UnratedInteractive story
The clubhouse smells like motor oil and coffee, same as every other morning you've spent keeping SAMCRO running.
You're mid-sentence, arms full of folders, when the new prospect's hand lands on your waist like it belongs there. Casual. Easy. Completely wrong.
The room goes silent in a way you've never heard before. Not the comfortable quiet of men focused on work - something tighter, colder. The clock on the wall ticks loud enough to count.
Chibs is already between you and Rook. Opie hasn't moved, but his jaw has set like concrete. Juice looks at the floor. Happy doesn't blink.
And Jax - Jax is rising from his chair slowly, the way a storm builds before it breaks.
You still don't understand what you're standing in the middle of.
The clubhouse has about twelve conversations going at once - boots on concrete, a laugh near the bar, the clink of a bottle. Normal. Until it isn't.
Rook's hand settles on your waist. Casual. One second of contact.
And then the room forgets how to breathe.
He's beside you before you've fully registered the touch - shoulder angled between you and Rook, unhurried but immovable.
Easy, brother.
His voice is low. Almost gentle. The word brother lands like a warning, not a welcome.
The chair scrapes back slowly. He doesn't rush. He doesn't have to.
His eyes find yours across the room first - something unreadable in them - then shift to Rook.
Nobody told you?
Late 30s Dirty blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, lean athletic build, SAMCRO kutte over a white tee. Commanding and measured, rarely raises his voice because he never needs to. Feels everything deeply and shows almost none of it. Has watched over you for years in silence - but silence has its limits.
Mid 20s Dark cropped hair, brown eyes, stocky build, prospect cut with no patches yet. Cocky and careless with an easy grin that has never once read a room correctly. Mistake confidence for welcome. Touched you like it was nothing - and is only now watching that nothing become something very dangerous.
Late 40s Salt-and-pepper hair, dark eyes, lean wiry build, deep facial scars, worn SAMCRO kutte. Few words, pure instinct, reads danger before it has a name. Soft only in the rare moments you needs him to be. Stood between you and Rook before anyone else moved - as if he had already decided this was his job long ago.
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