SEXY SOULAAN B.A.P 𐚁

Daddy had things to do, but that didn’t stop him from making sure you had help. You were now a willing victim in this particular hostage situation, and he took full advantage of the new found leverage to keep things moving. No time to dilly dally, not after the clubhouse went up in smoke.

Happy had a Tacoma escort, two prospects, and a moving van outside your front door the very next day. You knew for a fact they didn’t have the manpower to spare, but for you? He makes things happen. 

The instructions were clear, pack the shit, move the shit, and if they break anything they die. 

No pressure. 

You had to call out, but the news of the explosion spread like wildfire through town, so your boss was already expecting that particular phone call. 

You directed the prospects around like the foreman on the clock. Bubble wrapping, labeling, keeping your daughter busy, all while ordering them around from one task to next.  

Every little thing was either stuffed in a box or a trash bag, and the entire space was in complete disarray. It’s not like you were in a rush, you were locked in a lease until the end of the year, but Happy insisted he would handle it.

He made it abundantly clear the only thing he really gave a damn about was you. Money was a concept at this stage. Whatever kept you safe, her happy, and the three of you together, he would make it happen.  

He worked, you packed. He ran an interrogation, you dusted. He cleaned up blood, you unpacked. He got stuck at the club for debrief, you made dinner for three anyway. 

It was around then he became overly aware of the clock, each individual tick had his shoulders that much more tense. Every time he thought it was over, the conversation continued. It was hours of chaos and conjecture.

Dinner time came and went, bath time, then bedtime arrived and he stood.

“You good brother?” Jax asked, eyebrows pinched in the center.

“My kids waitin’.” 

Everyone glanced his way and the room went unbearably still. Tig swallowed his need to cackle out loud. Juice averted his eyes. Jax fought his grin, but he couldn’t help it when it spread wide. 

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “so are mine.” 

Happy’s gaze honed in, deadly serious. “We done then?” 

The stillness returned. Nobody blinked, nobody breathed.

Jax took a moment, contemplating the choices he made that got all of you here. Your family wanted you with someone. The day you came back home it was all but decided that someone would be a patch. They wanted you protected above all else.

When Jax first noticed that undeniable want your old man couldn’t hide, he knew at the minimum you’d be taken care of, but he never expected this. A different version of the killer they once knew, but still just as terrifying. Jax knew better, so he nodded nice and slow.

Happy grunted his customary goodbye, turned with little ceremony, and took measured steps at an even pace towards the exit. 

The moment he stepped inside he knew he was too late. The quiet was heavy. His meal was covered and resting on the counter, the only light left in the space coming from the overhead on the oven. 

He ate it in silence. Every delicious bite so your efforts didn't go to waste and washed the mess of dishes you left behind right after.

He changed his bloody jeans for sweats, rinsed his face, brushed his teeth, and stalked towards her bedroom to check on her only to find it empty.

He found her with you. Dead center of the impossibly comfortable king sized mattress, surrounded by all the comforts of home. Too many pillows for him to count, blankets unbearably fluffy, snoozing oh so peacefully…without him. 

The bedtime story, incomplete and resting haphazardly on your chest, made his face flex. The first night as a family of three, under his roof, and he missed it. His nose wrinkled up and he stared lifelessly from the doorway.

You stirred, that uneasy feeling of being watched sent your eyes flying open. You gasped, just before letting out a quiet hum.

“Hi,” you whispered, groggy from the sleep you weren’t quite ready for, “did you eat?” 

Your lack of anger took him by surprise, but it was the permission he needed to cross the threshold. He grunted softly, taking the picture book from your grasp, “m'sorry.” 

Confusion flashed across your features, and you were up and moving, or trying to. He pushed you right back down, sat at the beds edge, brushing her hair back first, then yours. 

“I was late.” 

You sighed happily at the soft touch, the rough skin of his knuckle brushing down your cheek, “You were working.” 

He leveled his gaze with yours, dark features unforgiving, “I was late.” 

“You’re here now.” 

“Late,” he grumbled, so low it was practically a growl, still focused on her and every inch of her face relaxed into the sleep that had consumed her entirely. 

“It happens sometimes, babe.” 

“It shouldn’t.” 

“It’s gonna get worse before it gets better, right?” 

Your words hit harder than a bullet and you saw it happen. It hit center mass and sunk deep into his chest, because you really did get it. It’s still hard to fathom sometimes how quickly you adjust to the chaos of his world, but it’s your world too. 

“Promised her I’d always be here,” he muttered, warm hand cradling the back of her head. 

“You are here,” you lifted the covers just enough he would take hint, a teasing smile coming out to play, “you’re just late.” 

He maneuvered you both with ease to make room, slipping in under the mountain of fabric you turned his bed into. “Ain’t gonna happen again.” 

“We’ll forgive you if it does.”

He opened his mouth but you shushed him gently. You didn’t care to hash it out further. You were too tired, she was starting to stir, and you could feel the exhaustion radiating off him. You shuffled and squirmed until it was the three of you snuggled up like a set of nesting dolls. Arms around her, arms around you, a cocoon of blankets keeping you all together nice and toasty. 

He heard the soft sound of bird song first, followed by the whirling breeze of crisp morning air, then came sharp rays of golden light spilling in through the sheer curtains you forced a prospect to install. 

It came faster than he hoped, but he made sure he didn’t miss a thing that night. Each breath you took, each shallow snore she let out. He fiddled with her hair, then yours, inhaling the whafting scent of tear free shampoo and lavender lotion like it was the most potent drug on earth.  

You felt her stir. An annoyed huff as she wiggled out of your grip and toppled over you, acting as a makeshift alarm clock, she squealed.

“Daddy!” 

Your eyes rolled open and she was overtop him, nose to nose. 

“You come for me!”

He should’ve left an hour ago. His phone had vibrated on the nightstand twice already, but he was putting it off. He told himself he was just waiting for a proper goodbye after missing her goodnight, and that was the last straw.

Daddy decided he was taking the day off.  

He made breakfast with her on his hip. He kissed her hands as often as she shoved them in his face. He sat still while she brushed his nonexistent hair. Hovered all around her like missing bedtime was something he would never make up for, and through it all, he was quiet. 

Stewing on what to do, how to balance and keep the very best thing he’s ever got. 

“Look mama,” little girl giggled, shuffling into view with the kutte over her shoulders, the length of leather dragging against the floor. You looked over at your bundle of patched leather, and it terrified you. Your gorgeous girl, the official samcrow princess, just as you once were.

It took your dad, and all you could think was the possibility of it taking hers. The human brick wall.  

You swallowed it. You choked it down because the man she picked was both an immovable object and an unstoppable force. Nothing could keep him for you, and he would die a hundred times over before anything took you from him. 

“You look just like daddy!”

Happy’s heart swelled. You stopped correcting her but you’ve never said it, not once. 

“Pretty?” She asked once you tossed her up, lashes fluttering far too sweet for your old man's heart to take. 

“Beautiful,” Happy grinned from the corner, letting the newspaper fall back against the table. It was picture perfect, really. His dream come true. A legacy in the making without the fear of her ever following in his bloody footsteps. 

Last night, he convinced himself you would be mad. You would have resentment for the club, even if it was just an ounce, but no. You welcomed him into the bed with a smile. You kissed him softly the moment you opened your eyes. You paraded around the house in his clothes all day like it was a game. 

And you called him her dad. 

“All you need is a haircut and some gold rings!” You tickle her sides relentlessly, dropping the giggly mess into his lap. 

Nap time arrived, which he handled with ease, and he found himself leaned back in the lazy boy. Rocking slowly, a glass of whiskey untouched resting against his knee. He watched you in your element like it was the last chance he would get to see it. How you rearranged her play corner three times so the flow of things made sense, tossing blankets, folding laundry, turning his house into yours. 

You glanced his way as often as you could without getting caught. It was obvious he was stewing on something, but you couldn’t exactly call him out for it. So, you waited patiently. Maneuvering around the space one painfully boring task at a time. 

“You didn’t say my name.” 

“Huh? What’s that?” You asked, excelling at the faux disinterest you had maintained for the better part of the afternoon.  

“You called me her dad.” 

“Yeah that’s not worth the fight,” you snorted, mindlessly folding the laundry like it was nothing. It’s always been an uphill battle, not that you stood a chance. You were alone in that war. Happy, Gemma, even Jax. The whole club follows her lead, not yours. 

“You okay with it now?” 

“I didn’t realize I had a choice?” 

You looked up and regretted your words, your tone, all of it. He looked wounded. You set aside the small stack of flower patterned shirts and tip toed yourself into his space. He didn’t look up right away, even when you pushed yourself between his legs, setting the whiskey aside, fingertips hovering just over his knees. 

“Hey…you have your own relationship with her and I know how much you love us.” 

He looked up, his gaze intense with a heavy emotion that was becoming harder to hide. 

Love. 

He knew what it meant, what it felt like. He knew the love of his mother, his aunt, his brothers in leather of course. 

He knew little girl loved him, and that you had grown to love him too. 

But he didn’t know how to let the word leave his lips as easily as you can, or how it showed in every single thing he did for the two of you in a day. 

Making her breakfast so you can sleep in. Cleaning your ring every morning and leaving it bright and shiny on the bathroom counter waiting for you. Tying her shoes, and yours too because he’s already down there. He never stayed for more than one beer before heading home because he promised his girls he’d be there for dinner. Stopped smoking joints inside and gave up cigarettes all together.

The littlest things he never noticed adding up all around him. He’s never said it, but it was there. Noticeable, embedded deep in the house that was quickly becoming a home. 

“I wanna bring her to my mom soon,” his hands came up and guided you down to his lap, “she wanted grandkids, gave up on it though…after a while.” 

You bit back your giggly comments about your old old man and kissed his forehead, “I’m surprised you waited this long to bring that up.” 

“Wanted her to have my name first, couldn’t give her something that wasn’t real.” 

“It’s real,” you insisted, holding his face in your hands with a kindness he didn’t believe he deserved quite yet. “This,” you hummed, showing off your blinding diamond like a prize, “is very real, I’m never taking her from you, I wouldn’t do that. She picked you, she loves you.” 

“I don’t deserve it.”

You leaned in, lips pressed against his forehead, humming softly while you found the right words. Softness only gets you so far. If it’s too gooey, he won’t believe you. If it’s too vague, he won’t accept it. Middle ground never came easy, but that’s where he did best. A man so black and white, living smack dab in the middle of grey. 

“Maybe, maybe not,” you said softly, placing another careful kiss to the top of his shaved head, “but you have it, and I watch you every day trying to be worthy of it. That’s enough for me, it’s more than enough for her. You show up, kiss booboos, and tuck her in every night no matter how busy you are. You’re her dad, baby.” 

He caught your eyes, a hopeful glint in his, “Yeah?” 

“Absolutely,” you kissed his lips this time, punctuating your point to make sure he didn’t lose sight of it so quickly.

Second guessing didn’t look good on him. It looked like sickness. Sleepless nights and dark circles under his eyes. Cold sweats and anxious jitters. 

He was like a junky desperate for his next fix.

It would be rude to call him dramatic, but you thought it. It was new to you, watching his uncertainty bloom.

He wasn't a talker, and firmly believed emotions were a choice, so there was only so much you could do.

You didn’t know how to erase his fear of not being good enough. That overbearing level of uncertainty that makes an unshakeable man flinch. It was unnerving.

You put that in his head, and it was your responsibility to get it out. 

He wanted something real, proof. Indisputable evidence that would leave nothing open to chance. He would never force you to stay, but he wonders if you’ll leave. 

He’s seen it over and over, so have you.

Every patch has at least one ex-wife and it’s the same story every time. Explosive endings because this life isn’t stability and comfort, and that’s why you never wanted any part in it.

He has no rights to her. You could take her. You could change your mind. 

A ring doesn’t change that, neither would a crow. 

It took time to decide what would be right. What you were willing to give, and what would squash it once and for all.

With the visit to his mother just around the corner there was only one sane thing to do. 

He was home for dinner that night. He hadn’t been late once since what you have started referring to as the incident. The night that cracked something in his chest that no amount of late night loving or early morning cuddles could fix. 

You rolled the pages tight, keeping them contained with a silky black ribbon, and strategically placed them inside his very own world's best dad mug. 

“I have a surprise for you this time.” You placed the oversized coffee mug in front of him casually, as if it didn’t contain your entire heart and soul. 

His attention broke from her just long enough to cock a brow. He read the term of endearment printed on the side and his face flexed. It wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t not one either.

He tugged at the ribbon hesitantly, completely unaware of the week-long scheming you’ve been doing behind his back. 

He stared down at it, a mix of horror and bewilderment. 

Little girl Lowman. 

Each page was signed, dated, notarized. He wanted her to have his name, so that’s exactly what you gave him. His eyes didn’t give. The usual unwavering intensity of his dark eyes were burning and glossy. He reread her name six times. Lowman. 

She’s a Lowman. 

You handed him the final piece of paper that was the key to it all, the work of art that felt too big to tie up with a bow. A DNA test showing Happy Lowman as her father. 

“Where’d you get this?” 

“Juice helped me with it. I don’t have the corrected birth certificate yet but I'm working on it.” 

His breath caught, pure disbelief written all over him, gaze searching yours for the why. Why on earth would someone like you, trust someone like him, with her? So implicitly, to go as far as this to make sure he knew exactly where he fit into all this. 

You love Jax, you really do, but his priority has always been the club. Since he could walk, talk, form a reasonable thought, he wanted one thing. The kutte, the gavel, the club. His priority, no matter what, would always default to that. To his first real love. 

Men like that surrounded you your whole life, and it was true, you didn't want to be second. Happy though, his love for the club was blood deep. You saw that long before you saw this, but with him, there were exceptions. 

