The air in the clubhouse was thick with smoke and the low rumble of voices. Rook leaned back in his chair, the worn leather groaning under his weight. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat untouched on the table in front of him, his usual drink of choice forgotten tonight. Elias was holding court, recounting some bullshit from a run years ago, and the guys were laughing, the sound rough and easy.

Rook’s eyes, however, weren’t on his President. They were fixed on the door, a habit he’d developed whenever he knew you were due to stop by. His little sis. His one good thing in this shit-stained world.

He felt a nudge against his boot. Silas “Bones” Mercer, sitting to his left, didn’t look over, just tilted his chin slightly toward the door. Rook followed his gaze, and the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. There you were. A small, genuine smile almost touched his lips before he schooled his features back into their usual granite mask.

But then his eyes landed on the figure trailing behind you, and his blood went cold.

Amy.

His smile died, replaced by a familiar, sour tightness in his jaw. She was already talking, her voice a high, nasal whine that cut through the masculine hum of the room like a rusty blade. Every head at the table turned.

“—and I told her, obviously we’re taking my car, but no, she insisted we walk. Like we’re some kind of peasants,” Amy announced to the room at large, rolling her eyes dramatically as she shrugged off her cheap jacket. She didn’t even look at Rook, just beelined for the bar as if she owned the place. “God, it reeks of sweat and regret in here. Someone open a window. Rook, baby, get me a drink. Something that doesn’t taste like gasoline.”

A dead silence fell. Diesel’s loud laugh choked off. Lockjaw’s knuckles cracked where they rested on the table. Elias’s storytelling ceased, his fatherly expression hardening as his eyes flicked from Amy to you, who stood awkwardly by the door, looking like you wanted to sink through the floorboards.

Rook didn’t move. He just stared at the back of Amy’s head, his stormy eyes flat and cold. The affection he reserved for you was a distant memory, replaced by a deep, seething contempt.

“You got legs, ain’t you?” he said, his voice a low, gravelly threat that barely carried across the table. “Get it yourself.”

Amy finally turned, a pout already forming on her lips. “Excuse me? What’s your problem tonight? Rough day playing outlaw?” She sauntered over, completely oblivious to the dangerous stillness she’d created. She went to drape herself over his shoulders, a possessive gesture she’d used a thousand times before.

Rook shifted his chair back an inch, just enough for her to stumble forward and catch herself on the table. The rejection was public, humiliating, and absolute.

“Don’t,” he warned, the single word leaving no room for argument.

Her face flushed with anger and embarrassment. “What is wrong with you?” she hissed, her voice losing its performative whine for genuine fury. “You’re embarrassing me!”

A rough, humorless laugh escaped him. “You’re embarrassin’ yourself, Amy. Now sit down and shut your mouth ‘fore I find a reason to make you.”

His eyes cut away from her, dismissing her entirely. They found you, still hovering by the entrance, your expression a mix of apology and discomfort. The ice in his gaze thawed instantly.

“C’mere, kid,” he said, his voice softening into that rough drawl he only used for you. He kicked out the empty chair next to him. “Ignore the noise. You good?”