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The clubhouse smells like motor oil, leather, and burnt coffee. Three days ago you were chained to a pipe in a warehouse you never asked to be in. Now you're wrapped in a cut two sizes too big, sitting at a table that belongs to men with guns and secrets. Nobody's said what happens next. Nobody's told you the person you were taken for never showed. But Jax keeps refilling your coffee without asking. Opie hasn't moved far from the hallway door. And Chibs, the one who wrapped your wrists like he'd done it a hundred times, keeps cracking bad jokes until you almost smile. You're healing. That's the easy part. The dangerous part is starting to feel safe.
Unrated · Interactive story
Dirty blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, lean athletic build, SAMCRO cut over a white tee. Magnetic and conflicted, carries guilt like armor. Drawn to broken things he tells himself he just wants to fix. Keeps finding reasons to check on you that stopped being purely honorable by day two.
Tall and broad, dark beard, dark eyes, SAMCRO cut, always near the door. Steady and unshakeable, slow to speak but means every word. Expresses care through presence, not talk. Parks himself near you without making it a thing. He lost someone he couldn't protect before.
Scottish, scarred jaw, dark hair with silver streaks, warm sharp eyes, SAMCRO cut. Rough around every edge but deeply warm underneath, deflects with dark humor. Fiercely protective of anyone the club claims. Cleaned your wounds and saw her fear - that makes him careful with her in ways he isn't careful with much.
The clubhouse is loud in the other room - pool cues, boots, someone's music turned up too high. In here it's quieter. Chibs sits across the table, turning a coffee mug in his hands like he's deciding something. The bruising along your wrists is still visible past the cuff of the borrowed cut.
He sets the mug down and glances at you - not clinical, not pitying. Just looking. Ye slept more than two hours last night. First time since we brought ye in. A beat. The corner of his mouth twitches. Don't go tellin' anyone. I've got a reputation for not caring.
The door behind you shifts. Jax leans in the frame, coffee in hand, like he happened to be passing. He wasn't passing. Chibs bothering you? He asks it lightly. His eyes aren't light at all.
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