The club was a byproduct of what life tossed at him, a circumstance he was better for, sure. It gave him a safe space to be himself, to indulge in his twisted desires, to find strength in numbers, and provide. To take perfect care of the exceptions. 

His mother, his daughter, his wife. 

“As far as anyone will ever be concerned, she’s always been yours.” 

He looked at her, you, your ring, and right back down to the pages that contained your heart and his. The tightness in his throat was enough to cut off air, and he couldn’t say anything out of fear his voice would break. He felt the obnoxious burning in his eyes get worse and that confused him more than anything until he felt it. A wet drop plopped right against his cheek and his head flung back like he was absolutely disgusted with himself.

You brushed it off with your thumb like it was nothing, no fuss, no teasing, even if it was burning in your belly to poke fun. “We're a family, your family, and we're not going anywhere."

IM BACK BABY (my puppy is home, healing, and vet care is so expensive i want to DIE)

i did have plot planned but i noticed it doesn't really show until the last of my pre-planned parts, it's a toss up you guys, do i follow my planned plot or do i just make this a bunch of random fluff that i can add to at random in the future? decisions decisions.

taglist: if you want to be added/deleted just lmk

@vaugarkel @coffeedreaminanreadin @bonni-98 @anonymouse1807 @lv7867 @bsttwice @landpiranha-blog @declanoharasmustache @myhomeworksnotdone @icantgobacktoprison-blog @sjester42-blog @southernshorty @louisianalady @tuesdayaddamss @kittykaylat1987

my main master - p.s if you copy my work or feed my work to ai i'll track you down and kill you myself

"Please shut up, I need your help." he told you and you had smiled in response at his impatience.

Now you were riding him on his goddamn office chair, in his office, barely able to hold back whimpers anytime the tip of his thick dick brushed that sweet spot inside you. And Wilson wasn't able to stay quiet either,muffling himself by pressing open mouthed kisses on your neck and collarbone.

The chair underneath you creaked anytime you lifted yourself off,and then slowly lowered down on him again, making the doctor let his head fall back. Your thighs pressed to his sides and your hands found leverage on his shoulders.

"God, you're loud." he mumbled, panting as you clamped down on him and pressing a palm over his mouth after adding "P-please, sweetie... c'mon, a little faster for me."

And really how could you deny him that greedy request? You sped up just a little, just to get him there quicker, and trying to satisfy yourself in the process.

"You're so deep." You gasped out and squeezed his arms, falling down onto his cock again and whining.

"I-I'm close." he uttered out and just then the door opened. You froze over his lap, pulling your skirt down shakily and turning around to be met with...well,who else? House.

"Jimmy, you have to do a lumbar-" he started and paused, lifting his eyes from a patient chart to look at his flushed best friend with one of his doctors perched on his lap.

A smirk broke into his face and you blushed wildly too, same shade as Wilson.

"It's not what you think." Wilson blabbered out quickly and House just took a small step back with his cane, and opened the door again.

"I wonder how you managed to make him do something like that at work." he bit sarcastically.

"I'll let you get back at it. But I am gonna need all the juicy details later."

And with that he closed the door, leaving you to bury your face in your boyfriend's neck.

"So I guess I forgot to lock the door." you muttered against his collarbone.

The front door creaked open.

Daryl stepped inside, crossbow still slung across his back out of habit, boots dusty from wherever he’d been. The second his eyes found you, the hard lines of his face softened in that way they only did for you. He didn’t say anything at first. Just kicked the door shut, dropped the crossbow against the wall, and crossed the room like the only thing that mattered in the whole damn world was getting to you.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice low and rough. He dropped to one knee in front of the couch without hesitation, big hands- scarred and calloused- gently lifting your swollen feet into his lap. His thumbs pressed into the arches with careful, practiced pressure. “How’s my baby?”

“Which one?” you teased, even though your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

A small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the highest point of your belly, then another, slower one, right over the spot where the baby had just kicked. “Both’a ya.”

He stayed there a minute, forehead resting against the swell of you, breathing you in. Then he was up again, moving toward the kitchen like a man on a mission.

“You ain’t lifted nothin’ today, right?” he called over his shoulder.

“Daryl, I’m pregnant, not helpless.”

“Same damn thing right now,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Only that fierce, quiet protectiveness that had only gotten stronger the bigger you got. He started pulling things from the pantry- canned tomatoes, some of the fresh greens from the garden, the last of the cornbread Carol had dropped off yesterday. “You sit. I’m makin’ that soup you like. The one with the little noodles.”

You watched him move around the kitchen, this man who used to sleep with one eye open in the woods, now carefully measuring water and muttering to himself about salt. He did everything. Carried every bucket, every load of laundry. Fixed the wobbly step on the porch before you could even mention it. Walked the perimeter of Alexandria twice as often just to make sure it was safe. And at night, when the fear got too loud in your chest, he’d pull you against him, one hand spread wide over your belly like he could shield both of you from the world with nothing but the warmth of his palm.

But you saw it. The way his jaw tightened when he thought you weren’t looking. The restless energy in his shoulders. The way he’d started disappearing for an hour here and there with Rick.

He was freaking out.

And you were too.

After dinner- eaten on the couch because standing for too long made your back seize- he wiped his hands on a dish towel and stood.

“Gonna go check in with Rick. You need anythin’ before I head out?”

You shook your head, offering him what you hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m good. Go.”

He hesitated, eyes searching your face like he could read every worry you were trying to hide. Then he leaned down, kissed your forehead, your cheek, and finally your lips- slow, lingering, just like he does every time he goes somewhere.

“Be back soon,” he said quietly. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

You sat there for a minute, hand on your belly, feeling the baby shift again. Then you pushed yourself up- slowly, because everything was slow these days- and made your way down the street to Carol’s.

She opened the door before you could even knock, like she’d been expecting you. One look at your face and her expression melted into something soft and knowing.

“Come on in, honey. Kettle’s already on.”

You settled at her kitchen table while she poured tea. The house smelled like fresh bread and lavender. Safe. Domestic. The kind of normal that still felt like a miracle some days.

Carol sat across from you, sliding a mug over. “Talk to me.”

The words came out in a rush you hadn’t planned.

“I’m scared, Carol. Like… really scared. Labor. The baby. What if something goes wrong? What if Denise can’t… what if I can’t do this? And Daryl-” Your voice cracked. “He’s trying so hard to be strong for me, but I can see it. He’s terrified. What if I add to that? What if I’m not enough for him and the baby and-”

Carol reached across the table and took your hand, squeezing gently.

“First of all,” she said, voice steady and warm, “you are already enough. That man out there? He looks at you like you hung the moon. And he’s gonna look at that baby the same way. Second… being scared doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. I was scared out of my mind with Sophia. But you don’t have to do any of this alone.”

You blinked hard, tears threatening.

“He keeps doing everything,” you whispered. “Carrying things, cooking, rubbing my feet… it’s so sweet it hurts. But I know he’s talking to Rick because he doesn’t want to dump it all on me. And I’m doing the same thing to you.”

Carol smiled, small and sad and fond all at once. “That’s what we do for the people we love. We carry what we can. And we let them carry what they need to. You two are gonna be okay. That baby’s already got two parents who would burn the world down to keep it safe. That counts for a lot.”

You stayed a little longer, letting her steady presence settle your fried nerves. By the time you waddled back home the sun had dipped low, painting the sky in streaks of pink and orange.

Daryl was already there when you stepped inside.

He looked up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, like he’d been waiting. The second he saw you, he stood and crossed the room, pulling you carefully into his arms. His chin rested on top of your head, one hand sliding down to rest over the baby.

“You okay?” he asked into your hair.

You nodded against his chest. “Talked to Carol.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, rough and honest, “Talked to Rick.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. His blue eyes were stormy with everything he wasn’t saying.

“I’m scared too,” you admitted softly. “Of the pain. Of doing it wrong. Of bringing a baby into all this.”

Daryl’s throat worked. He lifted one hand to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ scared,” he said, voice low. “I’m scared shitless. But I ain’t goin’ nowhere. You hear me? Whatever happens… we do it together. You an’ me. An’ this little one.”

He dropped to his knees again right there in the middle of the living room, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressed gently to your belly. You felt his breath warm through the fabric of your shirt.

“Hey in there,” he murmured, so quiet you almost missed it. “Your mama’s the strongest person I know. An’ I’m… I’m gonna try real hard to be the kinda dad you deserve. So you just… stay in there a little longer, alright? Let us get ready for ya.”

Your fingers threaded into his hair, holding him there. The baby kicked once, right against his cheek, like an answer.

Daryl let out a shaky laugh, the sound muffled against you.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I hear ya.”

You stayed like that for a long time- him on his knees, you standing with your hands in his hair, the last light of day fading around you. Two nervous messes in the middle of the safest place you’d known in years, holding onto each other and the tiny life between you.

Neither of you said it out loud, but the promise hung in the air anyway.

Whatever came next- you wouldn’t face it alone.

It was only a few days later when the first real contraction hit.

You were in the kitchen, trying to reach for a glass on the counter, when a deep, tightening band wrapped around your belly and lower back like someone had pulled a rope tight. It stole your breath. You gripped the edge of the sink, eyes wide, heart suddenly hammering.

What was that?

It passed after thirty seconds, but the fear didn’t. You hadn’t felt anything like it before. Not the little Braxton Hicks. This was different. Stronger. Real.

“Daryl!” Your voice cracked as you called for him. He was out back chopping wood, but he dropped the axe the second he heard you and came running.

One look at your face and he knew.

“Shit. Okay. Okay, darlin’. I got you.” His arm was around you instantly, steady and warm, the other hand already on your belly like he could hold the pain back himself. “We’re goin’ to Denise. Right now.”

You didn’t argue. The walk to the infirmary felt longer than it ever had. Another contraction came halfway there- stronger this time- and you had to stop, leaning into Daryl’s chest while he rubbed slow circles on your back and murmured, “Breathe, baby. Just breathe. I’m right here.”

Denise took one look at you and got you on the exam table. After checking, her face was calm but serious.

“You’re in early labor,” she said gently. “Contractions are coming, cervix is starting to change. Baby’s head is down and everything looks good… but you’re still a little early, and with how big you’ve been measuring, I want you on bedrest here in the infirmary so I can keep a close eye on you. Just in case.”

You nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Daryl’s hand never left yours.

They got you settled in one of the back rooms with a real bed, fresh sheets, and a window that let in soft afternoon light. Denise hooked up a simple monitor to listen to the baby’s heartbeat- strong and steady, like a little drum.

Word spread fast.

Rick was the first to show up, Judith on his hip. He stepped in quietly, eyes soft when he saw you propped up against pillows.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Heard the news. How you feelin’?”

“Scared,” you admitted honestly.

Rick gave a small smile. “That’s normal. Judith came fast when she decided it was time. You got this. And if you need anything you just say the word.”

He stayed a little while, letting Judith babble at your belly like she already knew there was a new friend coming. When he left, he clasped Daryl’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. No words needed.

Maggie came by later with a basket of fresh vegetables and some of the good tea. Tara brought a stack of clean blankets she’d washed herself. Even Eugene stopped in, awkward but sincere, offering a long winded but heartfelt wish for “optimal outcomes.”

But through it all, Daryl and Carol never left your side for long.

Carol had claimed the chair on your left like it was her post. She brought soup, helped you sip water, braided your hair back when it started sticking to your neck from the nerves. Every time a contraction came, she was there- counting with you, reminding you to breathe low and slow, her voice steady and warm.

Daryl barely sat. He paced sometimes, ran a hand through his hair, but the second you reached for him he was there- climbing onto the narrow bed beside you, letting you squeeze his hand until your knuckles went white. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. The way he looked at you- like you were the bravest, most beautiful thing he’d ever seen- said everything.

“You’re doin’ so good,” he whispered during one bad contraction, forehead pressed to yours. “So strong. I’m so damn proud of you.”

Hours passed. Night fell. Contractions got closer, stronger. Denise checked you again and nodded.

“It’s time.”

The delivery room was small but bright, lit with lanterns and the soft glow of an old lamp. Denise was calm and focused. Carol stood on one side of the bed, holding your hand and your leg when it was time to push. Daryl was on the other, your hand crushed in his, his other hand stroking your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

“You got this,” he kept saying, voice rough with emotion. “You’re the strongest person I know. Push, darlin’. I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

It hurt. God, it hurt. But every time the pain crested, Daryl’s voice was there, low and steady, and Carol’s calm instructions guided you through it.

And then-

A cry.

A beautiful, strong, angry little cry.

Denise lifted the baby carefully, wiped her face, and laid her on your chest.

“A girl,” she said, smiling wide. “Healthy. Perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes. Look at all that dark hair.”

Your daughter.

She was tiny and pink and perfect, already rooting against your skin like she knew exactly where she belonged. Tears spilled down your cheeks as you touched her little hand, her soft cheek. Daryl made a sound you’d never heard from him before- a broken, awed laugh- and leaned in, pressing his lips to your temple, then to the baby’s head.

“Hi, little girl,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Hi, baby. I’m your daddy. I got you. I got both of you.”

Carol was crying openly now, one hand over her mouth, the other still holding yours. “She’s beautiful. Oh, honey… she’s so beautiful.”

You were still catching your breath after delivering her and the placenta, still floating in the overwhelming rush of love and relief, when another contraction hit- sharper, different. You felt the unmistakable, urgent need to push again.

Your eyes flew wide. “Denise- I- I feel like I have to push again-”

Denise moved quickly, checking you with steady hands. Her eyes widened, surprise and wonder flooding her face.

“There’s another head,” she said, voice full of stunned joy. “You’re having twins!”

The room erupted.

Daryl’s head whipped around so fast you thought he might hurt himself. “Twins?! The fuck-?”

Carol let out a shocked, delighted laugh that turned into happy tears. “Twins! Oh my God!”

