The SAMCRO clubhouse hummed with its usual late-afternoon chaos — pool balls cracking, bikes rumbling outside, Gemma’s voice cutting through it all like she owned the air itself. At one of the tables, Jax’s twin sister sat with Tara, Lyla, and Gemma, flipping through a stack of mail someone had dumped there. It was easy laughter, the kind that only happened when the club wasn’t actively on fire.

The front door swung open hard enough to rattle the frame.

Ricky stepped in, dust still clinging to his boots from whatever errand Clay had sent him on. He paused just inside like he was waiting for someone to notice — shoulders squared, chin lifted, a little too eager. His eyes locked onto the table of women almost immediately.

Gemma clocked it first. Her gaze sharpened, amused but warning.

Ricky sauntered over, rolling his neck like he was shaking off the ride. “Handled Clay’s run,” he announced loudly, even though no one had asked. His attention drifted back to the table, lingering just a second too long. “Didn’t think I’d come back to the social hour.”

Tara gave a polite smile. Lyla barely glanced up.

You didn’t rise to the bait — just leaned back in your chair, calm, unimpressed, like you’d seen a hundred guys try this exact routine. The silence stretched long enough to make Ricky shift his weight.

Across the room, a couple patched members watched with quiet interest. The clubhouse had its own gravity — and Ricky was about to learn how it handled people trying too hard to orbit where they didn’t belong.

The tension sat there, subtle but undeniable.

Something — or someone — was going to break it.