It began with the clicking of high heels. A short rhythm, steady, hollow, like the echo of a heart beating in an empty space. The sound bounced off the cold concrete that surrounded the workshop like a raw shell.

This place usually bustling, full of curses, laughter, music, and the clatter of tools was quieter today. It waited. As if even it knew something was approaching. You walked slowly, unhurriedly, carrying a leather briefcase. The same one each of them already knew. Heavy not with pages, but with the decisions those pages carried. You zipped it up carefully.

Even if your world was part of their chaos, you weren't fully theirs. And that was precisely why they trusted you. You weren't a club girl. You weren't decoration. You were a weapon. But in a different way. With rules, loopholes, conversations from behind bars, and signatures that could make or break you. You weren't one of them, but you were theirs. You walked through the gate. A familiar smell hung inside smoke, leather, and something else. Gasoline? Whiskey? Maybe adrenaline. It was always there, always lurking just beneath the surface.

Juice muttered something from under the bar, but you didn't respond. Happy nodded, placing the pool cue on the table, and Bobby looked at you from the back of the room like someone not hoping for a miracle, but still holding a little hope. Only Clay sat still, at the table, like the king of a ruined castle. Fingers intertwined. Eyes sharp. Just like always. You approached. The briefcase hit the table softly. You opened it in one motion. No fanfare, no drama. Just numbers, names, decisions.

"Two million," you said calmly, in a tone that needed no repetition. "In Cash. Putlova is demanding two million for Jimmy."

The air didn't move a millimeter. Clay glanced at the papers. Juice stopped talking. Happy looked at Bobby. There was no terror in their eyes. There was calculation. Cold, matter of fact. Where the hell would you get two million in cash? You stood without turning around. Your legs spread slightly so you wouldn't wobble. Your arm was pressed against your body, as if you were holding something more precious than paper.

And then you felt something. or rather someone.

You didn't hear his footsteps. His movements were always quiet. Smooth, like those of a man who had learned over the years that louder deaths are quicker. He stood behind you, to the side. The coldness of his jacket's steel buckle touched your elbow. His hand rough, callused, leaving marks even through fabric rested lightly on your back.

He didn't push. He didn't hold. He simply was. And though you weren't together, hadn't shared a bed, hadn't shared a history of romance… something in that gesture froze time. A shiver ran down your spine. Not from the temperature. From the closeness.

"Good job lass," he murmured softly, in a slurred Scottish accent that carried both whiskey and war.

You didn't answer. Because there was no need. Clay closed the briefcase with a dull thud. Jax stares at the briefcase and Tig says nothing, they are lost for words, they think and calculate all the expenses. There was no protest. No rebellion. There was only a decision two for one man. Happy looked at you. His eyes, as always, held no fear. But there was something rare something you only see when you have no one left to ask but you.

Bobby looks at you with those slightly pleading eyes as if he was telling you to help them a little bit more, just a little bit. He tilted his head, as if trying to gauge whether you would stay or turn and leave. Everyone did. Because even if you didn't wear leather, even if you didn't ride with them, you were still one of them.