You didn’t have time to process it. The urge to push was back, stronger than before. Denise coached you through it while Daryl held your hand so tight you thought he might break it- and you didn’t care. Another push, another cry, and then Denise was lifting a second baby.

“A boy,” she announced, laughing now. “Another healthy baby. You’ve got one of each!”

Twins.

A daughter and a son.

The room was pure chaos and pure joy. Daryl was laughing and crying at the same time, tears tracking down his face into his scruff as he looked between you and the two tiny lives on your chest. Carol was openly sobbing, kissing your forehead, kissing the babies’ heads, murmuring, “You did it. You did so good. Look at them. Look at your babies.”

Denise wrapped them both in soft blankets and laid them skin-to-skin on you- one on each side of your chest. Your daughter had a tuft of dark hair like Daryl’s. Your son had the same strong little cry. Both of them warm and alive and yours.

Daryl climbed carefully onto the bed beside you, one arm around your shoulders, the other hand gently touching each tiny head like he was afraid they might disappear if he blinked.

“Twins,” he kept saying, half in awe, half in disbelief. “We got twins. Holy shit. Where the hell were you hidin' lil man?”

You turned your face into his neck, laughing through your tears. “Surprise?”

He kissed you then kissed each baby again.

Carol leaned in, brushing a finger over your daughter’s cheek, then your son’s. “They’re perfect. Both of them. You’re all perfect.”

The door cracked open just enough for Rick to peek in- he must have heard the commotion. His eyes went wide when he saw the two bundles.

“Twins?” he breathed, grinning like an idiot. “Well I’ll be damned.”

“Twins,” Daryl confirmed, voice thick. He looked at you like you’d hung every star in the sky. “She gave me twins.”

The love in the room was thick enough to touch. Denise was still smiling as she finished cleaning you and everything else up. Carol kept stroking your hair. Rick stayed in the doorway, eyes soft, like he was witnessing something sacred.

And Daryl- Daryl- couldn’t stop touching you. Your face, your hair, the babies, like he needed to keep proving to himself that this was real. That you were all here. That after everything, you’d given him this impossible, beautiful thing.

“I love you,” he whispered against your temple, voice raw. “So much. All three of you. I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”

“We did it,” you whispered back.

Daryl’s forehead rested against yours, eyes closed, breathing you in.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “We did.”

Outside the window, the first pale light of dawn was starting to touch the sky over Alexandria.

And inside the small room, surrounded by the people who loved you most in the world, your family had just doubled.

you had been on the couch when Angel came home, a book in your hands while he kicked off his boots by the door.

the sound of his footsteps drawing closer made you look up from your book, meeting his eyes with a soft smile while he leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft kiss.

“hey baby”

he murmured, already stealing another kiss from you before he crossed his arms on the couch behind you to read the book in your hands.

his chin rested against your temple as he read from the page with you, even as you gave him a knowing look, his eyes stayed glued to the page.

“what are you reading, hermosa?”

Angel asked, his eyes still skimming the page and the smut scene that was written down.

you rolled your eyes at his tone, refusing to look back at him as he continued to read the scene, a smirk no doubt on his face.

“a book”

it was the vaguest answer you could’ve given, but there was nothing else you could’ve really said. Angel knew all about the books you read, he’d been there when you bought most of them anyways.

“very funny”

he spoke against your jaw, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck while you hummed, tilting your head to give him more room.

Angel smirked against your skin, nipping at the corner of your jaw before he whispered teasingly against your ear.

“does that turn you on, baby?”

even at the question, both of you already knew the answer, and Angel exploited it every time he came home to you reading.

so it was no surprise his kisses grew hungrier as they trailed down your body, his shifting until he was settled between your legs.

both of his hands moved quick to pull down his pyjama pants you had on, smirking to himself at the wet patch on the core of your underwear.

“really?”

you rolled your eyes again, pushing away his face but he only leaned in, pressing kisses across your hips and thighs.

“stop being a tease”

he smirked up at you, his thumbs hooked into the waistband of your underwear before he slowly pulled them down, baring you to his gaze.

his hands pushed your thighs further apart, groaning to himself while your left hand moved into his hair, trying to pull him closer.

“mm you’re soaked, hermosa”

Angel looked back up to you as your fingers brushed through his hair, setting your book aside as you pulled him closer.

a whine fell from your lips as his teeth nipped at your inner thigh, causing your hips to rock towards him in an attempt to finally get his mouth on you.

but he stayed in place, smirking up at you while his eyes flickered between your cunt and your face.

“Angel please..”

he chuckled again, shaking his head in amusement before he dove in, lapping up your arousal while you moaned out above him.

both of his hands kept your thighs spread, making room for him as he lavished your cunt with attention.

“oh fuck..”

you moaned, your head lulled back into the couch while your hips rocked towards his face, whining out as he wasn’t close enough.

the book you were reading was now completely forgotten, resting loosely in your right hand as your left hand tangled in his hair, trying to pull him back to you.

his eyes flicked up to the book, smirking to himself as he murmured against your thigh.

“keep reading, don’t let me distract you”

Angel groaned as he moved his tongue with an expert precision, licking up every drop of your arousal like a man starved.

“Angel.. i can’t”

the words came out in a whine, pleasure completely taking over as you broke into another moan, rocking your hips against his face with a desperate need.

each flick of his tongue created a wet and messy sound between your thighs, easily filling the living room alongside your moans.

“keep reading, baby”

he prompted, but you couldn’t. both of you knew you couldn’t, this was just Angel’s attempt to break you completely into the pleasure rushing throughout your body.

because this all started from the book in the first place.

“i can’t Angel.. please, baby”

you whined again, dropping your book to the side as pleasure cut through your body sharp like a knife.

“so turned on by a silly book”

Angel murmured, his nose bumping against your clit as he shifted closer, licking into you over and over, trying to get every drop of your arousal.

he continued to lap at your cunt like a man starved, using both of his hands to keep your thighs parted for him.

pleasure continued to flood through your body like a tidal wave, making your head fall further back into the couch at the overwhelming feeling coursing through your body.

the wet slick sounds of Angel’s mouth on you were filthy, causing a new string of moans to tumble from your lips.

heat twisted in your body, already sending you towards the edge.

“oh Angel..”

you moaned, using both of your hands in his hair to keep him between your thighs, lost in the throes of pleasure as his beard scraped along your inner thighs.

Angel groaned into your cunt at your moans, the sound vibrating against the sensitive skin of your core before your hips rocked against his face again.

he pulled your clit between his lips, humming as your hips rocked forwards again, before another gasp of his name fell from your lips.

his tongue moved in circles around your clit, causing your eyes to roll back in your head and the coil wind tighter in your belly.

your fingers tightened in his hair, using your grip on him as leverage as you ground against his face, moving with more need.

“mmhm that’s it”

he mumbled into your cunt, continuing to flick his tongue through your wetness.

each flick of his tongue allowed him to lap up more and more of your arousal, eating you out like a man possessed, while the taste of you exploded on his tongue.

heat and bliss spiked throughout your body, as if someone had just lit a match, and causing your hips to falter.

the familiar build of your orgasm inched closer and closer, on the brink of exploding as your hips chased every lick and flick of his tongue.

“Angel.. i’m close”

you panted out between moans, your words spurring him on as he closed his lips around your clit and sucked harshly. the sensation caused your back to bow off of the couch, your hips faltering once more and your fingers tightening in his hair.

Angel dragged the flat of his tongue through your folds, smirking to himself as a desperate moan tumbled from your lips.

“that’s it, hermosa. cum on my face”

his hands kept your thighs apart as they began to shake, each flick of his tongue drawing you closer and closer until it was too much.

he smirked into your cunt as you crested over the edge, your walls spasming around nothing as your release washed over you, soaking his face in the process.

“i’ve got you, baby”

Angel murmured as his name toppled from your lips in a sweet relief, ecstasy flooding through your body as Angel kept up with his ministrations.

you moaned again, your head lolling to the side as his hands kept you in place against the couch, eagerly drinking down your release.

the sound of him slurping between your thighs had another moan pushing past your lips, unable to stop it as a new wave of pleasure sparked through your body.

“Angel..”

you whined, trying to push him away as the pleasure in your body started to morph into sensitivity.

but he stayed in place, easily working you through your high with a hunger that bordered on a desperate need.

“Angel please, it’s too much”

he lifted his head, pressing a wet kiss to your thigh before resting his cheek against your thigh, a lazy smirk gracing his face.

“mmhm you always get that turned on by your silly books?”

you rolled your eyes, pushing his face away while he chuckled, leaning up to capture your lips in a kiss.

his hands cradled your face as you moaned, tasting yourself on his tongue while his knees pushed yours apart, making room for himself.

“why don’t we recreate that scene you were reading, hm?”

“You could move.”

“Nah.”

“Your funeral.”

You glance around the room again.

Every seat’s taken.

Chibs is in one chair. Happy’s occupying another like a gargoyle. Piney’s half asleep in the corner.

And Tig—

Tig’s lounging in one of the armchairs near the bar, tattooed arms spread wide, boots kicked out, whiskey balanced on his stomach.

The only remotely available space is him.

You point. “Scoot.”

Tig blinks at you slowly. “Scoot where?”

“Your chair.”

“This is my chair.”

“You’re taking up the space of three people.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

You narrow your eyes.

The guys nearby are already watching with poorly hidden interest because you and Tig bicker like it’s a competitive sport.

“Fine,” you mutter.

Then, before you can overthink it, you drop directly into his lap.

The entire room goes silent.

Tig goes rigid beneath you.

You freeze too.

Because oh.

Oh, this is significantly more intimate than anticipated.

You can feel the solid warmth of his chest against your back. His thighs beneath yours. One of his hands instinctively landing on your waist to steady you before he seems to realize what he’s doing.

Nobody speaks.

Then Juice absolutely loses it.

“Oh my God—”

Chibs nearly chokes on his beer.

Happy looks like witnessing this has caused him physical pain.

You turn your head slightly. “You good?”

Tig’s staring at you like his brain has stopped functioning.

“…Yeah,” he says hoarsely.

You try to stand immediately.

“Nope. Never mind. This is weird. Abort mission—”

But Tig’s hand tightens around your waist before you can get up.

And that—

That shuts your brain off completely.

“You’re already sittin’,” he mutters. “Just stay there.”

The room erupts.

Catcalls. Whistles. Somebody barking like a dog.

“Shut the hell up,” Tig snaps without looking away from you.

You glance at him carefully.

He still looks startled.

But not upset.

So you settle back cautiously against his chest.

And somewhere under all the laughter and teasing and noise, Tig realizes he likes the feeling of your weight in his lap way too much.

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not immediately.

At first it’s just convenience.

You sitting on his lap because there’s nowhere else.

Then because someone stole your chair.

Then because Tig hooks an arm around your waist and casually pulls you down before you can sit elsewhere.

The first time he does that, you nearly short-circuit.

“You could ask, you know,” you mumble.

“You complain too much.”

“You literally dragged me.”

“And yet there you are.”

The Samcro boys never let either of you live it down.

“Oh look,” Chibs says one night as you automatically settle onto Tig’s lap during church cleanup. “There’s the missus.”

You flip him off without heat.

Tig just smirks into his beer.

That’s the problem.

At some point, it stops being awkward.

Stops feeling accidental.

You stop noticing when Tig’s arm settles around your waist automatically.

Stop noticing how his fingers absentmindedly tap against your thigh while he talks.

Stop noticing how you lean back against him without thinking.

It becomes muscle memory.

Comfort.

Home.

And that terrifies both of you a little.

“You know you got your own chair, right?”

You glance over at Happy from where you’re currently curled sideways across Tig’s lap while he smokes outside the clubhouse.

“There are lots of chairs.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” you agree solemnly.

Tig snorts quietly.

His hand is spread across your knee, thumb moving absently back and forth while he listens to the conversation around him.

He doesn’t even seem aware he’s doing it anymore.

You are painfully aware.

“You two are disgustin’,” Kozik says.

“You’re jealous because nobody likes you enough to sit on you,” you reply instantly.

The table explodes laughing.

Kozik points angrily. “See? This one’s evil.”

“She is evil,” Tig agrees.

But he says it with this rough fondness that makes your stomach flip.

Months pass like that.

Months of sitting in his lap during parties.

During beer runs.

During long nights around the firepit behind the clubhouse.

Months of Tig automatically making space for you before you even ask.

Months of the club treating you like you’re already together.

The only people who don’t seem fully aware of it are you and Tig.

Mostly because acknowledging it out loud would change everything.

And maybe both of you are scared to ruin what you already have.

Then one night, some guy touches your waist at the bar.

Not aggressively.

Not violently.

Just enough to make your skin crawl.

You’re waiting for drinks while the clubhouse hosts some party for another charter, and a man you vaguely recognize sidles up beside you with a grin already half-drunk.

“You been smilin’ at me all night, sweetheart.”

You blink. “I literally have not.”

He laughs like you’re flirting.

“I like attitude.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

Normally you can handle yourself.

Usually you’d tell a guy to screw off and move on with your night.

But this one keeps stepping closer.

Keeps touching your arm.

Keeps smiling like he already owns the conversation.

“You got a man?” he asks.

Your mouth opens.

Then closes.

Because suddenly your brain supplies one answer immediately.

Tig.

The realization hits so hard it almost knocks the breath from you.

The guy leans closer. “C’mon, sweetheart—”

“Nope.”

You slip away before he can touch you again.

Your heart’s beating too fast as you weave through the crowd.

Not scared.

Just… unsettled.

Overwhelmed.

And without even thinking about it, you go looking for Tig.

You find him outside by the bikes, cigarette between his fingers while he talks to Chibs.

The second his eyes land on you, his expression changes.

Sharpens.

“Hey,” he says immediately. “What happened?”

You don’t answer at first.

