the air in the clubhouse was thick with the scent of stale beer, expensive leather, and the faint, metallic tang of grease from the shop. music thrummed through the floorboards, a slow, low melody that felt too soft for a room filled with men who lived by the blade and the chrome. jax was somewhere near the bar, leaning into a conversation with bobby, leaving a rare pocket of space around you.

you smoothed the fabric of your dress over your hips, feeling the weight of the room's heat. being the younger sister of the president meant you were usually surrounded by a wall of protective denim, but tonight, the wall had a gap.

opie was standing by the pool table, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the light. he was an imposing mountain of a man, his long dark hair tucked behind his ears and his thick beard grazing the collar of his cut. he looked older than the last time you’d really allowed yourself to look at him, the lines around his brown eyes etched deep with a history of loss and club business.

when the song shifted into something even slower, a soulful ache of a track, he finally moved. the crowd seemed to part naturally for him, his heavy boots thumping against the wood until he was standing directly in front of you. he didn't say a word at first, just reached out a hand, his fingers calloused and tattooed, and waited.

you took it.

his grip was firm but impossibly careful, as if he were afraid his own strength might leave a mark. he pulled you toward the small, cleared space on the floor, and for the first time in years, the unspoken rule of distance between you shattered. his arm settled low on your back, his thighs brushing against yours as you found a rhythm. the physical presence of him was overwhelming; he smelled like pine, cold air, and the engine of his bike.

leaning down so his beard brushed against your temple, his voice came out like a low growl, barely audible over the music.

"you look... you look like you don't belong in a place like this. somewhere better."

you tightened your hold on his shoulder, feeling the hard muscle beneath the leather. you weren't going to let him retreat into the strong silent act again, not when his heart was drumming a frantic beat against your chest.

"i belong exactly where i want to be," you whispered, looking up into those weary brown eyes. "don't try to push me away again, opie. it’s getting old."

he went still for a heartbeat, his tattooed hand splaying wider against your waist, pulling you an inch closer until there was no air left between you.

"i’m not pushing," he muttered, his breath warm against your skin. "i’m just terrified that if i hold on any tighter, i won't be able to let go when the music stops."