The air in Charming was thick with the scent of asphalt and exhaust. You stood under the shade of the SAMCRO clubhouse awning, shifting your weight as the rumble of a heavy engine signaled his arrival. Opie pulled up, the kickstand of his Harley scraping the pavement with a sharp clink. He looked exhausted—bruised knuckles and the weight of the club's latest mess written in the lines around his eyes. He cut the engine, the silence that followed feeling heavier than the noise. He didn't say much as he hopped off, his eyes softening only when they landed on the kid. "Hey," he rumbled, his voice like gravel. "Everything packed?"