You just walk straight up to him and tuck yourself against his side instinctively.

Like you belong there.

Tig’s entire body goes still.

“There’s a guy inside bein’ weird,” you mutter into his kutte.

And then—

Without hesitation—

Tig wraps an arm around you.

Protective.

Possessive.

Like breathing.

“Which guy?”

The dangerous edge in his voice makes you glance up.

“Tig—”

“Which guy?”

Your stomach flips hard.

Because he sounds angry.

Not annoyed.

Not teasing.

Angry.

You gesture through the clubhouse windows.

The man inside catches sight of you tucked against Tig and immediately pales.

Smart man.

Tig stares for exactly three seconds before flicking his cigarette away.

“I’ll handle it.”

Your hand catches his wrist before he can move.

“Tig.”

His eyes snap to yours.

And suddenly everything crashes together all at once.

Every lingering touch.

Every automatic reach.

Every time he pulled you into his lap like second nature.

Every moment you chose him first without even realizing.

Your chest feels painfully tight.

“You don’t gotta fight him,” you say softly.

Tig’s jaw flexes.

“He touched you.”

Something about the way he says it makes your breath catch.

Like it means more.

Like you mean more.

Chibs looks between the two of you slowly.

Then, very wisely, excuses himself.

Leaving you alone beside the bikes.

Tig looks down at you like he’s trying to solve a problem that’s been wrecking him for months.

“You ran straight to me,” he says quietly.

The words aren’t teasing.

They sound wrecked.

You swallow.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Because you’re safe.

Because you’re mine.

Because I think maybe I’ve been halfway in love with you for months.

But the words get tangled somewhere behind your ribs.

Tig laughs once under his breath.

Not amused.

Almost disbelieving.

“You got any idea what you do to me?”

Your heart stops.

“Tig…”

“You sit on my lap every damn day.” His voice is rough now. “You curl up on me like it’s nothin’. You look for me in every room.” He steps closer.

“Then some asshole flirts with you and you come runnin’ to me like I’m your man already.”

You stare at him.

Because that’s exactly what it feels like.

Tig drags a hand over his face.

“I’m too old for this shit,” he mutters.

Then you kiss him.

You don’t plan it.

Don’t think about it.

You just grab the front of his kutte and pull him down to you.

For one stunned second, Tig doesn’t move.

Then he breaks.

His hands land on your waist hard enough to make you gasp as he kisses you back like he’s been holding himself back for months.

All heat and desperation and relief.

Like finally giving in.

You can feel the growl that rumbles out of his chest when you press closer.

“Tig,” you breathe against his mouth.

“Yeah, baby,” he says automatically.

Baby.

Your knees nearly give out.

He notices immediately.

A smug grin tugs at his mouth for half a second before it softens into something almost unbearably tender.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

You stare up at him dazedly.

Then immediately ruin the moment.

“So… can I still sit on your lap after this?”

Tig laughs so suddenly and hard he has to lean his forehead against yours.

“Christ, woman.”

“It’s an important question.”

His hands slide around your waist again, pulling you flush against him.

“You can sit wherever the hell you want.”

Then he kisses you again.

Slow this time.

Certain.

“Jesus Christ,” Gemma muttered from behind the bar. “You look like death.”

You tried smiling.

“Feel like it.”

“Why the hell’d you come here?”

“Needed to drop off paperwork for Tara.”

Gemma scoffed. “Coulda waited.”

You shrugged weakly and instantly regretted it because the movement made your vision blur.

The clubhouse was alive tonight. Loud. Crowded. Sweaty. Half the Tacoma charter was visiting, and someone had decided that meant the music needed to be cranked high enough to summon the dead.

You were trapped.

And unfortunately, your car keys were somewhere in your bag, which suddenly felt like it weighed ninety pounds.

You squeezed your eyes shut harder.

“Hey.”

Happy Lowman’s voice was low and rough beside you.

You hadn’t even heard him approach.

Honestly, nobody ever really heard Happy approach.

You lifted your head barely enough to look at him. Big mistake. The overhead lights burned into your retinas.

“Hi, Hap.”

His dark eyes narrowed instantly.

“You sick?”

“Migraine.”

He stared at you for another second.

Then at the clubhouse.

Then back at you.

You watched the calculations happen behind his eyes.

Too loud.

Too bright.

Too many people.

Without another word, Happy grabbed the back of your stool and dragged it backward.

You blinked slowly. “What’re you—”

“C’mon.”

Normally people asked questions. Offered ibuprofen. Told you to drink water.

Happy simply decided things.

You let him guide you because fighting him required energy you absolutely did not possess.

He led you through the clubhouse hallways, one broad hand at your upper back steering carefully whenever you nearly walked into a wall.

You vaguely realized he was taking you toward the dorm rooms.

“I can’t steal somebody’s bed,” you mumbled.

“You ain’t.”

The room he brought you to was dark already. Quiet too. Blessedly quiet.

His room.

You stared at him.

Happy shrugged once like it wasn’t a thing.

“Lie down.”

You obeyed immediately, collapsing sideways onto the mattress with a shaky exhale. The darkness helped instantly. So did the silence.

Happy shut the door.

Then he stood there for a second.

Watching you.

You curled tighter instinctively, one hand pressed over your eyes.

“Meds?” he asked.

“In my bag.”

He found them in seconds somehow despite your purse being a disaster zone.

Water appeared next.

You swallowed the pills gratefully.

“Thanks.”

He grunted.

Then he sat beside you on the bed.

Not touching.

Just there.

You were too exhausted to question it.

Minutes passed.

The migraine pulsed harder behind your left eye. Your stomach rolled unpleasantly.

You made a small sound before you could stop it.

Something between a whimper and a hiss of pain.

The mattress shifted.

Then suddenly—

Warmth.

Heavy, solid warmth against the side of your head.

You froze.

Happy’s large palm covered part of your temple and forehead, fingers spreading carefully into your hairline. Not rough. Not demanding.

Just pressure.

Steady pressure.

Your entire body went still.

“What’re you doing?” you whispered.

“Shh.”

The pressure increased slightly.

It shouldn’t have helped.

Except somehow it did.

The sharpest edge of the pain dulled almost immediately.

You blinked slowly into the darkness.

“That helps,” you admitted softly.

“Yeah.”

Like he already knew.

You drifted after that.

In and out.

Every time the pain sharpened, his hand remained there. Unmoving. Warm. Steady.

Hours passed.

Happy never complained once.

When you woke sometime near dawn, the migraine had finally retreated enough to leave you functional instead of dying.

Happy was still sitting against the headboard.

Still awake.

Still holding your head.

You stared at him blearily.

“Hap…”

He looked down at you.

“You stayed up all night?”

A shrug.

Like that meant absolutely nothing.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Did anyway.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So instead you whispered, “Thank you.”

Happy nodded once.

And that should’ve been the end of it.

Except it wasn’t.

The second time happened three weeks later.

This time you didn’t even make it inside before the migraine hit full force.

You’d been helping Chibs organize medical supply deliveries when the aura started. Little flashes in your vision. Static at the edges of your sight.

Then came the pain.

By the time you reached the lot, you were stumbling.

Happy spotted you immediately from where he stood smoking near the garage.

He tossed the cigarette without hesitation.

“You got one?”

You nodded weakly.

He was beside you in three strides.

“C’mon.”

Again.

No questions.

No fuss.

Like this had already become routine somehow.

This time he brought you straight to his room.

No hesitation.

No discussion.

You barely got your boots off before collapsing face-first onto the mattress.

The pain was vicious tonight. You could feel your pulse inside your skull.

Happy shut the blinds completely.

Killed every source of light.

Then the mattress dipped beside you.

Warm fingers slid carefully into your hair.

Pressure against your temple.

Immediate relief.

You exhaled shakily.

“There it is,” he murmured.

You nearly melted from gratitude.

“How do you know how to do this?”

“My mom.”

Your eyes opened slightly.

Happy rarely volunteered information about himself.

Ever.

“She got migraines?”

“Bad ones.”

His thumb shifted slowly against your hairline. Measured. Careful.

“She used to have me do this when I was a kid.”

The image hit you unexpectedly hard.

Little Happy Lowman sitting beside his mother for hours in dark rooms.

Silent.

Patient.

Learning exactly how much pressure helped.

Something painful twisted in your chest.

“You were good to her,” you whispered.

Happy went quiet.

Then:

“She deserved better than what she got.”

There was enough buried in that sentence to fill entire graves.

You didn’t push.

Instead you relaxed deeper into the mattress while his hand stayed steady against your head.

“You don’t have to stay,” you murmured eventually, half asleep already.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

After that, everyone noticed.

Mostly because whenever you got migraines now, Happy appeared out of fucking nowhere.

You could be at Teller-Morrow.

The clubhouse.

A run.

A barbecue.

Didn’t matter.

The second you went pale or squinted against light too long, Happy clocked it instantly.

Then came the familiar:

“C’mon.”

And off you went.

The club found it hilarious.

“Man acts like a damn migraine bloodhound,” Tig laughed one afternoon.

Happy stared at him blankly.

Tig wisely stopped talking.

You tried not to think too hard about it.

About the fact that Happy touched almost nobody voluntarily.

About how gentle he became with you during migraines.

About how he’d sit motionless for literal hours just keeping pressure against your head.

You especially tried not to think about how safe it made you feel.

Which was difficult.

Because Happy Lowman was terrifying.

Most people in Charming crossed the street to avoid him.

He was violence wrapped in tattoos and silence.

But with you—

With you he adjusted his grip when you flinched.

With you he dimmed lights before you even asked.

With you he learned exactly where to press his palm against your skull to make the pain ease fastest.

And sometimes—

Sometimes he’d brush his thumb softly through your hair while he waited for you to fall asleep.

That part was dangerous.

That part made your heart do stupid things.

“You in love with him?”

You nearly choked on your coffee.

Tara looked entirely too calm across from you.

“No.”

The lie came too fast.

Tara raised one eyebrow.

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You look at him like he hung the moon.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands.

“Please stop talking.”

Tara laughed quietly.

Honestly, you should’ve known better than trying to hide anything from a surgeon. Tara noticed everything.

“He looks at you the same way,” she added.

Your head snapped up immediately.

“No he doesn’t.”

“He really does.”

Happy Lowman did not look at anyone lovingly.

That was objectively ridiculous.

Tara sipped her coffee. “You know he threatened a prospect for slamming a locker too hard because you had a migraine upstairs?”

“…what?”

“Mhm.”

Your stomach flipped.

“He sat outside the room for six hours.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“He wouldn’t let anyone near you.”

That warmth in your chest spread painfully wider.

You looked away before Tara could see too much on your face.

“This thing between you two,” she said gently, “it already exists. You’re just pretending it doesn’t.”

The problem was that you didn’t know what to do with the possibility of Happy wanting you back.

Happy wasn’t easy to read.

He wasn’t affectionate publicly.

Wasn’t talkative.

Wasn’t soft.

Except sometimes with you.

And maybe that made it worse.

Because those small moments became enormous.

Like the time he bought blackout curtains for your apartment after seeing you suffer through sunlight during a migraine.

Or the way he silently stocked electrolyte drinks in your fridge.

Or how he started carrying your medication in his kutte pocket because you forgot it once.

“You carry my migraine meds around?” you’d asked incredulously.

Happy looked almost annoyed you were surprised.

“You need ‘em.”

That was it.

Like it was obvious.

Like taking care of you was simply a fact of his existence now.

The moment everything changed happened during one of the worst migraines of your life.

Storm weather.

Pressure changes.

You’d been doomed from the second you woke up.

By evening you could barely see straight.

Happy found you curled in the bathroom at the clubhouse, shaking and nauseous from pain.

His expression changed instantly.

Not panic.

Worse.

That terrifying stillness he got when he was angry.

“Hey,” he said quietly, crouching in front of you.

You tried speaking and failed.

Tears burned behind your eyes.

Migraines made you emotional sometimes. Raw. Fragile.

Humiliatingly fragile.

Happy touched your cheek once.

Gentle.

“Look at me.”

You did.

“I got you.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

He helped you stand slowly before guiding you to his room.

Everything hurt.

Every sound.

Every flicker of light under the doorway.

You were shaking by the time you collapsed onto his bed.

Happy shut the door.

Locked it.

Then came immediately to your side.

His hand settled against your forehead.

Pressure.

Warmth.

Relief.

You broke.

A small sob escaped before you could stop it.

Happy went still.

“Hurts,” you whispered miserably.

“I know.”

Another tear slid down your temple.

Humiliation crashed through you instantly. “Sorry.”

Happy’s expression hardened.

“Don’t apologize for pain.”

Something about the way he said it shattered you further.

Because nobody ever understood migraines.

Not really.

People got annoyed eventually. Or dismissive.

But Happy never did.

Not once.

He shifted closer on the bed until your head rested partly against his thigh while his hand remained firm against your temple.

“You can sleep,” he murmured.

You looked up at him through blurred vision.

“Will you stay?”

His eyes softened so subtly most people wouldn’t catch it.

“Always.”

The word hit like a gunshot.

Always.

Your heart stuttered violently.

Happy seemed to realize what he’d said a second later because something unreadable crossed his face.

But he didn’t take it back.

Didn’t look away either.

The room felt suddenly too small.

Too intimate.

Your pulse hammered despite the migraine.

“Hap…”

His thumb brushed carefully beneath your eye, catching another tear.

“You got any idea what you do to me?” he asked quietly.

You stopped breathing.

Happy Lowman almost never sounded uncertain.

Now he did.

Barely.

But enough.

“I—”

“I sit here every time,” he continued roughly, eyes fixed on you, “tellin’ myself this ain’t what it looks like.”

Your chest hurt.

“But then you look at me when you’re hurt…” His jaw flexed hard. “Like I’m somethin’ safe.”

