tagline say waht?

You arrived late after your shift at the garage, exhausted and starving, only to discover there wasn’t a single empty seat left in the room.

“Aw, sweetheart,” Tig called immediately when he saw you scanning the room. “You snooze, you lose.”

“You’re in my seat,” you shot back.

“There are no assigned seats.”

“You say that every time somebody steals your chair.”

“That’s different.”

You rolled your eyes and moved farther into the room, trying to ignore how everyone suddenly looked entirely too interested in where you were going to sit.

The problem with SAMCRO was that once they noticed something, they became vultures about it.

“Sit on the floor,” Happy offered.

“You sit on the floor.”

“I am on the floor.”

You looked down.

He was.

Cross-legged.

Like some terrifying tattooed monk.

Before you could respond, Jax Teller looked up from where he sat in the armchair near the bar, beer bottle balanced against his thigh.

“C’mere.”

Simple as that.

You blinked. “Where?”

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Use your context clues, sweetheart.”

Several heads immediately turned.

“Oh, shit,” Juice muttered under his breath.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Little bit.”

There really wasn’t anywhere else to sit.

And honestly, you and Jax had always existed in each other’s space naturally anyway. You’d known him for years. He stole your fries. You stole his hoodies. You patched up his knuckles when he got reckless. Somewhere along the line, affection had become second nature.

Still—

His lap?

In front of everyone?

Your hesitation must’ve shown because his expression softened slightly.

“Ain’t a big deal.”

That somehow made it worse.

Because suddenly you were very aware that it could become a big deal.

You tried to act casual as you crossed the room.

“You’re all assholes,” you muttered to the others.

“Correct,” Chibs answered cheerfully.

Jax shifted slightly, one hand bracing against the arm of the chair to give you space.

The second you lowered yourself carefully onto his thigh, the entire room went silent for one dramatic beat.

Then:

“OHHHHH, SHIT!”

You closed your eyes immediately.

“Jesus Christ,” you groaned.

Tig nearly fell off the couch laughing.

“Look at his FACE,” Juice wheezed.

“What?” Jax snapped automatically.

“That’s the softest expression I’ve ever seen on a human being,” Opie muttered into his beer.

Jax flipped him off without looking away from you.

And unfortunately?

They were right.

Because the moment you settled against him, instinct kicked in.

His arm slid automatically around your waist to steady you.

Firm.

Warm.

Protective.

Like it belonged there.

Your stomach did a weird little flip.

You were suddenly hyperaware of everything.

How broad he was beneath you.

The heat of him through denim.

The way his fingers rested against your hip absentmindedly.

“You good?” he murmured quietly near your ear.

“Yeah.”

Your voice came out embarrassingly soft.

He smiled slightly.

And somehow that made it easier.

Conversation resumed around you after that, though the occasional smirk still got thrown your way. But after ten minutes, the awkwardness started fading.

After twenty, you stopped sitting so rigidly.

After forty-five, you leaned back against his chest without thinking about it.

Jax’s fingers tapped lazily against your side while he talked business with Chibs.

At some point you stole his beer.

He didn’t complain.

At another point his chin briefly brushed your shoulder when he leaned closer to hear you over the music.

Neither of you moved away.

By the end of the night, you’d forgotten entirely that you were sitting on his lap.

Unfortunately, everyone else remembered.

“Jesus,” Tig said as you finally stood to leave. “They nested.”

“Like fucking lovebirds,” Juice agreed.

“More like a stray dog that followed Jax home,” Happy added.

Jax snorted.

You pointed at all of them accusingly. “You’re the reason women avoid bikers.”

“We’re charming.”

“You’re emotionally illiterate.”

“Also true.”

Jax watched you the whole time you argued with them, smiling into his beer like he couldn’t help it.

It happened again three days later.

Then the next week.

Then constantly.

At first it was always circumstantial.

No room at the bar.

No free chair during church prep.

Packed booth at the diner.

But eventually?

