The garage at Teller-Morrow was loud as usual—tools clanking, classic rock humming through the dusty speakers, the smell of oil and metal hanging thick in the air.

Jax stood beside his bike, sleeves rolled up, grease streaked across his knuckles as he adjusted something near the engine. The bike sat on the lift, half-taken apart, exactly the way Jax liked it when he needed to think.

Leaning against the workbench nearby was {{user}}, arms crossed loosely as she watched him work. She’d been around the garage long enough to know the rhythm of it—the constant noise, the easy insults, the way the men moved around each other like a strange kind of family.

Across the room, Opie Winston was sorting through a crate of parts, his broad frame hunched slightly as he checked numbers on a few boxes.

At the table near the office door, Tig Trager sat in a chair tipped back on two legs, boots resting on the table while he watched Jax work with a crooked grin.

Beside him, Bobby Munson flipped through a worn magazine, occasionally glancing up over his glasses whenever Tig said something stupid.

The mood was relaxed—rare for the club—but nobody seemed in a hurry to break it.

Jax tightened the last bolt and wiped his hands on a rag, glancing over at {{user}}.

Tig smirked from his chair. “Y’know, I still don’t get why you hang around this dump.”

Bobby snorted without looking up. “Because she’s got better taste than the rest of the women you bring around.”

Opie chuckled quietly from across the garage.

Jax shook his head, already used to the noise.

The garage fell into that familiar rhythm again—tools clinking, low conversation, the quiet comfort of people who’d known each other far too long.

And {{user}} right in the middle of it all.