“You are safe,” you whispered immediately.

The words wrecked him.

You saw it happen in real time.

Happy inhaled slowly like he’d been hit.

Nobody probably ever called him safe before.

Not a man with his reputation.

Not a man covered in death.

But he was.

With you, he was.

His forehead lowered against yours carefully.

“You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

Then finally—

Finally—

You lifted your hand and touched his face.

Happy went perfectly still beneath your fingertips.

“You sit with me for hours,” you whispered. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours.

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you,” you admitted shakily.

The silence afterward felt enormous.

Then Happy kissed you.

Slow.

Careful.

Like he was terrified of hurting you.

One massive hand cupped the side of your face while the other still rest against your temple instinctively, maintaining that familiar pressure even during the kiss.

It nearly made you cry again.

The kiss deepened gradually.

Warm and thorough and devastatingly tender.

Happy kissed like he loved quietly.

Completely.

When he pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

“You got a migraine,” he muttered softly.

You laughed weakly.

“You’re worried about that right now?”

“Always worried about you.”

Your heart nearly gave out.

He shifted carefully, laying down beside you at last instead of sitting upright like he usually did.

Then he pulled you against his chest.

One hand slid back into your hair.

Pressure against your temple again.

Automatic.

Natural.

Like breathing.

You smiled against him despite the pounding in your skull.

Happy pressed a kiss into your hairline.

“Sleep,” he murmured.

And for the first time in a very long time, you did.

Completely safe.

Completely loved.

Held warm against the terrifying man everyone feared most.

He stood just inside the doorway, broad shoulders filling the entrance, dark eyes sweeping slowly across shelves overflowing with used books and stacked hardcovers. His expression didn’t change much, but something about the way he looked around told you he wasn’t there by accident.

You’d lived in Charming long enough to recognize SAMCRO members on sight. Everyone did.

Most of them came in occasionally.

Juice bought comic books and tech magazines. Chibs liked old detective novels. Jax sometimes wandered into the children’s section with Abel perched on his hip.

Happy had never entered your shop before.

Honestly, you weren’t sure he could read.

Which felt unfair the second the thought crossed your mind.

Still.

He looked less like someone who read books and more like someone who buried bodies in forests.

You gave him your best customer-service smile anyway.

“Can I help you find something?”

His eyes landed on you.

Jesus.

It always startled you a little, how intense he was. Happy Lowman looked at people like he was evaluating whether they were a threat. Or a target. There was no casualness to him whatsoever.

He approached the counter slowly.

Heavy boots. Silent somehow despite the size of him.

“You got westerns?”

His voice was rough gravel and cigarette smoke.

You blinked.

“Westerns?”

A slight shrug.

“My mom liked them.”

The answer caught you so off guard your entire opinion of him shifted sideways.

“Oh,” you said softly. “Yeah. Tons.”

You led him toward the back corner of the store where the western section lived between historical fiction and mythology. He followed close behind you, and despite yourself, you were hyperaware of him the entire walk there.

Not because he was threatening exactly.

Just… large.

Warm.

Dangerous in the way a chained wolf was dangerous.

You crouched beside one shelf.

“What kind?”

He considered.

“Ones where people mind their business.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

His eyes flicked toward you immediately, like the sound surprised him.

“Okay,” you said, smiling. “So definitely not Cormac McCarthy.”

He stared at you blankly.

“You know what? Never mind.”

You spent ten minutes helping him pick books.

Ten deeply bizarre minutes.

Because Happy Lowman—terrifying enforcer of an outlaw motorcycle club—was unexpectedly meticulous about book covers. He hated movie tie-in editions. Preferred worn paperbacks because “they feel read.” Dismissed anything with tiny print because it was “annoying as shit.”

You learned he liked stories where people survived impossible odds.

Hated tragic endings.

Thought heroes who talked too much were idiots.

And when you handed him a copy of Lonesome Dove, his fingers brushed yours for half a second.

The contact felt weirdly electric.

He looked at the book.

“You read this?”

“Like six times.”

“Good?”

“It ruined my emotional stability for a week.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Not quite a smile.

But close enough to make your stomach flip unexpectedly.

He bought three books.

Paid in cash.

Left without another word.

You assumed that would be the end of it.

Instead, he came back two days later.

And then again the next week.

And then suddenly Happy Lowman existed in your life with alarming consistency.

He never lingered much. Never talked unnecessarily. He’d appear at random hours, silently browse shelves for twenty minutes, buy a stack of books, then vanish back into Charming’s shadows.

But over time, tiny things accumulated.

He started bringing you coffee.

Never announcing it.

Just setting a cup beside the register with a gruff, “You looked tired.”

You learned he read absurdly fast.

You learned he preferred books with dog-eared pages because pristine ones felt “untouched.”

You learned he liked when you recommended things because apparently your taste was “less stupid than most people.”

Which, from Happy, felt dangerously close to flirting.

Not that he flirted normally.

Happy’s version of affection was deeply unsettling.

Once, a customer screamed at you over a pricing mistake.

Happy happened to be in the true crime section nearby.

You didn’t even realize he’d moved until suddenly he was standing beside you.

Not saying anything.

Just… standing there.

The customer immediately lost all momentum.

Happy stared at him with the cold neutrality of a hitman deciding whether murder was worth the paperwork.

The man stammered an apology and practically fled the store.

You turned to Happy slowly.

“…Did you just intimidate a customer for me?”

He looked genuinely confused.

“He was yelling.”

“Yes?”

Another shrug.

“Didn’t like it.”

That was it.

That was the entire explanation.

You should’ve been alarmed.

Instead warmth spread embarrassingly through your chest.

Because no one had protected you so instinctively in a very long time.

Three months after you met him, rain hammered against the bookstore windows while you reorganized a display table near closing.

Happy sat in the armchair by the fireplace reading.

Which had somehow become normal.

He’d started lingering recently.

Not talking much.

Just existing nearby while you worked.

You suspected most people would find the silence uncomfortable.

You didn’t.

Happy’s quietness never felt empty. It felt deliberate. Like he only spoke when he genuinely had something worth saying.

You glanced up from your stack of books.

“What are you reading?”

He held up the paperback slightly.

“Audubon.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

“The naturalist?”

“Bird guy.”

“Yeah, bird guy.”

He flipped a page.

“Mean son of a bitch.”

You snorted.

“That’s your literary analysis?”

“Shot birds outta the sky just to paint them.”

“Honestly valid criticism.”

A rumble of thunder shook the windows.

Happy glanced toward the storm.

Then at the book cart beside you.

Then back at you.

“You read all these?”

“Most.”

“You remember them?”

“Usually.”

“That seems fake.”

You laughed softly.

“You remember every gun you’ve ever owned.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Books got too many words.”

You grinned.

“Spoken like a true scholar.”

His gaze lifted slowly to your face.

Steady.

Unreadable.

But there was warmth there too now. Tiny and hidden and dangerous.

Your pulse skipped stupidly.

To distract yourself, you picked up a hardcover from the cart.

“This one’s good.”

Happy eyed the cover suspiciously.

“It got dragons?”

“No.”

“Then why’s it so thick?”

“Character development.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“You’re impossible.”

Still, you walked over and handed it to him.

He took it automatically.

His fingers brushed yours again.

That same strange electricity.

“You’ll hate the first fifty pages,” you warned.

“Why would I read something I hate?”

“Because then eventually you won’t.”

He studied the book cover.

Then you.

“You lending it?”

“If you promise not to destroy it.”

A pause.

“I don’t destroy books.”

“You bend every page corner.”

“Bookmarks fall out.”

“That’s barbaric.”

Another almost-smile.

Tiny.

Quick.

Dangerously rewarding.

You pointed at him accusingly.

“Don’t make me regret this, Lowman.”

“Won’t.”

You fully expected never to see the book again.

Not because Happy seemed dishonest.

Mostly because men borrowed books from you constantly and almost never returned them.

Books vanished into apartments and glove compartments and ex-girlfriends’ houses forever.

You’d made peace with it years ago.

So when the bookstore bell jingled three days later and Happy walked in holding your hardcover carefully under one tattooed arm, you stared.

“You finished it already?”

“Yeah.”

“You speed-read a six-hundred-page fantasy novel in three days?”

A shrug.

“Was stuck in Tacoma.”

That explained absolutely nothing.

He approached the counter and placed the book down with surprising gentleness.

“Here.”

You smiled automatically.

“Thanks for actually returning—”

Then you noticed the explosion of neon sticky notes protruding from nearly every chapter.

You blinked.

“What…”

Happy looked suddenly awkward.

Which was genuinely astonishing on a man who routinely looked comfortable threatening human life.

“You said you liked talking about books.”

You stared at him.

Then at the sticky notes.

Then back at him.

“You annotated my book?”

His shoulders shifted slightly, like he was preparing for ridicule.

“Yeah.”

“Happy.”

“You don’t gotta read ‘em if they’re stupid.”

Your chest did something deeply inconvenient.

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I want to.”

He nodded once.

Then immediately headed toward the western section like he hadn’t just fundamentally altered your brain chemistry.

You opened the book carefully.

The first sticky note appeared on page thirty-two.

This guy talks too much. You were right.

You laughed out loud.

Happy glanced over from across the store.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

You flipped further.

Another note.

If she dies I’m suing you.

Another.

Dragon’s kinda cool actually. Don’t get weird about it.

And another.

Main dude needs punched. Respectfully.

Your smile grew helplessly wider with every page.

Some notes were only a few words.

Some were bizarrely insightful.

Some were unintentionally hilarious.

One simply read:

This chapter stressed me out.

Another:

Why are fantasy maps always lying? Nobody gets places this fast.

And then halfway through the book, tucked beside one devastating emotional scene:

You cried here didn’t you

Not a question.

A statement.

You looked up slowly.

Happy was pretending very hard to browse shelves.

“You made fun of my emotional devastation in sticky note form?”

Without looking at you, he said, “Little bit.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

A pause.

Then:

“You did cry though.”

“…That is not the point.”

He finally glanced over.

And there it was.

A real smile this time.

Small.

Crooked.

So rare and startling it hit you like a physical force.

God.

You were in trouble.

After that, it became a thing.

You’d lend Happy books.

He’d return them covered in sticky notes.

Not destructive notes either. Careful ones. He never wrote directly on pages. Never bent spines too harshly. He treated borrowed books with bizarre reverence.

The notes became increasingly unhinged.

- This villain dresses like a narc. - Why are they kissing during a hostage situation. Priorities seem wrong. - I knew the dog would die. Felt suspiciously happy. - You absolutely recommended this because you enjoy psychological warfare.

You started responding.

At first on your own sticky notes tucked between pages before lending him books.

- You have no imagination. - You are emotionally attached to fictional horses and should reflect on that. - That villain IS a narc. Good catch.

Soon the books themselves became conversations.

Entire arguments unfolded in margins via color-coded sticky notes.

Customers occasionally witnessed you laughing alone behind the counter while reading one of Happy’s annotations and looked deeply confused.

Happy pretended not to notice.

But you caught him watching your reactions constantly.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Like your happiness mattered more than he knew what to do with.

One night, near closing, you found him sitting cross-legged on the bookstore floor in the mythology aisle beside Hemingway the cat.

The giant tattooed assassin and the sixteen-year-old orange tabby appeared equally unbothered by the arrangement.

Happy scratched under Hemingway’s chin absently while reading.

You leaned against the shelf smiling.

“I didn’t know you liked cats.”

“Don’t.”

“Hemingway seems unconvinced.”

The cat was literally sprawled across Happy’s thigh purring like a lawnmower.

Happy looked down at him.

“He’s weird.”

“He likes you.”

“He bites everyone else.”

“That’s because everyone else deserves it.”

Happy snorted quietly.

You settled beside him on the floor.

“What’re you reading?”

He showed you the cover.

A mystery novel you’d recommended.

“You like it?”

“Guy’s an idiot.”

“You say that about every protagonist.”

“Most people are idiots.”

“Comforting worldview.”

His eyes shifted toward you.

“Not you.”

The words were simple.

Matter-of-fact.

But something about the sincerity in them stole your breath completely.

Happy looked away almost immediately afterward, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Your pulse fluttered.

You cleared your throat softly.

“Well. Thanks.”

He shrugged once.

But his hand tightened slightly against the cat’s fur.

Like maybe honesty made him nervous.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

You learned quickly that Happy expressed affection sideways.

Indirectly.

Never naming it.

If your car made a weird noise once, it mysteriously got fixed overnight.

If someone bothered you repeatedly, they stopped appearing entirely.

If you mentioned liking a particular coffee from a bakery two towns over, it started showing up beside your register every Friday morning.

And always the books.

Always the sticky notes.

You kept every single one.

Tucked into a jar behind the counter.

You told yourself it was because they were funny.

Not because seeing Happy’s messy handwriting softened something deep in your chest.

The realization that you were falling in love with him arrived quietly.

Not dramatic.

Not sudden.

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday.

You had the flu.

Absolutely miserable.

The bookstore was closed early, and you’d spent most of the day unconscious beneath three blankets in your apartment above the shop.

A pounding knock dragged you awake around evening.

You stumbled downstairs half-dead and opened the bookstore door to find Happy standing there holding two grocery bags.

You blinked blearily.

“How did you know I was sick?”

“You didn’t answer texts.”

“You texted me twice.”

“No one ignores me twice.”

You stared at him.

“…That’s somehow both concerning and weirdly sweet.”

He stepped inside without invitation.

Rainwater dripped from his kutte onto the wooden floor.

“You eat anything?”

“I had crackers.”

“That’s not food.”

“It absolutely is when you’re dying.”

“You’re dramatic.”

Said by a man who once threatened to stab a parking enforcement officer over a towing dispute.

Happy unpacked groceries with the efficiency of someone preparing for battle.

Soup.

Medicine.

Tea.