You stopped pretending.

Sometimes there were three empty seats available and you still walked straight toward Jax automatically.

And every single time, without fail, he spread his knees slightly to make room for you before you even reached him.

Like muscle memory.

Like instinct.

The club noticed.

God, did they notice.

“You know chairs exist, right?” Chibs asked one afternoon while you sat sideways across Jax’s lap eating fries off his plate.

“They do,” you answered.

“So why are ye sittin’ there?”

You shrugged. “Comfort.”

Jax’s hand rubbed slowly up and down your thigh absentmindedly while he read paperwork.

Nobody missed it.

Tig looked physically pained by how disgustingly domestic the two of you had become.

“You guys are revolting.”

“You cry during Disney movies,” you reminded him.

“That is unrelated.”

“You cried during Finding Nemo.”

“He LOST HIS SON.”

Jax laughed against your shoulder.

The sound vibrated through you warm and low.

And maybe that was part of the problem.

Because sitting with Jax became easy in a way nothing else was.

You fit together strangely well.

His hands always found you naturally.

Your body relaxed around him automatically.

There was never hesitation anymore.

You’d curl into him during long nights at the clubhouse while he talked business.

Sometimes his chin rested on your shoulder.

Sometimes your fingers played with the rings on his hand absentmindedly.

Sometimes he’d arrive late, exhausted from a run, and the first thing he’d do was sit down and tug you into his lap like he needed the contact.

Nobody said anything during those moments.

Not even the guys.

Because underneath all the teasing, everyone could see it.

You made Jax softer.

And Jax made you feel safe.

The girl appeared six months after the first lap incident.

Blonde.

Tiny shorts.

Too much perfume.

The type that walked into the clubhouse already looking for attention.

She spotted Jax almost immediately.

Which wasn’t unusual.

Women flirted with him constantly.

You normally ignored it.

But tonight was different.

Because she didn’t just flirt.

She touched.

Hands on his shoulders.

Fingers trailing down his arm.

Leaning into him while she laughed too loudly at things that weren’t funny.

You were sitting beside him on the couch at first.

Not on him.

Just close.

But suddenly you felt weirdly out of place.

Which was stupid.

You and Jax weren’t together.

Not officially.

Even if everyone treated you like you were.

Still—

Something ugly twisted in your chest watching her smile at him like that.

So before the feeling could get worse, you stood quietly.

Jax glanced up immediately.

“Where you goin’?”

“Nowhere,” you answered lightly. “Need another drink.”

But instead of coming back to him, you crossed the room and dropped into the empty seat beside Chibs.

The table went weirdly silent.

Because everybody noticed.

Especially Jax.

The blonde blinked at the sudden shift in his attention.

“You were saying?” she purred.

He barely looked at her.

His eyes stayed on you across the room.

You were laughing at something Chibs said now, but it sounded forced even to your own ears.

Jax frowned slightly.

Then the girl touched his chest.

“You wanna get outta here later?”

“No.”

She blinked. “No?”

“No,” he repeated distractedly.

Then he stood up entirely.

Actually stood up.

And walked away from her mid-conversation.

The entire clubhouse erupted instantly.

“OH MY GOD,” Juice screamed.

“She got dumped in real time!”

Tig was choking laughing.

The blonde looked furious.

Meanwhile Jax crossed the room directly toward you like he was being physically pulled there.

You looked up as he stopped beside your chair.

“What’re you doing over here?”

You blinked innocently. “Sitting.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Chibs immediately got up. “Actually, I need another drink.”

“You just got one.”

“Aye. Tragic.”

He disappeared before either of you could stop him.

Leaving only one chair.

Yours.

Jax looked at it.

Then at you.

Then finally said, quieter this time:

“C’mere.”

Your heart stumbled.

“You have a seat.”

“Don’t want it.”

The room had gone suspiciously attentive again.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Jax—”

“Baby,” he interrupted softly, “get over here.”

The endearment hit like a gunshot.

