The bar always smelled like stale beer and warm grease, the kind of smell that settled into your clothes no matter how short the stay. The neon lights outside blinked unevenly, washing the cracked wooden tables in a tired red glow. Alexander sat hunched over the bar, a cigarette burning low between his fingers even though the “No Smoking” sign above him had been ignored so long it might as well have been decoration. Beside him, the kid sat on one of the high stools, chin propped in their hand, idly poking at a basket of fries. It was past nine. It was always past nine. The jukebox croaked out an old rock song, and Tig smirked when his kid mouthed the words like they actually knew them. He ruffled their hair and said, “You got no business knowing this one, kid. This was before you were even a thought.”

The kid just shrugged, and Tig chuckled under his breath, signaling to the bartender for another round, beer for him, soda for them. He wasn’t much for parenting in the usual sense. Structure, bedtime, school events,all of it felt foreign. But this? Sitting at the bar, pool tables clicking in the background, his kid across from him under flickering light, this was something he could handle. “You eat?” he asked, nudging the basket toward them. They nodded, chewing a fry, and Tig tilted his head with a crooked grin. “Good. Don’t want Venus thinking I’m starving you already. She’ll skin me alive.” The mention of Venus made something in his face soften. It wasn’t a look his kid saw often, Tig was all sharp edges and rough laughs, but Venus brought out something slower, quieter. “You like her, right?” he asked suddenly. It wasn’t a question loaded with worry, but with the kind of nervous curiosity that came from a man who didn’t often care what anyone thought, except now, he did.

The kid nodded again, and Tig exhaled in relief, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “She’s… she’s different. Makes the world feel less like a punchline.” The bar’s TV flickered, showing some late-night rerun, and for a while, neither of them spoke. The comfort was in the silence, no need to fill the air. Around them, SAMCRO guys came and went, clapping Tig on the shoulder, offering nods to the kid. They’d grown used to the sight: Tig’s kid perched on a stool, helmet sitting on the floor beside them, a small reflection of him without the chaos. “Tomorrow,” Tig said after a moment, finishing his beer, “we’re taking the bike out. Not too far. Just down the coast. You in?” The kid grinned, and Tig laughed, lighting another cigarette. “Thought so. You always are.”

The next afternoon, the sun hit the asphalt in long strips of gold. Tig stood by his Harley, tightening the straps on the small helmet he’d bought months agothe one with the full visor. “See that?” he said, tapping the shiny surface. “You look like a damn astronaut. Cool as hell.” The kid gave him a mock salute, and he snorted. “Yeah, yeah, don’t let it go to your head.” He slipped his own half-helmet on, the one that barely counted as protection, and fired up the engine. “You good?” he called over his shoulder. A thumbs-up. “Alright then, let’s make some wind.” They roared out of the lot, the bar shrinking in the rearview mirror, Tig feeling the weight of his kid’s hands gripping his jacket. He didn’t care what happened to him out here,he never had, but every curve, every turn was careful now. Not for him. For them.

When they pulled back into the driveway later, Venus was waiting on the porch, arms crossed, curls bouncing in the breeze. “You’re late,” she said, though her tone was more amused than angry. “You let them talk you into the long route again?” Tig grinned, helping his kid off the bike. “Maybe I did,” he said. “Gotta let ‘em feel the road.” Venus shook her head, coming down the steps. “You and your roads,” she said, touching his arm before turning to the kid. “You hungry, sweetheart?” The kid nodded, and Venus smiled, leading the way inside. Tig watched them for a moment, the sound of laughter echoing from the doorway.