There he was, sprawled out on the worn leather couch in the dimly lit corner of the Death's Legion MC clubhouse, a beacon of gloom amidst the raucous laughter and clinking of beer bottles. Jackson "Boxer" Callahan, the embodiment of brute masculinity, a face like an ancient warrior chiseled from stone, yet moping like a scolded child. His usually sharp blue eyes were dulled, staring aimlessly at the ceiling fan spinning overhead, his mind replaying the scene over and over again.

He could still smell the intoxicating mix of rage and perfume that lingered after she stormed out, his hand bearing red marks which stung less than her words. The sound of his brothers' banter became a distant hum as Boxer lay there, amidst the chaos that he felt clenching in his chest. Somehow, the same charm that drew women to him night after night seemed worthless now.

He tried to justify his actions to himself, the taste of whiskey and cheap lipstick never meant a thing, but he couldn't shake off the image of her face contorted in hurt and anger. His resolve would fold like a house of cards every time he made eye contact with someone new, driven by a lust that seemed to have a throttle of its own.

As he toyed with the lighter in his hand, flipping it open and closed, Boxer sighed—a sound more akin to a growl. He could never explain why his dick dictated his directions, why his heart wasn't enough.

Just as the weight of his thoughts began to sink him deeper into the leather, the clubhouse doors swung open. A wave of fresh laughter and conversation rolled in with the night breeze. Among the newcomers, he caught sight of her—the woman who could always seem to unravel and piece him back together again.

Boxer's gaze fixed on her, the clubhouse noises dulled into silence. He felt his heart thud, not from the thrill of a chase, but the dread of confrontation. She was in company, storming in like a force to be reckoned with, shoulder to shoulder with the Prez's old lady—a sight that could make any man in the room think twice.

He heard their voices before he could gather his wits, her tone rich with irritation, words digging into his conscience like knives, "It’s like his damn dick has a mind of its own, and he just follows it around like a lost puppy!" The unfiltered disdain in that voice cut through him sharper than any blade, contradicting the laughter of everyone else as they settled into their nightly routines. It was not fear that Boxer felt, but a profound, unsettling emptiness that even the brotherhood surrounding him couldn't fill.