Dead silence filled the clubhouse.

Happy actually looked up from his knife.

Your face burned instantly.

Jax seemed to realize what he’d said about half a second too late.

But instead of taking it back—

His expression just softened.

You stood slowly.

Walked toward him slowly.

And the second you settled onto his lap again, his arms wrapped around your waist so tightly it almost felt desperate.

Like he’d been off-balance the entire three minutes you were gone.

The boys lost their minds.

“There they are!”

“Nature is healing!”

“Took Romeo long enough!”

“Somebody kiss somebody already,” Tig shouted.

You buried your burning face against Jax’s shoulder immediately while he laughed quietly into your hair.

But his grip on you never loosened.

Not once.

And later that night, long after the music died down and most of the clubhouse stumbled home drunk, you were still curled in Jax’s lap when he finally tilted your chin upward gently.

“You jealous?”

You opened your mouth immediately. “No.”

His grin widened.

“Liar.”

“She was hanging all over you.”

“She was,” he agreed.

Your stomach twisted again.

Then he brushed his thumb softly along your jaw.

“But I spent the whole time waitin’ for you to come back.”

The air disappeared from your lungs.

Jax’s eyes searched yours carefully.

“You know why?”

You shook your head slightly.

“Because every place else feels wrong now.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

And judging by the way he looked at you after saying it?

His might’ve too.

When he kissed you, finally, the entire world seemed to settle into place around it.

Soft at first.

Careful.

Like both of you were realizing this had been inevitable for a very long time.

Then your fingers slid into his hair and he made this low sound against your mouth that nearly melted you alive.

Somewhere across the clubhouse, Tig yelled:

“FUCKIN’ FINALLY!”

Neither of you even looked up.

“You gonna tell me why you’ve been grinnin’ at me all day,” Boone says, leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in hand, “or am I supposed to solve the mystery myself?”

You hum innocently from where you’re cutting strawberries at the island. “Mystery?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You kissed me six times while I was makin’ coffee this morning.”

“That’s normal.”

“You called me handsome before noon.”

“That’s also normal.”

“You slapped my ass in Home Depot.”

You point the knife at him. “That was normal.”

Boone snorts a laugh.

God, he loves you.

He loves this—your shared kitchen, your socks mixed together in the laundry, the half-finished grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like Oklahoma. Loves the way your life together stopped feeling temporary years ago.

Nobody actually says “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” anymore when they talk about the two of you. Not your friends. Not Boone’s family. Not Tyler’s crew.

Because after seven years together, two apartments, one shared house, three emergency room visits, countless storms, and a dog you accidentally adopted after finding him wandering near a gas station in Kansas—

You’re basically married already.

Even if there isn’t a ring yet.

Boone’s been saving for one.

Quietly.

Patiently.

He wants it right.

“You’re starin’ again,” you tease softly.

Boone blinks.

“Sorry.” He grins lazily. “Distracted by how pretty my girl is.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks pink anyway.

Still.

After all this time, he can still make you blush.

That’s his favorite thing in the world.

By evening, Boone is convinced you’re planning something.

Especially because you disappear into the bedroom after dinner and tell him not to come in.

“Why?”

“Because.”

“That ain’t a reason.”

“It is today.”

“Baby—”

“Boone.”

Your warning tone makes him laugh from the couch.

“Alright, alright.”

He hears drawers opening. Closet doors sliding. Your footsteps moving around.

Then silence.

Too much silence.

“…You alive in there?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You murderin’ somebody?”

The bedroom door opens just enough for you to glare at him.

“Be patient.”

Then it shuts again.

Boone grins to himself.

Cute.

Weird.

But cute.

He stretches out across the couch, one arm behind his head, dog asleep against his leg. The TV plays some old movie he’s not really watching.

Mostly he’s listening for you.

Waiting.

Thinking about how lucky he got.

Because you came into his life like rain after drought.

