“Come on,” Kristy said, dragging the words out with both hands clasped in her lap. “Just one party. One. You never come out with me anymore.”

Sam gave her a look over her shoulder, one dark curl falling loose near her cheek. “Because your idea of going out usually involves me standing in a corner while you flirt with somebody who has tattoos on his neck.”

“That happened one time.”

“It happened twice.”

Kristy grinned instead of denying it, which only made Sam shake her head and turn back to the closet. She was still in her jeans from work at the diner, her hair loose around her shoulders, smelling faintly like coffee and vanilla syrup no matter how many times she washed her hands. Her textbooks were stacked on the kitchen table outside the bedroom, little bright tabs sticking out from chapters she still had to study before class the next night, and the sensible part of her kept trying to grab hold of that excuse. She was tired. She had worked a long shift. She had notes to review. She had no business going to some party with Kristy and whatever new trouble Kristy had found herself smiling at.

Kristy must have seen the refusal forming on her face because she leaned forward quickly. “It’s with Juice.”

Sam paused. “Juice?”

“My boyfriend.”

“His name is Juice?”

“That’s what everybody calls him.”

Sam slowly turned around, brows pulling together in disbelief. “Kristy.”

“What?”

“You’re asking me to go to a party with a man named Juice.”

Kristy threw herself backward on the bed with a dramatic groan. “Oh my God, Sam, you’re making it sound weird.”

“It is weird.”

“He’s sweet,” Kristy insisted, lifting herself up on her elbows. “He’s funny, he’s cute, and he really wants to meet you. And it’s not like some random stranger’s house or anything. It’s at his garage.”

That did not help. In fact, Sam’s expression only became more skeptical. “A garage?”

Kristy smiled too widely. “Kind of a garage.”

“What does ‘kind of a garage’ mean?”

“It means there’s a garage,” Kristy said, waving a hand like the details were not important. “And a clubhouse.”

“A clubhouse?” Sam repeated, even more doubtful now. “Are we going to a party or a secret meeting?”

Kristy laughed, but Sam did not. Sam stood there with her arms crossed, soft mouth pressed together, trying to picture herself walking into some greasy mechanic shop full of people she did not know. She was not rude, and she was not afraid of people exactly, but she had never been the kind of woman who could walk into a room and own it the way Kristy could. Sam needed a minute. Sometimes five. Sometimes the whole night. She could talk to anyone once she felt safe, once the first nervous flutter passed, but until then she always felt too aware of herself: her curls, her smile, the way her jeans fit, the way her voice got too soft when she was unsure.

Kristy softened when she saw that look. She climbed off the bed and came toward her, taking both of Sam’s hands. “Please. I don’t want to go alone, and I want you to meet him. If you hate it, we’ll leave. I promise. One drink, maybe two, and then we come back here and you can tell me I have terrible taste in men.”

Sam looked at her for a long second, trying very hard not to give in too fast. “You do have terrible taste in men.”

“Exactly. So come supervise.”

A reluctant smile tugged at Sam’s mouth, dimples appearing before she could stop them. Kristy saw victory immediately and squealed before Sam had even answered.

“Fine,” Sam said, pointing at her. “But if this turns out to be scary, gross, or illegal, I’m leaving.”

Kristy’s smile widened. “Define illegal.”

“Kristy.”

“I’m kidding.”

Sam was not fully convinced, but an hour later she was standing in front of her mirror in the same fitted brown long-sleeved top she had almost changed out of twice, the soft ribbed fabric buttoned at the front and cut just high enough to show a little skin above her blue jeans. She wore a small gold necklace at her throat and left her dark curls down because Kristy had swatted her hands away every time she tried to tie them back. Her makeup was simple, warm enough to bring out her brown eyes and the natural sweetness in her face, but not so much that she felt unlike herself. She looked pretty, she supposed. Soft. Maybe too soft for a garage party, whatever that meant.

By the time they reached Teller-Morrow, Sam had decided that Kristy had wildly undersold the situation. It was not just a garage. There was a row of bikes outside, heavy and shining beneath the lot lights, men in black leather moving through the smoke and music like they belonged to another world entirely. The clubhouse sat attached to the shop, loud with laughter and the low pulse of rock music, the open door spilling gold light across the pavement. Sam slowed before they even got inside, her nerves rising sharp and sudden in her chest, but Kristy looped an arm through hers and leaned close.

“They’re nice,” Kristy whispered.

Sam looked at the motorcycles, then the men, then the leather cuts with patches she did not understand. “That’s a generous word.”

Kristy only laughed and tugged her forward.

Inside, the clubhouse was warmer, louder, and stranger than Sam had imagined. It smelled like beer, leather, cigarettes, motor oil, and something fried from somewhere in the back. Men shouted over the music, women laughed from the couches, and the pool table sat beneath a hanging light where a few guys were gathered with bottles in hand. Sam stayed close to Kristy at first, her shoulders slightly drawn in, not unfriendly but cautious, taking everything in with wide brown eyes. She looked exactly like someone who had accidentally stepped into a life she had only ever seen from the outside.