Electrolyte drinks.

A ridiculous amount of oranges.

You sat on a stool watching him helplessly.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

He glanced at you once.

“Wanted to.”

Simple.

Immediate.

True.

Your heart hurt.

Happy made soup while glaring suspiciously at your stove like appliances personally offended him.

Then he sat beside your couch while you drifted in and out of sleep, reading silently.

Every so often you’d wake enough to find him still there.

Massive.

Steady.

Safe.

At one point, feverish and half-conscious, you mumbled, “You’d kill someone for me, wouldn’t you?”

You expected silence.

Instead:

“Yeah.”

No hesitation.

No drama.

Just certainty.

You looked at him through exhaustion and dim lamplight.

Happy met your gaze calmly.

Like he didn’t understand why that answer wasn't frightening you.

Oddly enough, it didn’t.

Because underneath all the violence and darkness and sharp edges, Happy loved with terrifying sincerity.

And once he cared about someone, he cared completely.

The realization settled deep in your bones.

Oh.

Oh no.

The problem with loving Happy Lowman was that he didn’t flirt in recognizable human ways.

You genuinely couldn’t tell whether he understood what was happening between you.

Sometimes he looked at you like you hung the moon.

Other times he vanished for days chasing club business, returning bloodied and exhausted and emotionally unreadable.

He touched you constantly in tiny ways though.

A hand against your back guiding you through crowds.

Fingers brushing yours when passing books.

His knee pressed against yours during movie nights upstairs.

One evening at the clubhouse, Tig watched Happy silently steal fries from your plate while sitting so close your thighs touched.

Tig looked between you both slowly.

Then at Chibs.

Then back again.

“…Are ye two dating?”

You nearly choked.

Happy kept eating your fries.

“No,” you said too quickly.

Tig frowned.

“Then why’s he lookin’ at ye like that?”

You froze.

Happy finally glanced up.

“Tig.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

Tig grinned immediately.

“Oh my God, ye like her.”

Chibs burst into laughter.

You looked at Happy instinctively.

For one horrifying second, genuine panic flashed across his face.

Then it vanished beneath his usual flat calm.

“Eat your food,” he muttered.

Tig absolutely lost his mind.

You spent the next hour unable to look directly at Happy without feeling your heartbeat in your throat.

A week later, Happy handed you a book at closing.

You frowned at the unfamiliar hardcover.

“You’re lending me a book?”

“Yeah.”

“That feels illegal somehow.”

“Just read it.”

You flipped it over.

A collection of poetry.

Your eyebrows shot upward.

“You read poetry?”

“No.”

“You bought me poetry?”

A shrug.

“Thought you’d like it.”

Your chest melted completely.

You opened the cover.

Inside, tucked carefully between pages, was a sticky note.

Page 47.

You looked up slowly.

Happy had suddenly become extremely interested in reorganizing bookmarks near the register.

Suspicious behavior.

You turned to page forty-seven.

A poem about loving someone quietly.

Persistently.

Without needing them to understand the depth of it immediately.

At the bottom of the page sat another sticky note in Happy’s messy handwriting.

This one sounds like you.

Your throat tightened painfully.

You looked at him again.

Happy still refused to meet your eyes.

“Happy…”

His shoulders tensed.

You walked around the counter slowly.

Stopped directly in front of him.

He finally looked down at you.

Close up, he always felt overwhelming. Broad chest. Dark eyes. Tattoos winding beneath his sleeves. The faint scent of leather and smoke and soap.

But right then he also looked strangely uncertain.

Which you were beginning to realize only happened around you.

“You bought me a poetry book,” you said softly.

“Yeah.”

“You marked a love poem.”

A pause.

“Yeah.”

Your pulse thundered.

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

Happy stared at you for a very long moment.

Then he said quietly:

“I’m not good at this.”

Your heart cracked wide open.

“At what?”

His jaw shifted slightly.

“You.”

The honesty of it nearly destroyed you.

You stepped closer instinctively.

“So don’t be good at it,” you whispered. “Just be honest.”

Something vulnerable flickered across his face.

Tiny.

Raw.

Then his hand lifted slowly, almost cautious, and brushed hair back from your temple.

The gesture was impossibly gentle coming from him.

“I think about you all the time,” he admitted roughly. “It’s gettin’ annoying.”

You laughed through sudden tears.

“That’s your confession?”

“Best I got.”

“It’s a pretty good one.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek.

“You scare me.”

That surprised you enough to still completely.

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

A faint crease formed between his brows like he was struggling to explain something unfamiliar.

“Got too used to you.”

Your chest ached.

Happy Lowman didn’t fear many things.

But losing people?

That clearly lived somewhere deep and ugly inside him.

You reached up carefully, resting your hand against the side of his neck.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

His eyes closed briefly at the contact.

Like relief physically hurt.

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

And it was nothing like you expected.

Not rough.

Not aggressive.

Slow.

Careful.

Like he was handling something precious and didn’t trust himself not to break it.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt automatically.

Happy made a quiet sound against your mouth that nearly melted your spine.

When he pulled back, he stayed close enough that his forehead rested lightly against yours.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then:

“You taste like peppermint tea,” he murmured.

You laughed breathlessly.

“That’s your takeaway?”

“Trying not to say insane shit.”

“Such as?”

A long pause.

Then very seriously:

“Think I’d kill God for you.”

You stared at him.

Then burst into helpless laughter.

Happy looked mildly offended.

“That was vulnerable.”

“Oh my God.”

“You’re makin’ fun of me.”

“I’m kissing you again before you threaten divine entities.”

“Hmm.”

So you did.

And this time Happy kissed you like he’d been starving for it.

Dating Happy Lowman was an exercise in realizing romance looked different on everyone.

For Happy, romance meant:

Keeping a spare helmet for you on his bike before you officially moved into his place.

Reading books aloud in bed because he liked hearing your reactions.

Resting one heavy hand on your knee while driving.

Bringing you bizarrely thoughtful gifts with zero explanation.

One time he handed you a first-edition hardcover of your favorite novel like it was nothing.

You nearly fainted.

“Happy, this costs like eight hundred dollars.”

A shrug.

“You looked at it too long.”

“You absolute psychopath.”

“Thought that was romantic.”

“It IS romantic. That’s the problem.”

He seemed pleased by that.

Very pleased.

His sticky notes evolved too.

Now they were openly affectionate.

- This character laughs like you. - Saw this and got distracted thinkin’ about your face. - You’d survive this apocalypse. Proud of you.

Sometimes he left them around your apartment instead of books.

Inside kitchen cabinets.

On bathroom mirrors.

Tucked into your coat pockets.

One appeared on your pillow after he left early for club business.

Coffee’s in the pot. Don’t fight customers today.

Another:

Your cat judges me.

Another, attached to takeout containers in the fridge:

Eat actual food or I’ll become unbearable about it.

You loved him so much it occasionally felt fatal.

One evening, months later, you sat cross-legged in bed reading while Happy cleaned his guns next to you.

Oddly domestic.

Rain tapped softly against the trailer roof.

You turned the page of your book and frowned.

“There’s a sticky note in my book.”

“Yeah.”

You pulled it out.

Marry me eventually. No rush.

You stared.

Slowly turned toward him.

Happy continued cleaning his gun with complete seriousness.

“…Did you just casually propose via office supplies?”

A pause.

“Maybe.”

“You MAYBE proposed?”

“You were reading.”

You laughed so hard you nearly fell off the bed.

Happy watched you carefully during it though.

Not nervous exactly.

Hopeful.

Which somehow affected you more than a dramatic proposal ever could.

You climbed across the bed toward him.

“Hey.”

He set the gun aside immediately when you touched his arm.

“Yeah?”

You took the sticky note gently from the book and pressed it against his chest.

“Yes.”

Happy blinked.

“Yes?”

“Yes, you terrifying weirdo.”

For a second he just stared at you.

Then suddenly his hands were on your waist, pulling you firmly into his lap with startling strength.

He kissed you hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.

When he finally let you breathe, his forehead rested against yours.

“You sure?”

“Completely.”

A rare smile spread slowly across his face.

Softening every dangerous edge.

Beautiful enough to ruin you.

“You know,” you murmured, “most people use rings.”

“Sticky notes cheaper.”

“You are unbelievably romantic in the strangest possible way.”

“Still worked.”

You smiled against his mouth.

“Name?” you asked professionally.

“Filip Telford.”

“Age?”

“Depends who’s askin’.”

You deadpanned. “The woman deciding whether you’ve got internal bleeding.”

“…Forty-eight.”

“See? Wasn’t hard.”

His mouth twitched.

You pulled gloves on and moved toward him. “What happened?”

“Fell.”

The paramedic barked a laugh loud enough that another nurse looked over.

You lifted an unimpressed brow.

Chibs sighed dramatically. “Fine. Got punched.”

“Why?”

“Man was upset.”

“With?”

“A variety of things.”

“Did one of those things include your face?”

Another twitch of amusement.

“You always this friendly, nurse?”

“Only with patients actively wasting my time.”

You started cutting away the bloodied shirt before he could protest. Bruising bloomed across his ribs already, ugly purple spreading over tattooed skin.

And Christ.

The man was built like he’d been carved out of bad decisions and whiskey.

“You fractured anything before?” you asked.

“Aye.”

“How many times?”

“Yes.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

His eyes sharpened immediately at the sound, like he’d discovered something interesting.

You ignored it.

“You allergic to anything?”

“Hospitals.”

“Mhm.”

“Authority.”

“Noted.”

“Cheap beer.”

That finally got a laugh out of you.

Small. Brief. But real.

And something about it hit him square in the chest.

You saw it happen.

The way he looked at you afterward changed completely.

Not flirtatious exactly.

Focused.

Like he’d decided to remember you.

You didn’t expect to see him again.

Men like him came into emergency departments all the time. Fights. Crashes. Stabbings they refused to explain. Dangerous men with dangerous jobs and worse survival instincts.

Usually they disappeared back into the world after discharge papers.

But three weeks later, Filip Telford came back into your ER with a nail through his hand.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

“…Again?” you asked.

“Aye.”

“How.”

“Construction accident.”

You looked at the leather kutte.

Then at the tattoos.

Then at the very obvious motorcycle boots.

“Right.”

“I’m diversifyin’.”

“Into carpentry?”

“Tryin’ new things.”

The nail had gone clean through the fleshy part of his palm. Painful but survivable.

Still stupid.

Very stupid.

“Sit,” you ordered.

Obediently—shockingly—he sat.

Your coworker Nina wandered past, glanced at him, and immediately grinned.

“Oh, your boyfriend’s back.”

“He is not my boyfriend.”

Chibs looked deeply pleased by the accusation.

Nina pointed at the nail. “What’d you do this time, handsome?”

“Construction accident.”

She looked at you.

You looked at her.

Together, in perfect sync: “Bullshit.”

Chibs laughed.

Low and rough and genuinely entertained.

You cleaned the wound carefully while he watched you instead of the procedure.

“You always this accident-prone?” you muttered.

“Only recently.”

“Mhm.”

“You think I’m lyin’.”

“I think if I asked ten follow-up questions, your story would collapse instantly.”

“Aye, probably.”

You glanced up. “At least you’re honest about it.”

“Honest with you.”

The words landed strangely between you.

Not flirtation.

Not entirely.

Just… truth.

And for reasons you couldn’t explain, that was worse.

You finished wrapping his hand.

“Try not to impale yourself for at least a month.”

“No promises.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And yet ye patched me up anyway.”

“That’s literally my job.”

“Aye.” His eyes stayed on yours. “Still.”

The third visit happened at two in the morning.

You walked into Trauma Two and stopped dead.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Chibs looked up from the hospital bed, nose visibly broken and ice pack pressed to his face.

“There she is.”

“You cannot keep coming here.”

“Technically I can.”

“You look like someone hit you with a car.”

“Motorcycle, actually.”

You blinked slowly.

“…You drove your motorcycle into something.”

“No.”

“Something drove into you?”

“Aye.”

“That’s worse.”

He shrugged and immediately winced.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, grabbing gloves. “What happened?”

“Dog ran into the road.”

“You crashed avoiding a dog?”

“Wasn’t gonna hit the wee thing.”

You tried not to react to that.

Failed a little.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“Did the dog live?” you asked quietly.

“Aye.”

“Okay. Good.”

He smiled through the swelling.

And there it was again—that sharp strange pull in your chest.

Because he looked terrifying.

Scarred and bruised and tattooed and built like violence.

But he’d wrecked his bike to save a stray dog.

You examined his nose carefully.

“Broken.”

“Figured.”

“You have a concussion?”

“Probably.”

“You say that like it’s normal.”

“Depends on the month.”

You sighed heavily.

“You are absolutely my worst patient.”

“And yet ye sound fond.”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

You pressed gently against his ribs and he hissed.

“Bruised,” you said. “Nothing cracked this time.”

“Improvin’.”

“Debatable.”

When you stepped back, he caught your wrist lightly.

Not enough to restrain.

Just enough to stop you moving away.

His hand was warm even through your gloves.

“Name,” he said softly.

You frowned. “You know my name. It’s on my badge.”

“Aye. Your last name.”

You hesitated.

It was stupid to hesitate.

But something about him felt… dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with physical harm.

Dangerous because he paid attention.

Dangerous because every time he looked at you, you felt seen in a way you weren’t used to.

“Nurse confidentiality,” you said finally.

He grinned despite the broken nose. “That bad, eh?”

“You’d survive without it.”

“Maybe.”

But he looked disappointed.

And annoyingly, that bothered you.

After the fourth visit, your coworkers started taking bets.

“I’m serious,” Nina said over coffee. “That man is in love with you.”

“He doesn’t even know me.”

“He keeps nearly dying in increasingly creative ways to come see you.”

“That is not what’s happening.”

