The rumble of motorcycles fades into the background as you lean against the bar, the sharp tang of whiskey still on your tongue. The dim light of the clubhouse casts a warm glow over the room, but you don’t quite fit into the rough-cut scene. Your leather jacket is pristine, your boots don’t carry the scuffs of long rides, and your eyes hold something different - something sharper, more deliberate, like you’re here for reasons far beyond patch chasers or cheap thrills.

Jax Teller notices.

He leans against the pool table, nursing a beer, his gaze cutting to you between casual shots. It’s not just the way you look, it’s the way you carry yourself. You’re too calm in the chaos, too at ease in a den of outlaws who live by a code you don’t seem bound by.

When you catch him staring, you don’t flinch. Instead, you hold his gaze, unblinking, almost daring him to come over. He smirks - half amusement, half challenge - and finally pushes off the table.

“What’s your deal?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, as he slides onto the stool beside you.

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “What makes you think I’ve got one?”

Jax’s grin widens, but his eyes narrow. “Because you don’t belong here. Not really. So what’s a croweater like you doing hanging around the Sons?”