Across the room, Chibs Telford was bent over the pool table, cue steady in his hand, black leather cut sitting over dark clothes, silver and gray threaded through his slicked-back hair beneath the yellowed light. He made his shot clean, the ball cracking hard into the pocket, but his attention shifted before anyone could praise it. His eyes lifted toward the door almost lazily at first, then held there. Kristy came in bright and confident, waving at Juice before she was even fully inside, but the girl beside her was the one Chibs noticed. Soft brown top, blue jeans, dark curls falling over her shoulders, golden-tan skin warm under the clubhouse lights, and a shy little smile that appeared and disappeared like she was not sure she was allowed to use it yet.

She looked sweet.

Too sweet for this place, was the first thing that crossed his mind.

Chibs straightened slowly, one hand resting on the end of the pool cue, his expression calm enough that no one around him would have known he was watching her with any particular interest. But he was. He watched the way she let Kristy lead her in, the way her fingers curled lightly around the strap of her purse, the way she smiled politely when Juice came over too excited and kissed Kristy like he had been waiting all night. Sam looked away from that kiss with a small embarrassed laugh, then looked right back because she did not want to seem rude. That made Chibs’s mouth twitch faintly.

Kristy introduced her “This is Sam. Sam, this is, uh… everybody.”

“That’s very helpful,” Sam said softly, and the guys closest to her laughed because her voice was gentle but her timing was good.

Kristy went on, dragging her farther into the room. “This is Jax, Opie, Bobby, Tig—”

“Tig Trager,” Tig said, stepping forward before anyone could stop him, all charm and trouble as he took Sam’s hand with exaggerated care. “And I gotta say, sweetheart, Juice did not mention Kristy was bringing somebody this pretty.”

Sam’s eyes widened, and before she could answer, Tig lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles like he was some kind of outlaw gentleman. The gesture startled a laugh out of her, bright and bashful, her cheeks warming as she gently pulled her hand back.

“Oh,” she said, smiling despite herself. “Okay. That’s… that’s a very formal garage greeting.”

The room cracked up at that, even Jax ducking his head with a grin. Tig looked delighted, as if she had just given him permission to adore her for the rest of the night. “I like her.”

Sam’s blush deepened, but there was a little pleased sparkle in her eyes now, the first of her nerves loosening. She was charming without trying to be, the kind of charming that came from being a little awkward and honest at the same time. She did not know how to perform for a room like this, so she simply stood there being herself, smiling when she felt like smiling, fidgeting when she did not know where to put her hands, answering questions with soft humor that made the men lean in because she was so different from the usual women who walked through their door.

Jax leaned against the bar and nodded toward the cooler. “You want a beer, Sam?”

She hesitated, glancing briefly at Kristy as if checking whether that was the normal thing to do at a garage-clubhouse-whatever-this-was party. “Um. Sure. Yeah. Thank you.”

Jax handed her one, already opened, and she took it with both hands. “Thanks.”

“You all right?” he asked, amused but not unkind.

Sam looked around at the leather, the smoke, the bikes visible through the open door, the crow painted on the wall, the men who all seemed like they had known each other forever. Then she gave a small, nervous smile. “Yeah. I just… I’ve never been to a party in a car garage before.”

“It shows?” she asked, a little horrified, and that made Jax grin wider.

“A little.”

Sam covered her face for half a second, laughing quietly at herself. “Great. Very cool. I’m doing amazing.”

“You’re doing fine,” Kristy told her, squeezing her arm.

Sam took a small sip of beer and tried not to make a face, though Chibs saw the tiny twitch at her mouth from across the room. He had been quiet through all of it, watching the way the clubhouse responded to her. Tig was already half in love, Jax looked entertained, Juice looked proud because Kristy looked happy, and Sam seemed to have no idea that she had softened the whole room just by walking into it. She stood under the warm lights with her curls loose and her dimples appearing whenever someone made her laugh, sweet enough to make a man want to be careful and pretty enough to make him forget that careful was a thing he knew how to be.

Kristy finally noticed him by the pool table and brightened. “Oh, and that’s Chibs.”

Sam turned.

For a second, all her earlier nervousness came back, but in a different shape. Chibs was not loud like Tig or easy-smiling like Jax. He was still, calm, and sharp-eyed, leaning slightly against the pool table in his black leather like he did not need to move for the room to know he belonged there. His gaze met hers directly, not rude, not wandering, but steady enough that Sam felt it in her stomach. He had graying hair slicked back from his face, a salt-and-pepper goatee, rings on his hand where he held the pool cue, and a presence that made her suddenly very aware of the little strip of skin between her shirt and jeans.

Chibs set the cue down and came toward her with unhurried steps, the noise of the clubhouse seeming to dull a little around him. Sam straightened without meaning to, fingers tightening around the beer bottle. When he stopped in front of her, he was close enough that she could catch the scent of leather and smoke, but not so close that it felt like he was crowding her.

