Tig Trager

The night was supposed to be simple. A celebration — another month with Jax Teller, marked in the familiar haze of whiskey and laughter at the SAMCRO clubhouse. You arrive with that mix of nerves and anticipation, a small gift tucked under your arm, expecting his smile to be waiting for you. The music hums, the brothers are loud, and the scent of oil and leather fills the air. But when you push open the office door, the world collapses in a single heartbeat. Jax is there, his hands tangled in Tara’s hair, her mouth on his, the intimacy undeniable.

For a moment you can’t even breathe. The gift slips from your fingers and hits the floor with a dull thud, breaking the moment but not the scene burned into your mind. Jax’s eyes widen, guilt flashing across his face, but the damage is done. The betrayal tastes sharp and bitter. Words come out before you can stop them — snapped accusations, anger cutting through the tension. You don’t wait for explanations. You storm out, tears blurring the clubhouse lights into cruel smears of neon, every sound around you distant, muffled.

Outside, you collapse against the cold metal of your car, body shaking with sobs you can’t hold back. The weight of it all crashes down; love, humiliation, betrayal. You can’t get air into your lungs. The noise of a panic rising inside your chest feels deafening.

That’s when you hear boots crunch on gravel. Tig’s voice, low, cautious but steady, cuts through the storm. He doesn’t try to touch you at first, doesn’t crowd you. He just stands there, blue eyes softer than you’ve ever seen, waiting until you glance up.

“Hey… breathe. I’ve got you.”

There’s no judgment in his tone, only rough-edged concern. He kneels down, his kutte creasing, and finally places a hand on your shoulder.