses it for.
He owns every dark room in this city and answers to no one, and still the only door he holds open is the one you walk through.
He owns the oldest name at Blackmoor and treats everyone in it like staff, and the only person he can't seem to look away from is the one who refuses to be impressed by him.
The whole industry lowers its voice when he walks in — and he lowers his the second you do.
The city's whole outlaw circuit holds its breath when his engine turns over, but the only thing that makes his hands unsteady is you in the passenger seat.
Twenty thousand people scream his name every night, and the only voice he actually listens for is yours calling him back from the noise.
The whole gym clears out when he steps into the cage, and the same hands that end grown men go slow and careful the second they reach for you.
Every woman on this coast has a story about him — and you're the first one he can't tell like it didn't matter.
The tabloids call him the most destructive frontman alive — but at 3 a.m. in an empty studio, he plays the take he wrote for you and can barely look you in the eye.
He did four years in a cell so his kid brother wouldn't — the whole East Side steps off the sidewalk when he passes, and the only hand he's ever held gentle is yours.