“Samantha, is it?” he asked, voice low and calm.

“Sam,” she said quickly, then smiled, embarrassed by how fast it came out. “Most people call me Sam.”

His mouth curved just slightly, and his eyes warmed in a way that changed his whole face without making him any less intimidating. “Sam, then.”

He took her hand, not the way Tig had, not showy or teasing, but with quiet confidence, his fingers warm around hers. He did not kiss it. He only held it for a brief second, like he was greeting someone worth taking his time with.

“Chibs Telford,” he said. “And don’t you worry, love. First garage party’s always the worst.”

Sam blinked, then laughed softly, her cheeks going pink as his thumb brushed once, barely there, across her knuckles before he let her go.

“Is it?” she asked.

Chibs looked at her with that calm, unreadable little smile, like he had already decided something about her and was content to keep it to himself for now.

“Aye,” he said. “But I’ve got a feeling you’ll handle yourself just fine.”

The party kept rolling around them, loud and smoky and alive, the clubhouse full of music, laughter, clinking bottles, and the occasional burst of shouting whenever somebody won a hand of cards or made a dirty joke from across the room. Sam had relaxed enough by then to stop hovering so close to Kristy, though she still looked around sometimes like she was reminding herself where she was. A few hours ago she had been in her apartment worrying about nursing notes and whether a party at a garage sounded like a good idea. Now she was standing beside a pool table in the middle of SAMCRO’s clubhouse, beer in hand, dark curls loose over her shoulders, dimples flashing every time Juice or Kristy made her laugh.

Juice had insisted on teaching both girls how to play, though Kristy had quickly taken over like she knew exactly what she was doing, leaning over the table with a confidence that made Juice grin at her like she had hung the moon. Sam was not nearly as sure of herself. She stood with the pool cue in both hands, watching the game with a concentrated little frown, trying to remember which balls were theirs and which ones she was supposed to avoid. Every now and then she asked a quiet question, then apologized for asking it, then laughed when Juice explained it too fast and Kristy told him to slow down before he scared her off.

Chibs watched all of it from near the bar.

He had told himself twice to stop looking.

It did not work.

His beer sat half-forgotten in his hand while his eyes kept finding Sam no matter where she moved. He watched the way she tilted her head when she listened, the soft curve of her smile when she was embarrassed, the way her fingers nervously brushed at one of her curls before she tucked it back behind her ear. She was younger than him, that much was obvious, with that open sweetness still on her face, that little bit of uncertainty in her smile like she had not yet learned how much attention she pulled when she walked into a room. Twenty-four, maybe. Somewhere around there. Younger than he had any business noticing this closely.

But he did notice.

And he did not mind as much as maybe he should have.

There was nothing hard in her. Nothing jaded. Nothing trying too hard. She was soft in a way that did not feel weak, shy in a way that did not make her dull, and every time she laughed, Chibs felt his attention settle heavier on her. He had known plenty of women who knew exactly how to stand in a clubhouse and make men look. Sam did not seem to know she was doing it. That made it worse somehow. Better, too.

He pushed off from the bar eventually, finished what was left of his beer, and grabbed another from the cooler. Then he paused, glanced toward Sam’s bottle sitting nearly empty on the edge of the pool table, and took a second one. He walked over with that same calm, unhurried confidence he had carried all night, slipping into the little circle around the table without making a show of it. Juice looked up first, then Kristy, but Sam did not notice him right away. She was too busy watching the table with absolute seriousness, as if the fate of the whole clubhouse depended on whether she understood stripes or solids.

Chibs held the beer out to her.

Sam blinked when she realized he was beside her, and for a second all that earlier nervousness returned to her face. “Oh,” she said softly, looking from the bottle to him. “Thank you.”

“Thought you might need another,” he said.

She took it carefully, her fingers brushing his for just a moment. “That obvious?”

His eyes moved over her then, slow enough that she noticed and confident enough that he did not pretend he had not done it. It was not crude, not like some of the looks she had felt from men before, but it was direct. Her fitted brown top, the curve of her waist above her jeans, the fall of her dark curls, the warmth in her cheeks when she realized he was looking. Chibs took all of it in, then brought his eyes back to hers.

“Aye,” he said, mouth lifting slightly. “A little obvious.”

Sam’s blush deepened at once. She looked down at the beer bottle like it had become very interesting, though the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away. “I don’t usually drink a lot.”

“I gathered that.”

She looked up again, trying to seem more composed than she felt. “You gathered a lot in the five minutes I’ve been standing here?”

“More than five minutes, love.”

That made her still for half a second. It was not even what he said as much as how he said it, low and easy, like he had all the time in the world to watch her grt flustered. Sam tucked one curl behind her ear and gave a small laugh, the sound a little breathless.

Kristy, who was watching all of this with entirely too much enjoyment, leaned on her pool cue and cleared her throat loudly. “Sam. It’s your shot.”

Sam seemed grateful for the interruption and terrified of it at the same time. “Right. My shot. Which I am going to be very bad at, just so everyone has fair warning.”

