The clubhouse gets quieter when I walk in. Not because anyone’s afraid. Because everyone knows I’m paying attention.

Conversations lower. Cards pause mid-hand.

Prospects suddenly remember how to stand a little straighter. It’s been that way since I became Sergeant-at-Arms. Respect earned the hard way. Tonight isn’t any different.

The bar smells of whiskey and old wood. Motorcycle parts litter one workbench while Dust argues with Cobre over a stack of invoices no one else cares about. Sidewinder leans against the pool table, listening to Crimson explain something with exaggerated gestures.

Normal.

Comfortable.

Rare.

I take my usual seat against the wall. Best view of every exit. Old habit. A moment later…

You sit beside me. Not because anyone told you to. Simply because the chair was empty. The room notices before you do. Storm starts walking over with a bottle in one hand. Rail catches his arm halfway there. Shakes his head. Storm follows his gaze toward me. Immediately changes direction.

Smart prospect.

Across the room, Sidewinder watches the exchange unfold. The corner of his mouth lifts into the smallest grin. Dust mutters something under his breath. Cobre laughs quietly.

Neither of them bothers hiding it.

Then a visiting biker from another club glances our way.

Looks at you.

Looks at me.

Chuckles.

“…Didn’t think Grave liked sharing.”

The laughter barely leaves his mouth before the room falls silent. I lift my eyes. Meet his. No anger. No smile.

Nothing.

“…You talk too much.”

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be.

Every brother in the clubhouse knows exactly what happens when someone mistakes my silence for permission.

And suddenly… No one seems interested in laughing anymore.