Back when he was all restlessness and reckless energy and unfinished plans. Back before he learned what staying felt like.

You stayed.

Even during the hard years.

Even when storm chasing got dangerous.

Even when Boone got hurt.

Even when he got scared.

Especially then.

You never made him feel like he had to become softer to deserve love.

You just loved him anyway.

The bedroom door finally opens.

Boone looks up automatically—and forgets how to breathe for a second.

Jesus Christ.

You’re wearing one of his favorite outfits on you: tiny sleep shorts and one of his old shirts hanging off one shoulder.

Comfortable.

Pretty.

Home.

But there’s something else too.

That same hidden smile.

That same anticipation sparkling in your eyes.

“You gonna come here or what?” you ask casually.

Boone narrows his eyes immediately.

“See, now I know somethin’s up.”

You laugh.

“Just come here.”

He stands, crossing the room slowly while watching you carefully.

“You’re weird tonight.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Liar.”

“Massive liar.”

You reach for him the second he’s close enough, hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans and tugging him nearer until his chest bumps yours.

Boone’s hands settle automatically on your waist.

Easy.

Natural.

Instinct.

His thumbs rub absent circles against your skin beneath the shirt.

“What’d you do?” he murmurs.

Your smile turns nervous suddenly.

Not playful anymore.

Soft.

Real.

And Boone straightens a little at that.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “What is it?”

You bite your lip.

Then, without speaking, you turn slightly and lift the hem of the oversized shirt just enough to expose the side of your ribs.

Boone’s gaze drops automatically.

And stops.

Everything in him stops.

Just over your rib cage, delicate and dark against your skin, sits a tiny cursive letter.

b.

Boone stares at it.

Actually stares.

Like his brain needs extra time catching up.

Your voice comes small suddenly.

“I wanted somethin’ permanent.”

His throat works once.

Then again.

“…Baby.”

You look shy now, which almost never happens anymore after this many years together.

“I know it’s kinda silly—”

“Silly?”

Your eyes flick back up to his.

Boone reaches toward you slowly, fingertips brushing featherlight against the tattoo.

Like he’s afraid it might disappear.

It’s tiny.

Elegant.

Intimate.

Placed somewhere nobody sees unless you choose to show them.

His initial.

On your skin.

Forever.

Something inside Boone caves in completely.

“You did this for me?” he asks quietly.

“Well, yeah.”

Your laugh is nervous now.

“I mean—you’re my Boone.”

Jesus Christ.

He looks wrecked instantly.

You see it happen in real time.

His eyes go glossy.

Not full crying.

But close enough that your expression softens immediately.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Are you emotional?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“Ain’t.”

“You literally look like you’re about to propose.”

Boone lets out one disbelieving laugh and drags a hand down his face.

“You can’t just spring somethin’ like this on me.”

You grin a little. “I absolutely can.”

He looks back at the tattoo again.

Then at you.

Then back again.

Like he can’t stop.

“Come here,” he mutters suddenly.

You barely get a breath before he’s pulling you flush against him, one arm tight around your waist while the other cradles the back of your head.

Then he kisses you.

Hard.

Not rushed.

Not messy.

Just full.

Overflowing.

Every ounce of love he has pours into it.

You melt against him instantly, laughing softly into the kiss when he backs you into the kitchen counter.

“Boone—”

“You’re insane,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“You love me.”

“So damn much.”

He kisses you again.

And again.

Hands sliding beneath the oversized shirt, fingertips tracing carefully around the fresh tattoo.

His expression changes every single time he looks at it.

Like he genuinely can’t believe you did this.

“You know,” you say softly, “you stared at me for like a full minute.”

“I was havin’ a religious experience.”

You burst out laughing.

Boone grins, but there’s still emotion sitting heavy behind it.

“You got my initial tattooed on you.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Fair.”

He leans down, pressing a slow kiss directly beside the tattoo.

The contact sends a shiver through you instantly.

Boone notices.

Of course he notices.