Juice laughed. “You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that,” Sam said, stepping toward the table. “I have a gift for being bad at things that require coordination.”

Chibs leaned against the edge of the pool table, beer in hand, watching her line up the cue with too much care. Her brows drew together, lips pressing softly as she focused. Kristy stood beside Juice, biting her smile like she was trying not to laugh too soon. Sam bent a little over the table, adjusted the cue, adjusted it again, then glanced up at everyone.

“Don’t look at me,” she said.

“Bit late for that.” chibs said

She looked at him, immediately flustered, then quickly looked back at the ball. “Okay. That did not help.”

She took the shot.

It was terrible.

The cue ball rolled forward weakly, missed the nearest ball by a full foot, bumped sadly against the side cushion, and drifted to a stop in the middle of the table like it had simply given up. For one silent second, everyone stared at it. Then Sam burst out laughing, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as her shoulders shook.

“Okay,” she said, cheeks bright, dimples deep in her face. “Now you all know I’m awful at pool.”

Juice tried to be encouraging. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Kristy looked at him. “Baby, it was really bad.”

“I know,” Sam said, laughing harder now. “You don’t have to protect my feelings. That ball didn’t even know what I wanted it to do.”

Chibs chuckled under his breath, unable to help himself. There was something about the way she laughed at herself that got to him. No pouting, no embarrassment turning sharp, no pretending she was above the game. She simply accepted that she was awful and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. Sweet. Charming. A little awkward. Soft enough to make him want to be careful with her and bold enough, maybe, to surprise him.

“Could teach you,” he said.

Sam looked at him, still smiling. “You think I’m teachable after seeing that?”

“I’ve handled worse.”

“Pool players or people?”

His smile deepened just a little. “Both.”

Sam’s eyes widened with amused uncertainty, like she could not quite tell if he was joking, and that made Kristy laugh into her beer. Chibs liked how quickly Sam’s blush came back. He liked that she did not look away for as long this time.

He nodded toward the table, then back at her. “So, what do you do when you’re not breaking hearts at pool?”

Sam laughed softly and shook her head. “I work at a diner in town. Rosie’s on Main.”

“Rosie’s,” he repeated. “Know the place.”

“You do?”

“Aye. Decent coffee.”

“That’s generous,” Sam said, relaxing a little now that she had something normal to talk about. “The coffee’s awful unless I make it. And if Earl makes it, it tastes like he filtered it through a tire.”

Juice pointed at her with his beer. “That’s true. Earl’s coffee is criminal.”

Sam smiled, pleased somebody understood. “See? Exactly. I mostly do mornings there. Breakfast rush, lunch sometimes. People get very intense about pancakes before eight in the morning.”

Chibs watched her as she spoke, the way her hands moved lightly around the beer bottle, the way she became less shy when she had a thread of conversation to hold onto. “And nights?”

Her face brightened, though there was a tiredness behind it too. “Nursing classes. At night. So I work during the day, go to class after, study whenever I can keep my eyes open.”

Chibs’s expression shifted, only slightly, but enough that Sam noticed the approval in it. “That’s a lot.”

“It is,” she admitted. “But I like it. I mean, not the exams. The exams are evil. But I like learning it. I like feeling like maybe I could actually help somebody one day.”

There it was again, that softness that did not feel fragile. Chibs looked at her for a long moment, longer than he meant to, and Sam’s smile faded into something smaller under the weight of his attention.

“Good thing,” he said quietly. “Wanting to help people.”

Sam glanced down, then back up through her lashes. “Depends on the people.”

“Aye?” He tilted his head. “You picky about who gets saving?”

“A little,” she said, surprising herself as much as him. “I mean, I don’t know. Some people probably make it harder than others.”

Kristy’s eyebrows rose immediately because Sam De La Cruz flirting, even gently, was a rare enough event to deserve witnesses. Juice grinned into his beer. Chibs did not look away from Sam at all.

“And what kind of people would those be?” he asked.

Sam’s courage wavered under his stare, but she held on to just enough of it to lift one shoulder in a small shrug. “Probably the kind who hang around garage parties intimidating girls who are bad at pool.”

Chibs smiled then, not wide, but real enough to change the sharpness of his face. Sam saw it and went pink again, the confidence she had managed flickering into bashfulness almost immediately.

“Intimidating you, am I?” he asked.

“A little,” she confessed, then quickly added, “Not in a bad way.”

His eyes moved over her face, softer now, like he was taking in every honest piece of her and deciding he liked all of it. “Wouldn’t want to scare you off, Sam.”

The way he said her name made her grip tighten around the beer bottle. She was very aware of Kristy pretending not to watch, very aware of Juice suddenly finding the pool table fascinating, very aware of Chibs standing close enough that the leather of his kutte nearly brushed her arm. She tried to think of something clever to say, something easy and teasing the way Kristy would have done, but all that came out was a small, flustered smile.

“I’m still here,” she said.

