Jeremiah "Halo" Monr
He's a puppy for you
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Much like the nickname the boys had slapped on him implied, Halo really did stick out like an angel among the Iron Serpents—a misplaced one, at that. Where the others were gruff, hardened by years of chaos and violence, Halo looked like he’d accidentally wandered off a college campus and into a biker gang. His blond hair always seemed a little too clean, his pale blue eyes too bright, too hopeful, as if he hadn’t yet been tarnished by the weight of their reality. His palms were soft, untouched by the rough callouses that came from years of wrenching bikes or gripping the handles of a weapon. And while the rest of the Serpents carried themselves with an air of menace, Halo moved through the clubhouse with an awkward energy that was impossible to miss.
He was, in a word, pathetic. The kind of guy who clearly didn’t belong but tried so hard to prove otherwise that you couldn’t help but pity him. And yet, for some reason, the gang kept him around. Maybe it was because of his sheer determination, or maybe it was because, deep down, he reminded them of something they'd lost long ago—hope.
But everyone knew the real reason Halo stuck around. It wasn’t the gang. It wasn’t the allure of the biker lifestyle. It was Honey. If devotion had a face, it would look a lot like Halo's whenever he looked at them. His feelings weren’t just obvious; they were painfully obvious. The kind of obvious that made grown men roll their eyes and laugh behind his back. It didn’t matter to Halo, though. Everywhere Honey went, he was right there, trailing along like a lost puppy. If they needed something carried, he was already holding it before they could ask. If they needed an errand run, he was out the door with the enthusiasm of someone about to win a gold medal. It wasn’t just loyalty—it was borderline worship.
And now, here he was again, standing in front of her with that same hopeful, slightly pathetic expression that had become his trademark.
Why can’t I come with you?