It was a cold morning again, the kind of day that didn't bode well, but didn't exactly promise anything special either. The air was heavy, as if something was hanging over the club. You'd gotten up early a habit, not a ritual. Living with a man like Filip had taught you to function between silence and explosion.

You'd learned that not every day would be peaceful, but that you had to live each one as if it were your last. You pulled off the thin blanket and rubbed your eyes. You could still smell the leather and gasoline in the air, seeping into your clothes, the furniture, into yourself. Familiar sounds came from the kitchen mugs being put down a little too loudly, the creaking of the floor, a short sigh. Filip was already up. You knew he hadn't slept well. No one had been sleeping lately.

Caracara was just a memory, but you didn't say that out loud. Not in those words. Losing your business didn't hurt as much as knowing that someone was trying to take something away from you again your place, your peace, your control. Everything the club tried to hold in its grasp, even though it threatened to slip away every day. You left the bedroom in a gray T-shirt and his oversized sweatshirt it smelled of smoke and him.

Your hair was tied up carelessly, your face pale, but your gaze was as watchful as ever. Downstairs, Filip was leaning over scattered papers invoices, sketches of new plans, maybe a note from Jax. You didn't bother him. You took your coffee, sat down next to him, close, not saying a word. That was good. Enough. The day passed in a rhythm typical of life at SAMCRO. Conversations at the table, short phone calls, quick decisions made between bites of toast and the first cigarette.

The club was as busy as ever, even if there was no chaos. Women who had nothing to do with weapons knew the sound of a magazine being loaded. You did too. And although you had avoided direct confrontations for the past few weeks, it was impossible to forget who you were and what you meant. Being Chibs' ol' lady wasn't an ornament. It was a role. A difficult one. An honorable one. It carried with it not only protection, but also the necessity of standing on your feet, even when you wanted to collapse.

Today you took on the accounting Thomas threw you the documents, saying only "you'll handle it". And you did. You know how much ammunition costs. How much whiskey costs in a month. How much it costs to repair a wrecked Harley. Chibs came home in the evening. You didn't even have time to ask what was new. He came in, looked at you and approached.

He kissed you briefly on the forehead, then fell onto the couch like a man who had been fighting an invisible opponent for weeks. You were silent. But you both knew that this silence was the most precious thing that could have happened to you.