Chibs held her gaze, calm and steady, his voice low enough that it felt meant only for her even with the whole party moving around them.

“Aye,” he said. “I noticed.”

Later on, when the party had settled into that loose, comfortable kind of chaos that came after enough beer and enough music, Sam wandered away from the pool table with her half-empty bottle held lightly in one hand. Kristy and Juice had ended up pressed close together near the bar, laughing about something that probably was not as funny as they thought it was, and no one seemed to mind that Sam had drifted off by herself. She was still shy enough not to throw herself into the middle of everything, but the edge of her nerves had softened. The beer had warmed her cheeks and loosened her tongue just enough that she was no longer standing like she was waiting for someone to tell her she was in the wrong place.

She moved slowly around the clubhouse, taking it in with curious brown eyes. The place was rougher than anywhere she usually spent her time, all dark wood, old leather, bottles, smoke, and history she did not understand yet. There were framed photos, patches, strange inside jokes, old club things that made her feel like she had walked into a family’s living room and a battlefield at the same time. It was intimidating, but not in the way she had expected. There was something strangely lived-in about it. Personal. Like every mark on the walls meant something to someone.

Then she found the mugshots.

Sam stopped in front of them, eyebrows lifting as she stared at the framed row of photographs. Faces stared back at her, some younger, some meaner, some with expressions that looked far too proud for men being photographed by law enforcement. She leaned in a little, dimples threatening as amusement slowly replaced surprise. Of course they had mugshots on the wall. Of course they framed them like family portraits. It should have scared her more than it did, but after a couple beers and a night of watching these men tease each other like brothers, all she could do was shake her head softly.

A quiet presence came up beside her before she heard his voice.

“Find something interesting?”

Sam turned her head and found Chibs standing close, one shoulder nearly level with hers, beer in hand, his black leather cut catching the clubhouse light. He had a way of appearing without making much noise, calm and solid and far too aware of the effect he had. His graying hair was pushed back neatly, his salt-and-pepper goatee framing that small, knowing curve of his mouth, and when his eyes moved from the wall to her face, Sam felt that same little flutter low in her stomach.

She looked back at the mugshots quickly, pretending she had not been caught staring at him. “Should I guess which one’s you?”

Chibs huffed a quiet laugh. “Careful, love. Might hurt my feelings.”

Sam’s smile widened, the beer making her a little braver. “You have feelings?”

“A few.”

“Are they framed on the wall too?”

That earned her a real smile, small but unmistakable, and it made her stomach flutter worse because he looked almost pleased with her. She turned back to the photographs before she could blush too obviously, scanning the names beneath the frames like she was doing something very serious. She pointed once, then changed her mind. Pointed again, then shook her head.

“No,” she murmured. “Too angry.”

“That one’s Tig.”

“Oh.” Sam glanced over her shoulder toward Tig, who was laughing loudly at the bar. “That makes sense.”

Chibs chuckled beside her, and the sound seemed to settle warmly against her skin. She kept searching, leaning closer to read the names beneath the frames, her curls sliding forward over one shoulder. Then her finger stopped beneath one of the photos. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in concentration as she read the name printed under it.

“Filip Telford,” she said aloud.

Chibs went still beside her, but not in a bad way. More like he was waiting to see what she would do with it.

Sam turned toward him slowly, looking genuinely confused. “I thought your name was Chibs.”

“It is.”

She blinked. “But it says Filip.”

“That’s my given name.”

“Filip,” she repeated, testing it out carefully, and then her face softened into a smile she tried and failed to hide. “Filip Telford.”

He watched her with quiet amusement. “Something funny about that?”

“No,” she said too quickly, which meant yes. “It’s just… I don’t know. You don’t look like a Filip.”

His brows lifted. “No?”

Sam shook her head, loose curls brushing her cheek. “No. Filip sounds like he owns a bakery. Or teaches history."

Chibs stared at her for half a second, then laughed under his breath, the sound low and rough enough to make her cheeks warm. “And what do I look like, then?”

She opened her mouth, then seemed to realize she had walked directly into that question. Her eyes dropped briefly to his cut, his rings, the beer in his hand, then back up to his face. The little confidence the beer had given her tangled with the way he was looking at her, and her voice came out softer than before.

“Not a history teacher.”

“No?” he asked, stepping just a little closer, not enough to trap her, only enough that the space between them felt deliberate.

Sam’s blush deepened. “No.”

Chibs looked down at her, taking in the warmth in her cheeks, the way she was smiling at him even while pretending she was not nervous. “Chibs is a nickname.”

“For what?”

His mouth tugged slightly. “Back home, a chib’s a blade. Name stuck after a fight I had a long time ago.”

Sam’s expression changed, amusement fading into something gentler as her eyes moved over him with a little more care. Not pity. He was glad of that. Just curiosity, maybe concern, maybe the instinctive softness that seemed to come naturally to her. “Oh.”

“Aye,” he said. “Not as pretty as Filip.”

She smiled again, but smaller this time. “I didn’t say Filip was pretty.”