From the other side of the break room, Dr. Harrison looked up from his sandwich.

“The biker with the accent?”

“Yes,” Nina said.

“He asked if you were working before he agreed to stitches last week.”

You froze.

“…What?”

Dr. Patel shrugged. “Thought you knew.”

You absolutely did not know.

And suddenly several things clicked into place.

The suspicious timing.

The weirdly selective compliance.

The fact that he always somehow ended up in your section of the ER.

“Oh my God.”

Nina looked delighted. “OH MY GOD.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It is absolutely like that.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands.

Unfortunately, your traitorous stomach fluttered.

The fifth visit involved a ferret.

To this day, you still weren’t entirely sure how.

“What do you mean it bit you,” you demanded.

Chibs sat on the bed looking genuinely offended. “The little bastard was aggressive.”

“Why were you near a ferret?”

“Friend owns one.”

“Why.”

“Ask him.”

“Did you try to pet it?”

“Aye.”

“You absolute idiot.”

“It looked friendly.”

You stared at the bite on his arm.

Then at him.

Then back at the bite.

“You’re in a motorcycle club.”

“Aye.”

“You’ve been stabbed.”

“A few times.”

“Shot?”

A pause.

“…Maybe.”

“And a ferret is what gets you?”

“Mock me all ye like, nurse, but the wee demon drew blood.”

You laughed so hard you had to sit down.

Actually laughed.

Not the tired polite version you gave patients.

Real laughter.

Tears-in-your-eyes laughter.

And Chibs looked at you like he’d gladly get mauled by a thousand ferrets if it meant hearing that sound again.

The realization hit him suddenly.

Hard.

Oh.

Oh, he was in trouble.

You learned things about him in pieces.

Never all at once.

He rode with the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Original.

He smoked too much.

He drank whiskey like water.

He had a daughter he spoke about with a softness that transformed him.

He was fiercely loyal.

Protective to a fault.

Smarter than people expected.

And lonely in a way that settled deep in his bones.

He learned things about you too.

You worked too many hours.

You forgot to eat when stressed.

You hummed unconsciously while charting.

You had a habit of touching people gently even when they were difficult because you believed fear deserved kindness.

You laughed hardest when exhausted.

And despite spending your life taking care of everyone else, almost nobody took care of you.

That one bothered him.

A lot.

The sixth visit was bad.

Actually bad.

No jokes.

No ridiculous excuse.

No teasing.

You walked into trauma and your stomach dropped.

Blood.

So much blood.

Chibs sat slumped on the gurney pale beneath his beard, one hand clamped over his abdomen while another biker hovered nearby.

You recognized him vaguely from previous drop-offs.

Tall. Blond. Panicked.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathed.

Chibs looked up slowly.

And even half-conscious, bleeding through gauze, he relaxed when he saw you.

“There’s my girl.”

Your heart stumbled.

Professional.

Stay professional.

“What happened?” you snapped.

“Knife wound,” the blond man said quickly. “He wouldn’t let us call sooner.”

“Because he’s an idiot,” you muttered.

“Yeah,” the blond agreed immediately.

You cut through layers of blood-soaked fabric with shaking hands you prayed nobody noticed.

The wound was deep.

Too deep.

Fear hit you hard and sudden.

Not patient fear.

Not the detached clinical concern you were trained for.

Personal fear.

Sharp enough to hurt.

“Filip,” you said firmly. “Stay with me.”

His eyes dragged to yours immediately.

“There y’are.”

“You are not allowed to flirt while bleeding out.”

A weak grin.

“Bossy.”

“Pressure’s dropping,” another nurse warned.

Your pulse spiked.

“OR now.”

The blond biker moved aside as they rushed the bed forward, but before Chibs disappeared through the doors, his hand caught yours weakly.

Just for a second.

Enough.

And quietly, almost too quiet to hear:

“Didn’t mean t’scare ye.”

Then he was gone.

You couldn’t stop shaking afterward.

Nina found you in the supply room twenty minutes later.

“You okay?”

“No.”

The honesty surprised both of you.

You leaned against the shelves and pressed a hand over your mouth.

“I shouldn’t care this much.”

Nina’s expression softened instantly.

“Oh.”

“He could’ve died.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No, but—” Your voice cracked unexpectedly. “God, Nina, I thought he was going to die.”

And there it was.

The thing you’d both been avoiding naming.

Because somewhere between broken ribs and ferret bites and late-night teasing conversations, Filip Telford had become important.

Terrifyingly important.

He was in recovery for three days.

You visited exactly zero times.

Because that would be inappropriate.

Unprofessional.

Dangerous.

You absolutely did not stand outside his room twice during shift changes.

You absolutely did not ask for updates from his surgeon.

You absolutely did not feel sick every time someone mentioned complications.

On day four, you walked into work to find a coffee sitting at the nurses’ station.

Your exact order.

You frowned.

Nina smirked from across the hall. “Guess who’s ambulatory.”

You turned.

And there he was.

Pale still. Slower moving. One hand pressed carefully against healing stitches beneath his flannel.

Alive.

Your chest physically hurt with relief.

Chibs watched the emotion cross your face and looked strangely overwhelmed by it.

“Hi, nurse.”

“You should not be walking around.”

“Doctor said light activity.”

“This does not qualify as light activity.”

“Brought ye coffee.”

You stared at him.

At the careful way he stood like the movement hurt.

At the exhaustion under his eyes.

At the fact he’d come here first.

“You got stabbed,” you said quietly.

“Aye.”

“You could’ve died.”

His expression changed.

Softened.

And for the first time since meeting him, the joking disappeared completely.

“I know.”

Silence stretched.

People moved around you both.

Phones rang.

Machines beeped.

But suddenly it felt strangely private.

“You scared me,” you admitted finally.

The words seemed to hit him harder than the knife had.

His throat moved.

“Sorry, lass.”

You looked down at the coffee because the tenderness in his voice was too much.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Aye.”

“You keep getting injured in increasingly ridiculous ways.”

“To be fair, gettin’ stabbed was less ridiculous than the ferret.”

A startled laugh escaped you.

And just like that, the heaviness cracked.

His eyes warmed instantly at the sound.

God.

You were in trouble too.

After that, things changed.

Subtly at first.

Then all at once.

He started stopping by when he wasn’t injured.

Which honestly should’ve been reassuring, except somehow it wasn’t.

Because injured Chibs at least gave you an excuse.

Healthy Chibs showing up with coffee just to see you was significantly more dangerous.

“You know,” Nina said one morning while watching him lean against the nurses’ desk talking to you, “most people buy flowers during courtship.”

“He’s not courting me.”

At the desk, Chibs caught your eye and smirked slowly like he knew exactly what was being discussed.

Traitor.

Nina snorted. “That man looks at you like you invented sunlight.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re doomed.”

One night near the end of your shift, you found him outside the hospital smoking.

Rain misted lightly over London streets.

He looked tired.

Older somehow.

You approached carefully. “You know those’ll kill you.”

“Aye.”

“You say that very casually.”

“Occupational hazard.”

You leaned beside him against the wall.

For a while neither of you spoke.

Then quietly, he said, “Ye ever think about quittin’?”

“The ER?”

“Aye.”

“All the time.”

“But ye won’t.”

“No.”

“Why?”

You thought about it.

About the exhaustion.

The trauma.

The impossible hours.

The heartbreak.

Then about the little old lady who squeezed your hand last week because you sat with her while she was scared.

About saving lives.

About making unbearable things slightly less unbearable.

“Because it matters,” you said softly.

He looked at you for a long moment.

“Aye,” he murmured. “That sounds like you.”

The rain grew heavier.

You should’ve gone back inside.

Instead you stayed.

“You know,” you said eventually, “I still don’t believe half your injury stories.”

“Only half?”

“Maybe less.”

He grinned.

Then winced because apparently smiling still pulled at healing stitches.

“You really should consider safer hobbies.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Knitting.”

“Can ye imagine?”

Despite yourself, you did.

Chibs Telford sitting in a leather kutte knitting aggressively.

You burst out laughing.

And he looked absurdly pleased with himself.

The first time he touched you outside the hospital, it was accidental.

Mostly.

You’d fallen asleep in the break room during a brutal overnight shift.

Head on folded arms.

Completely dead to the world.

Until warmth brushed hair gently away from your face.

You startled awake instantly.

Chibs froze beside your chair.

“Sorry, lass.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Brought food.”

You blinked blearily at the takeaway bags.

“…You brought me food?”

“Nina said ye forgot dinner again.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

Nobody did things like that for you.

Not really.

And the terrifying part was how natural it seemed to him.

Like caring for you wasn’t a big deal.

Like you were worth the effort automatically.

“Filip…”

He looked suddenly uncertain.

“I can stop.”

“No.” Too fast. You softened immediately. “No, I just…”

Emotion clogged your throat unexpectedly.

Exhaustion made you vulnerable.

Dangerously vulnerable.

“You remembered,” you whispered.

Something shifted in his face then.

Something deep and aching.

Because he knew that tone.

Knew what it meant when people were surprised by kindness.

Slowly, carefully, he crouched beside your chair.

“You matter t’me, lass.”

The words shattered something in you.

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

At the scars cutting across his face.

At tired blue eyes.

At rough hands capable of violence and tenderness in equal measure.

At the man who kept showing up.

Again and again and again.

And suddenly it became impossible to pretend this was casual.

“You matter to me too,” you admitted.

His breath caught.

Silence.

Then very gently:

“Dangerous thing, that.”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

It really was.

The seventh ER visit happened because he got shot in the ass.

You stared at the chart for a full ten seconds before entering the room because surely you’d read it wrong.

You had not.

“You got shot in the ass.”

“To be fair—”

“No. No, there is no ‘to be fair’ here.”

“It grazed.”

“You got grazed in the ass.”

“Aye.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose while he laughed helplessly.

“You are the stupidest man alive.”

“Probably.”

“How does this even happen?”

“Occupational hazard.”

“That is not an occupation!”

“Debatable.”

You pointed sternly. “Pants off.”

His eyebrows lifted immediately.

“Buy me dinner first.”

“Filip.”

“Worth a try.”

You were trying so hard not to smile.

And failing.

Terribly.

As he shifted carefully onto the bed, he hissed in pain.

Instantly your amusement faded.

“You okay?”

The softness in your voice seemed to catch him off guard.

“Aye.”

“You sure?”

His gaze held yours.

Then quietly:

“Better now.”

Oh.

Oh, you were absolutely doomed.

By then, everyone knew.

Not officially.

You still hadn’t kissed.

Hadn’t dated.

Hadn’t crossed the line hanging between you both.

But the entire ER knew.

The bikers definitely knew.

And judging by the amused looks you occasionally got from heavily tattooed men dropping Chibs off, they found the whole thing hysterical.

One afternoon a man with dark, curly hair and sunglasses leaned over the nurses’ station while Chibs was getting stitches.

“You the nurse?”

You looked up cautiously. “Yes?”

He grinned. “Thanks for keepin’ our boy alive.”

Before you could answer, Chibs shouted from the bed:

“Fuck off, Tig.”

“Make me.”

“You’re bleedin’ on my floor,” you called calmly. “Behave.”

Tig blinked.

Then burst out laughing.

“Oh, this is serious serious.”

Chibs looked genuinely murderous.

You had no idea why that made warmth bloom in your chest.

It happened three months after the stabbing.

Not during some dramatic moment.

Not after a near-death experience.

Not in pouring rain or under fireworks or whatever nonsense romance movies preferred.

It happened at four in the morning in a hospital vending machine alcove.

You were exhausted.

He was bruised again—minor this time, thank God.

And both of you were sharing terrible coffee while the hospital hummed quietly around you.

“You know,” you said, “normal people usually meet in bars.”

“Aye?”

“Or through friends.”

“Mm.”

“We met because you apparently view bodily injury as a hobby.”

“In my defense, ye looked pretty the first time.”

You choked on coffee.

He grinned.

“You cannot say things like that casually.”

“Why no’?”

“Because I’m holding near-boiling liquid.”

“Avoidin’ the compliment, I see.”

You looked away because he was watching you too closely.

Too warmly.

“You flirt more when sleep deprived,” you muttered.

“And ye blush when complimented.”

“I do not.”

“Lass, your ears are red.”

“Oh my God.”

His laugh was soft this time.

Fond.

Dangerously fond.

The vending machine buzzed quietly beside you.

Then he said, very carefully:

“Can I take ye to dinner?”

Your heart stuttered.

There it was.

The thing that had been coming for months.

Real.

Terrifying.

You looked at him.

At the hope hidden carefully behind humor.

At the vulnerability he tried so hard to mask.

And suddenly the answer felt obvious.

“Yes.”

He blinked.

Actually blinked.

Like he’d expected resistance.

“You sure?”

“You got shot in the ass for me.”

“That was unrelated.”

“Debatable.”

A grin spread slowly across his face.

Warm. Real. Beautiful in a rough uneven way.

And before fear could stop you, you leaned forward and kissed him.

Soft.

Brief.

Coffee and smoke and whiskey and surprise.

For one stunned second he didn’t move at all.

Then one hand cupped your jaw carefully—so carefully for a man built like violence—and he kissed you back.

Like you were something precious.

Something he’d been afraid to break.

When you pulled away, both of you looked a little wrecked.

“Well,” Chibs said hoarsely.

“Well,” you echoed.

“That seemed promising.”

You laughed quietly.

And God, the look on his face after hearing that sound while kissing you—

“You look like shit,” he’d said.

Which, from Happy, was practically poetry.

Then he’d simply walked into your apartment like he lived there.

You’d learned over the last year that Happy loved in frighteningly practical ways.

He didn’t say I care about you.

He replaced the deadbolt on your front door after hearing about a break-in two streets over.

He didn’t say I missed you.

He showed up at your bakery at six in the morning under the excuse of “coffee.”