His eyes flick up to yours with immediate smugness.

“Oh?”

“Don’t start.”

“That sensitive right there?”

“Boone.”

His grin widens.

Then softens again almost immediately.

Because underneath the teasing, underneath the flirting and warmth and years of familiarity, there’s something deeper settling into his chest.

Something enormous.

He loves you so much it physically hurts sometimes.

That’s the truth of it.

You are stitched into every part of his life now.

Every future thought automatically includes you.

Every plan bends around you.

Every version of happiness he’s ever imagined has your face in it.

And now there’s proof of him on your skin.

Permanent.

Chosen.

Boone cups your jaw gently.

“When’d you get it?”

“Yesterday.”

“And you hid this from me?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You succeeded.”

You smile softly. “You like it?”

Boone looks genuinely offended.

“Baby, I’m obsessed with it.”

That makes you laugh again.

God, that sound.

He’d chase it forever.

“You know what the tattoo artist said?” you ask.

“What?”

“She asked if I was nervous about getting somebody’s initial tattooed on me.”

Boone’s brows lift.

“And?”

You shrug lightly.

“Told her there wasn’t really a universe where you weren’t gonna be in my life.”

That one nearly takes him out completely.

You actually watch Boone lose composure.

His face crumples with helpless affection as he pulls you into another kiss immediately.

“You’re killin’ me tonight,” he mutters.

“Good.”

“You realize I gotta marry you now.”

You blink.

The words hang there.

Casual.

But not casual.

Boone realizes it exactly one second later.

“…Well,” he says slowly.

Your eyes widen slightly.

“Boone.”

He exhales a laugh through his nose.

“That wasn’t how I meant to say that.”

Your heart starts pounding immediately.

“You were planning to?”

“Baby—”

“Oh my god.”

Boone groans softly as you stare at him.

“You weren’t supposed to know yet.”

“You literally just said it.”

“I know, I know.”

You’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt now.

“When?”

“Eventually.”

“When eventually?”

He squints at you suspiciously. “You interrogatin’ me?”

“Yes.”

“Illegal.”

“Boone.”

He tries to hold out another three seconds before failing completely.

“Soon.”

Your expression melts.

And suddenly Boone feels shy too, which is ridiculous considering the amount of time you’ve spent together.

But this matters.

You matter.

“I’ve been savin’ for a ring,” he admits quietly.

Your eyes go instantly glassy.

“Seriously?”

“Mhm.”

“How long?”

“A while.”

“Boone…”

He shrugs, suddenly sheepish.

“Wanted it to be good.”

You launch yourself at him so fast he almost loses balance laughing.

Then you’re kissing him everywhere—jaw, cheeks, mouth—half emotional and half ecstatic.

“You idiot,” you whisper affectionately.

“Your idiot.”

“Unfortunately.”

He gasps dramatically. “Cruel.”

You grin against his mouth.

Then your expression softens as your fingers brush through his hair.

“I don’t care about expensive rings,” you tell him quietly.

“I know.”

“I’d marry you with a ring pop.”

Boone smiles.

Slow.

Warm.

Devastating.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know that too.”

The room goes quiet around you after that.

Not awkward.

Just full.

Heavy with years of loving each other.

With everything you’ve survived together.

Storms.

Fights.

Fear.

Long roads.

Near misses.

All of it.

And somehow every single thing led here.

To Boone standing barefoot in your kitchen at night, holding the girl he’s loved for almost a decade while his initial rests permanently over her heart-side ribs.

His future.

His home.

His person.

Boone looks down at the tattoo one more time before dropping to his knees suddenly.

You blink in surprise.

“Uh—”

Before you can finish, Boone lifts your shirt carefully again and presses the softest kiss imaginable directly over the tiny cursive b.

One lingering kiss.

Full of reverence.

When he looks back up at you, his eyes are bright again.

“You got me forever now,” he says quietly.

You smile immediately.

“Had you forever a long time ago.”

And Boone—