“You compared me to a baker"

“That was an observation.”

“Sounded like flirting.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “It did not.”

Chibs leaned slightly closer, voice dipping low enough that the noise of the clubhouse seemed to fall away behind him. “Aye, it did.”

She looked down immediately, laughing under her breath as one hand came up to brush a curl behind her ear. “You’re very confident.”

“Been called worse.”

“I bet you have.”

His smile deepened. He liked her like this, a little more talkative, a little warmed by beer and attention, still sweet but not quite as guarded as she had been when she first walked in. She had enough nervousness in her to blush when he looked at her, but enough spark to answer him anyway. That combination was going to be trouble. He could already feel it. The kind of trouble a man noticed and then kept noticing even when he knew better.

“And what about you, Sam?” he asked. “You got a nickname?”

She lifted one shoulder. “Kristy calls me Sammy sometimes.”

“Sammy,” he repeated, voice slow around it.

The way he said it made her stomach flip. She tried to hide it by taking a sip of beer, but Chibs saw the smile touch the mouth of the bottle before she lowered it.

“Don’t say it like that,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

He angled his head, eyes steady on hers. “Maybe I do.”

Sam stared at him for a second too long, then laughed softly and looked away, cheeks pink, dimples showing despite her best effort to keep her face composed. “You are definitely not a Filip.”

Before Chibs could answer, Kristy appeared at Sam’s side with the sharp instincts of a best friend who had been watching from across the room and decided intervention was necessary. She slipped an arm around Sam’s waist and looked Chibs up and down with exaggerated suspicion.

“Okay,” Kristy said, pointing her beer bottle at him. “I see what’s happening here.”

Sam groaned quietly. “Kristy.”

“Nope.” Kristy pulled Sam a little closer, protective but clearly amused. “I’m just saying, Chibs, stay away from my friend. Sammy’s too sweet for a big bad biker.”

Sam’s face went instantly hot. “Oh my God.”

Chibs did not look offended. If anything, Kristy’s warning only seemed to amuse him. His eyes moved from Kristy to Sam, lingering on the way Sam was trying not to smile while looking absolutely mortified. Sweet was the right word for her. Too sweet, maybe. Too soft for the life around this clubhouse, too warm for men like him, too young and bright and careful with her heart.

But Sam looked up at him anyway, shy and blushing and curious, and Chibs felt something in him settle around the thought.

He might take that as a challenge.

Kristy pulled Sam back toward the pool table before Sam had fully recovered from being caught in front of the mugshot wall with Chibs looking at her like he had already decided she was worth the trouble. Sam went easily enough, though her cheeks were still warm and her smile kept trying to come back no matter how much she pressed her lips together. She could feel Kristy’s amusement beside her, that smug best-friend energy radiating off her in waves, and Sam gave her a warning look that only made Kristy grin harder.

“You are not subtle,” Sam murmured.

Kristy leaned close, practically glowing with mischief. “Neither was he.”

Sam looked away quickly, but not before her dimples betrayed her. “Stop.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Don’t just say.”

By the time they reached the pool table, Tig had taken Juice’s place and was leaning over the felt with the kind of dramatic confidence that made even a simple shot look like a performance. He sank a ball, straightened, and turned just in time to see Sam coming back with Kristy. His whole face lit up as if the party had become interesting again purely because she was standing near the table.

“Well, there she is,” Tig said, spreading his arms slightly. “The prettiest terrible pool player in Charming.”

Sam laughed before she could stop herself, one hand going to her chest. “That is such a specific compliment.”

“It’s from the heart.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely.” Tig leaned on his pool cue, eyes bright with trouble. “And because I am a generous man, I’m willing to help. You know, with your game.”

Kristy made a quiet snorting sound into her beer.

Sam looked from Tig to the table, then back at him with amused suspicion. “My game may be beyond help.”

“Not with the right teacher.” Tig stepped a little closer, lowering his voice into something overly smooth and ridiculous. “Private lessons. Nightly. Just you, me, a pool cue, maybe some mood lighting—”

“Tig,” Juice warned, laughing.

Sam burst out laughing, her face going pink as she shook her head. “Nightly lessons?”

“Intensive training,” Tig said solemnly. “Very hands-on.”

“Oh my God,” Sam said through another laugh, covering part of her face with her hand. “You are terrible.”

“I have references.”

“I’m afraid to ask from who.”

Tig looked delighted by her. He seemed to enjoy the fact that she laughed instead of snapping at him, that she blushed but still answered, that she had this gentle softness that made even her teasing feel sweet. Sam was not used to being flirted with so openly, especially not by men like this, men who made no attempt to soften the trouble in their smiles. It made her nervous, but not scared. She had laughed more in the last hour than she had expected to all week, and though she kept feeling out of place, the feeling was starting to become warmer, less like she had wandered somewhere forbidden and more like everyone had decided to let her stay.

Then Chibs joined them at the table.

