The clubhouse was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—engine grease and beer, laughter bouncing off scarred wood, the low hum of a movie no one was really paying attention to. SAMCRO was scattered everywhere: boots on tables, ol’ ladies curled into sides, Tig heckling the screen like it might heckle back.

Your purse sat abandoned on the end of the bar, slouched open just enough to be tempting.

Tig noticed it the way a raccoon notices an unlocked trash can.

“Sweetheart always carries candy,” he announced, already reaching for it. “I’m practically doing inventory control here.”

A few groans followed. Chibs muttered something about losing a hand. Gemma didn’t even look up from her drink, just smirked like she already knew how this would end.

Tig dug through with zero shame—lip balm, keys, a lighter he absolutely didn’t need—until his fingers brushed something stiff and glossy tucked into the inner pocket. He frowned, curious now, and pulled it free.

A Polaroid.

The room quieted in that subtle, instinctive way bikers had when something interesting happened.

Tig’s eyebrows shot up. “Well I’ll be damned.”

He turned the photo so the light hit it properly, and a low whistle slipped out before he could stop it.

It was you and Jax, caught in a mirror from some dimly lit bathroom or bedroom. You were wearing that black dress—the one that hugged you like it knew exactly what it was doing. Jax was behind you, denim and ink and heat, one hand wrapped firmly around your throat, not squeezing but claiming. His other hand was high on your thigh, fingers digging in like he needed the proof you were real. His mouth was at your neck, mid-kiss, lips just shy of skin, and you were smiling—soft, dangerous, completely undone.

For a split second, no one spoke.

Then Tig barked out a laugh. “Jesus Christ, Jackie Boy.”

Juice leaned forward. “That explains a lot.”

Gemma finally turned, took one look, and hummed knowingly. “That girl owns him.”

Jax, who had just walked back in with snacks in hand, froze.

“What the hell?” he said flatly.

Every eye snapped to him. Tig held the photo up between two fingers like evidence. “You lose something, brother?”

The air shifted. Jax’s jaw tightened, blue eyes darkening as he crossed the room in three long strides. He didn’t yell. Didn’t joke. He simply took the Polaroid back with care that bordered on reverence, thumb brushing over your smile.

“That’s not yours,” he said quietly.

You stepped in then, catching the look on his face, heat curling low in your stomach. “Find something good?”

Jax slipped the photo back into your purse himself, then wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His hand settled at your throat—brief, familiar, possessive—just enough to remind everyone in the room exactly where you belonged.

“Movie night’s over,” Tig muttered, grinning.