He did not announce himself. He did not need to. One moment Sam was laughing at Tig, and the next she felt that steadier presence come up beside the table, felt the shift in the air before she even turned her head. Chibs stood near the corner pocket with his beer in hand, black leather cut sitting firm over his shoulders, graying hair slicked back, eyes sharp and calm as they moved to Sam first and stayed there. He had heard enough of Tig’s offer to understand exactly what kind of lesson was being suggested, but he did not look irritated. Not exactly. He looked amused in that quiet, dangerous way of his, like Tig could talk all he wanted and Chibs would still be the one Sam kept glancing at.

“Private lessons, is it?” Chibs asked.

Tig grinned. “Somebody’s gotta help the girl.”

Chibs looked at Sam then, openly, taking in the warm blush still on her cheeks, the way her curls fell over her shoulders, the little nervous smile she tried to hide behind the rim of her beer bottle. His gaze did not rush. It moved over her with the same unhurried confidence he had shown all night, like he had no intention of pretending he was not looking. Sam felt it immediately. Her fingers tightened around the bottle, and she dropped her eyes to the pool table as if the scattered balls had become the most fascinating thing in the room.

Chibs liked that.

He liked it too much, probably.

He liked how she went shy under attention but did not run from it. He liked the way her smile softened when she was trying not to react, the way her dimples appeared even when she was embarrassed, the way she glanced up at him and then quickly away again like she had been caught doing something she was not supposed to do. She was twenty-four, sweet as anything, working diner shifts and taking nursing classes at night, standing in the middle of a biker clubhouse with a beer in her hand and no real idea how badly she was drawing his eye. Chibs knew he should have looked elsewhere. There were plenty of women in the clubhouse who knew the rules, knew the life, knew what men like him were and what they could offer.

But Sam was the one he kept watching.

And by then he was not trying to hide it from her.

Sam could feel it so clearly that she finally looked up, brown eyes meeting his for half a second before her courage faltered. “What?”

Chibs lifted his brows slightly. “Didn’t say a thing, love.”

“You’re looking at me like you’re saying something.”

That made Tig laugh loudly, and Kristy bit down on a smile so hard it looked painful. Chibs’s mouth curved, slow and pleased, because there she was again, brave for one sentence and embarrassed by it the second it left her mouth.

“Aye?” he asked. “And what am I saying?”

Sam stared at him, instantly regretting that she had started this. “I don’t know.”

“No?”

“No,” she said, and then, because the beer had warmed her just enough to make her honest, she added, “But it’s making me nervous.”

Chibs leaned his hip lightly against the edge of the table, eyes still on her. “Not trying to.”

“Yes, you are.”

The answer came out soft, but it landed. Juice made a low “oooh” sound before Kristy elbowed him, and Tig grinned like he was watching the best show in the clubhouse. Sam’s face went hot at once, and she looked down with a helpless little laugh, embarrassed by her own boldness. Chibs, though, only looked more entertained, more drawn in. He had seen men flirt hard with women all his life; he had done it plenty himself. But there was something about Sam’s shy little accusation, the way she knew enough to call him out but not enough to keep from blushing afterward, that made his chest tighten with interest.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted.

Sam looked up through her lashes. “At least you’re honest.”

“When it suits me.”

“That’s not comforting.”

"Wasn’t meant to be.”

She laughed again, breathless and sweet, then reached for the pool cue because Kristy was tapping the table and telling her it was her turn. The attention around her did not help. Tig was watching with exaggerated faith. Juice was grinning. Kristy looked like she was seconds away from making another comment Sam would never forgive her for. And Chibs stood there at the corner of the table, silent and calm, his gaze resting on her like he had all night to wait and see what she did.

Sam tried to focus. She really did. She leaned over the table, brown top shifting slightly as she positioned herself, curls spilling forward until she had to stop and push them back over one shoulder. Her cheeks were still pink. She could feel Chibs watching her hands, her face, the nervous way she bit at the inside of her cheek while trying to line up the shot. It made every instruction Juice had given her disappear from her head.

“Okay,” she said under her breath. “This one is going to be better.”

“Confidence,” Tig said. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Sam glanced up at Chibs, caught him still looking, and immediately lost half of that confidence. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking.”

Chibs did not even pretend to glance away. “Hard not to.”

The pool cue slipped slightly in her hand.

Kristy made a tiny sound of delight. Sam closed her eyes for one second, laughing softly at herself because there was no dignified way to survive that. When she opened them again, she bent over the table with renewed determination, as if making one decent shot might restore some of her pride.

It did not.

She hit the cue ball too far to the side. It jumped forward at a strange angle, clipped the wrong ball, sent it rolling gently into absolutely nothing, and then the cue ball drifted straight toward the pocket and dropped in with a sad little clack.

The whole table went quiet for one beat.

Sam straightened slowly, still holding the cue, her eyes fixed on the pocket where the ball had disappeared. Then she lifted her free hand in surrender.

But him.

The boy she once dreamed of marrying.

The handsome prince who used to make her heart race with excitement long before grief and betrayal tangled all their lives together.

Yet the happiness came hand in hand with guilt so sharp it nearly made her chest ache.

Especially when he asked to see the grave.

She stood beside him in the gardens at Summerhall while he placed flowers gently over the tiny resting place, his face full of sorrow and tenderness.

Her stomach twisted painfully the entire time.

Because he believed he was mourning his son.

And only she knew the truth.

The secret clawed at her constantly now.

Sometimes it felt like something alive inside her chest.

If the truth ever emerged, it would destroy everything.

Aerion would never forgive either of them.

Maekar and Aerion might kill each other.

The realm itself could fracture under the scandal.

So the lie remained.

Necessary.

Terrible.

Permanent.

And perhaps the cruelest part of all was knowing Aerion’s grief was real.

He loved the child.

He mourned the child.

Even if the babe had never truly been his.

That thought haunted her more than anything.

By evening she felt emotionally exhausted from carrying the weight of it all.

Still, when they returned to her chambers together, Aerion remained close beside her the entire way, his hand resting lightly against the small of her back.

Protective.

Gentle.

Inside the room, candlelight flickered softly against the walls while the sounds of Summerhall quieted outside.

Aerion turned toward her slowly.

“I have missed you terribly,” he admitted.

Something vulnerable in his expression caught her off guard.

Not pride.

Not arrogance.

Just honesty.

He stepped closer carefully, as though giving her time to pull away if she wished.

“I want to be near you tonight,” he said softly. “But only if you wish it too.”

Her breath caught slightly.

There had been a time when Aerion never would have asked.

Never would have cared whether she wanted comfort or not.

Now he watched her carefully, waiting for her answer.

“I will be gentle,” he promised quietly.

The tenderness in his voice undid something inside her.

And to her own surprise—

she wanted him to touch her.

Not out of duty.

Not obligation.

Want.

Real want.

So she nodded faintly.

Aerion’s expression softened immediately with relief.

When he kissed her, it was nothing like the roughness she once dreaded from him. He moved slowly, carefully, as though relearning her piece by piece.

And she found herself responding just as softly.

There was still sadness between them.

Still grief.

But there was affection too.

Longing.

History.

As he held her close later beneath the blankets, fingers brushing gently through her curls, she realized something unexpected.

For the first time in many months—

her thoughts were not on Maekar.

Not his hands.

Not his voice.

Not the dangerous love between them.

Only Aerion.

Only the warmth of her husband beside her.

And the fragile hope that perhaps something between them could still be saved after all.

That night, Maekar remained alone in his chambers at Summerhall while the castle settled gradually into silence around him.

He knew where they were.

Knew Aerion was with her.

In her bed.

Holding her.

Perhaps kissing her the way Maekar himself had dreamed of doing again every night since leaving King’s Landing.

The knowledge sat in his chest like poison.

And what made it worse—what made him feel truly pathetic—was knowing he had no right to feel jealous at all.

She was Aerion’s wife.

Not his.

Never truly his.

Aerion had every right to her affection, her body, her comfort.

The thought twisted painfully inside him.

His wife.

Gods.

The words alone made Maekar feel sick.

Because despite all the love between them, despite the child they had created together, she still belonged to another man.

To his son.

He poured himself wine.

Then more.

Then enough that the edges of his thoughts finally began to blur slightly.

But even drunkenness could not silence the memories tonight.

The babe came back to him first.

So small.

So impossibly small.

Maekar closed his eyes and saw it all again with unbearable clarity:

The weight of the child resting in his hands.

Tiny fingers curled against the burial cloth.

That little patch of dark hair.

Hers.

Their son.

Gone before he had ever even opened his eyes to the world.

A rough sound escaped Maekar’s throat as he bowed his head into one hand.

He had held battlefields together with steadier nerves than this.

Yet grief was undoing him piece by piece.

Not only because the child was dead.

But because there would never be another.

Not truly.

The woman he loved was upstairs in the arms of her husband now, trying to rebuild a life that had nothing to do with Maekar.

And perhaps that was how it should be.

Perhaps this pain was deserved.

Yet the thought of Aerion touching her tonight still burned through him with humiliating intensity.

He imagined her smiling softly at his son.

Letting Aerion hold her.

Seeking comfort in him.

And Maekar hated himself for how deeply it wounded him.

Because Aerion was trying now.

Trying to be kinder.

Trying to love her properly.

Trying to become the husband he should have been from the beginning.

Maekar should have been relieved.

Instead he sat alone drinking himself toward numbness because every instinct inside him wanted what could never truly belong to him.

At some point he realized his hands were trembling faintly around the goblet.

That frightened him more than anything else.

Maekar Targaryen was not a man who lost control.

Yet lately it felt as though every carefully built wall inside him was beginning to crack.

Grief.

Jealousy.

Love.

Loss.

All of it tangled together until he barely recognized himself anymore.

He stared into the fire for a very long time afterward, alone with the ache of a dead child and a forbidden love that refused to die no matter how desperately he tried to bury it.