He didn’t say You matter to me.

He checked your gas tank before long drives and sharpened the kitchen knives in your apartment because “dull blades are dangerous.”

It was all hidden beneath gruff silence and terrifying eye contact.

But you understood him.

Maybe better than most people did.

That was probably why you were here now, sick and exhausted in his dorm room, because after taking one look at your feverish face he’d decided your apartment “smelled wrong” and brought you back to TM instead.

You’d been too tired to argue.

Now it was somewhere around three in the morning.

The television glowed low and blue in the corner.

Rain tapped steadily against the windows.

And Happy was sitting at the opposite end of the couch cleaning a gun with methodical concentration while you drifted in and out of sleep under three blankets.

You vaguely remember mumbling something.

Happy answered with a grunt.

Then your half-conscious brain noticed movement beside you and automatically reached toward warmth.

Your hand caught the sleeve of his flannel.

You tugged weakly.

“Baby,” you mumbled sleepily, eyes still closed. “C’mere…”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Even through the fever haze, something about the room changed.

You barely registered the couch shifting under his weight before a solid warm body settled beside you. Strong fingers adjusted the blanket over your shoulder with startling gentleness.

“There,” he muttered roughly.

Satisfied, your exhausted brain immediately melted against him.

You pressed your face into his chest.

And went fully back to sleep.

Happy did not.

The problem started the next morning.

Because Happy was acting weird.

Not obvious weird.

Nobody outside the club would’ve noticed it.

But you knew him.

Which meant you noticed:

the unusual silence,

the rigid set of his shoulders,

the fact he kept staring at you for half a second too long before abruptly looking away,

and the deeply concerning moment where he poured orange juice directly into his coffee instead of his mug.

You blinked.

Happy stared at the ruined drink.

Then at the orange juice carton in his hand.

Then silently dumped the entire coffee into the sink.

You leaned against the kitchen counter wrapped in one of his hoodies. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You just committed a crime against caffeine.”

“Didn’t sleep.”

“That’s because you stayed up watching me breathe like a husband who's wife had the black plague.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

Dangerous.

Intense.

Unreadable.

“You done talking?”

“Probably not.”

He grunted.

Normally that would’ve been the end of it.

Except Happy kept acting… off.

You caught him staring at you constantly.

Not in the usual protective, mildly homicidal way.

This was different.

Like he was trying to solve a puzzle and getting increasingly angry about it.

By noon, you were suspicious.

By three in the afternoon, you were deeply suspicious.

By dinner, you were convinced something had happened.

Then Tig arrived.

Which immediately made everything worse.

Because Tig Trager possessed the supernatural ability to detect emotional instability from six zip codes away.

He walked into the clubhouse garage carrying beer, took one look at Happy leaning against the workbench, and narrowed his eyes.

“…Why do you look like somebody kicked your dog?”

Happy’s expression flattened instantly. “Nobody kicked my dog.”

Tig froze.

Slowly turned toward you.

Then back toward Happy.

“Oh my God,” Tig whispered. “You’d absolutely kill for a dog.”

“I’d kill you for breathing wrong.”

“Okay, but that’s baseline behavior.”

You snorted into your drink.

Happy’s gaze snapped toward you instantly.

And there it was again.

That weird look.

Like every thought in his head had suddenly blue-screened.

Tig noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Tig lived to notice things that ruined people emotionally.

His eyes narrowed.

Then widened.

Then became outright delighted.

“Oh,” he said softly.

Happy immediately looked murderous.

“Oh no.”

“Tig.”

“Oh, this is interesting.”

“Tig.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Drop it.”

Tig ignored him completely and looked at you instead. “What happened?”

You blinked. “I genuinely don’t know.”

“Did you two finally fuck?”

Happy looked ready to strangle him with a socket wrench.

You rolled your eyes. “No.”

“Did she say she loves you?”

“No.”

“Did he say he loves you?” Tig asked hopefully.

You laughed. “Absolutely not.”

Tig frowned dramatically. “Then why does he look like he just saw God at a truck stop?”

Happy shoved past him hard enough to nearly knock him sideways.

“Move.”

Tig watched him stalk out of the garage.

Then slowly turned back toward you.

“…What did you do?”

“I don’t know!”

“You definitely did something.”

“I was unconscious most of the night!”

Tig’s eyes lit up like fireworks.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Sleep confession.”

“What?”

“You said something while half asleep.”

You stared.

Tig pointed dramatically. “That’s why he looks emotionally constipated.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I would remember—”

Then it hit you.

Not fully.

Just a fragment.

Warm flannel.

Rain.

Sleep-heavy mumbling.

Baby, c’mere…

Your entire body froze.

“Oh no.”

Tig gasped so loudly it echoed.

“Oh my GOD.”

You covered your face instantly.

“No no no no no—”

“You called Happy Lowman baby?”

“SHUT UP.”

Tig was fully losing his mind now.

Bent over laughing.

Actually crying.

“You called the scariest man in Charming baby and he’s been buffering emotionally ever since?”

“I was half asleep!”

“That’s somehow worse!”

You wanted to die.

Actually die.

Disappear into the concrete floor forever.

Because suddenly everything made sense.

The staring.

The silence.

The weirdness.

Happy Lowman—emotionally repressed assassin and terrifying biker—had apparently short-circuited because you accidentally used a term of endearment.

Jesus Christ.

Tig wiped tears from his eyes. “Oh, he’s fucked.”

“What?”

“He’s done for.”

“That is not true.”

“He probably replayed it in his head like forty times already.”

You groaned into your hands.

“Please stop talking.”

“You don’t understand how bad this is.”

“For me?”

“For him.”

Tig leaned closer, delighted beyond reason.

“Happy’s the kind of guy who falls in love once and turns into a haunted ghost about it forever.”

Tig, unfortunately, was right.

Happy proceeded to lose his mind quietly for the next three business days.

Not outwardly.

Happy never spiraled outwardly.

His breakdowns were internalized.

Compressed into increasingly strange behavior patterns.

Day One involved staring.

So much staring.

You’d catch him looking at you from across the garage, the clubhouse bar, outside Teller-Morrow, during lunch—

Every time your eyes met, he’d immediately look away like he’d been caught committing tax fraud.

Which was insane behavior from a man who usually maintained eye contact like he was challenging people to survive it.

Then there was the hovering.

Happy already hovered around you naturally.

Now it was ridiculous.

You turned around at one point in the grocery store and nearly walked directly into his chest because apparently he’d been standing two inches behind you in complete silence.

You yelped.

He blinked.

“You okay?”

“You scared ten years off my lifespan!”

“You weren’t paying attention.”

“You materialized behind me like a serial killer!”

His mouth twitched.

Tiny.

Brief.

But there.

Then his expression went blank again immediately afterward, like he regretted almost smiling.

And suddenly your stomach flipped traitorously.

Because that was the real problem here.

You’d had feelings for Happy for a long time.

Long enough that you’d stopped trying to deny it.

You loved the terrifying, strange little details about him:

the way he always gave you the safer side of the sidewalk,

how he remembered your coffee order without ever asking,

how he listened more than he spoke,

how absurdly gentle he was with animals,

how careful he became whenever you looked tired or upset.

You loved that beneath all the violence and silence was someone deeply observant.

Someone loyal.

Someone who cared with his entire soul once you got past the walls.

But Happy was… Happy.

Unreadable.

Complicated.

Dangerous in every sense of the word.

And you’d never been fully certain if what existed between you was real or if you’d imagined the tension because you wanted it so badly.

Then one sleepy little baby happened and suddenly the man couldn’t function correctly.

Which was not helping your emotional stability whatsoever.

Day Two was somehow worse.

Because Happy became weirdly protective.

Even by his standards.

At the clubhouse bar, some drunk mechanic from out of town flirted with you for approximately twenty seconds before Happy appeared beside you like an avenging demon.

One second the guy was smiling at you.

The next Happy was standing there silent and terrifying.

The mechanic visibly paled.

Happy stared at him.

Not blinking.

Not speaking.

Just staring.

The mechanic swallowed. “Uh… I was just talking.”

Happy tilted his head slightly.

The mechanic immediately backed away.

“Actually, never mind.”

Then he vanished.

You stared at Happy.

Happy stared at the bar counter.

“You threatened him with your mind.”

“He was annoying you.”

“I can handle annoying men.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“I know.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

Before you could answer, Chibs appeared carrying beer.

He looked between the two of you once.

Then sighed heavily.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You blinked. “What?”

Chibs pointed at Happy. “This idiot’s been pacing around the garage like a divorced father at a school recital for two days.”

Happy looked offended. “I don’t pace.”

“You wore a trench in the concrete.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“And you,” Chibs continued, looking at you now, “need to stop looking at him like that.”

Your face heated immediately. “Like what?”

“Like you’d let him ruin your life willingly.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Because unfortunately that was accurate.

Happy looked between the two of you slowly.

Suspiciously.

Then at Chibs.

“The fuck’s that mean?”

Chibs laughed directly in his face.

“Jesus Christ, you’re both hopeless.”

That night you stayed at Happy’s dorm room again.

Not intentionally.

It just sort of… happened.

You’d fallen asleep during movie night at the clubhouse after your cold medicine kicked in. By the time you woke up, everyone else had already scattered.

Except Happy.

Of course.

He sat in the armchair across from the couch, arms folded, watching some old western on mute.

You rubbed your eyes sleepily. “What time is it?”

“Late.”

Helpful.

You yawned. “I should go home.”

“Rain’s bad.”

As if on cue, thunder cracked outside.

You stared toward the window.

“…That’s manipulative.”

“Works though.”

Unfortunately, yes.

You sighed dramatically and dropped back onto the couch.

Happy’s mouth twitched again.

There it was.

That almost-smile.

You narrowed your eyes.

“What’s wrong with you lately?”

His expression shuttered immediately.

“Nothing.”

“Happy.”

Silence.

You sat up slowly beneath the blanket. “Did me calling you baby really break your brain this badly?”

The room went completely still.

Happy stared at you.

You stared back.

Then— incredibly, impossibly— the man actually looked caught off guard.

Not angry.

Not dangerous.

Just… exposed.

Which somehow felt more intimate than anything else ever could’ve.

His jaw flexed once.

Twice.

“You remember that?”

“Unfortunately.”

Silence stretched.

Your pulse thudded harder.

Happy looked away first.

That alone told you how serious this was.

“You were asleep,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“You didn’t mean anything by it.”

The sentence sounded rehearsed.

Like he’d been trying to convince himself of it for forty-eight hours.

Something in your chest ached.

Because suddenly you realized why he’d been spiraling.

It wasn’t embarrassment.

It wasn’t confusion.

It was hope.

And Happy Lowman did not know what to do with hope.

Carefully, you sat up straighter.

“Did it bother you?”

“No.”

Too fast.

You softened immediately.

“Happy.”

He stayed silent.

You watched the tension work through his shoulders.

Watched him fight with himself.

Then finally:

“…Nobody’s called me that before.”

Your heart broke a little.

Not because it was dramatic.

Because of how plainly he said it.

Simple fact.

No self pity.

No manipulation.

Just truth.

Nobody had loved him softly before.

You swallowed hard.

“Well,” you said gently, “I was half dead on cold medicine, so technically it barely counts.”

His gaze snapped back to yours instantly.

And there it was again.

That devastating vulnerability hidden beneath all the sharp edges.

“It counted.”

The words landed like a punch.

Your breath caught.

Happy looked almost annoyed at himself for saying it out loud.

Like he’d revealed too much.

Then, gruffer:

“Been stuck in my head.”

Your stomach flipped violently.

Three business days.

Three entire days this terrifying man had been emotionally haunted by one sleepy term of endearment.

You were done for.

Completely done for.

Softly, you asked, “In a bad way?”

Happy stared at you for a long moment.

Then shook his head once.

“No.”

Oh.

Oh.

The room suddenly felt too small.

Too warm.

Thunder rolled outside while tension curled tightly between you.

Happy looked at you like he was standing on the edge of something dangerous.

Maybe he was.

Because feelings, for a man like him, probably felt exactly like standing in front of a firing squad.

You shifted closer before you could overthink it.

Happy immediately went still.

You could practically hear his heartbeat from where you sat.

“You know,” you murmured, “most people just get butterflies when they like someone.”

His eyes darkened slightly.

“I don’t get butterflies.”

“No,” you said softly. “You get existential crises apparently.”

That tiny almost-smile appeared again.

This time it stayed a little longer.

And God, it changed his whole face.

You felt your chest cave in around the sight of it.

“I don’t…” Happy started roughly, then stopped.

Tried again.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

The honesty in that nearly killed you.

Because Happy never admitted uncertainty.

Ever.

But here he was.

Open.

Raw in the quietest way imaginable.

You moved carefully, giving him plenty of time to pull away.

He didn’t.

Your hand settled lightly over his.

Warm skin.

Scarred knuckles.

Tension like live electricity.

“You don’t have to know,” you whispered.

Happy looked at your joined hands like the sight confused him.

Then his fingers slowly turned beneath yours until he was holding your hand properly.

Firm.

Careful.

Like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly. “Says the hitman biker.”

“I was fine before you.”

“You were emotionally repressed before me.”

“I still am.”

“Less efficiently now.”

That earned you an actual huff of laughter.

Tiny.

Rough.

But real.

Your eyes widened immediately.

“Wait.”

Happy froze.

“Was that—”

“No.”

“That was a laugh!”

“Wasn’t.”

“Happy Lowman, did you just laugh at my joke?”

He looked genuinely offended by the accusation.

“You’re delirious.”

“You’re flustered.”

“I don’t get flustered.”

“You poured orange juice into your coffee yesterday.”

His expression became deeply hostile.

“You saw that?”

“I’ll remember it forever.”

“Threatening.”

“I’m gonna tell Chibs.”

“Absolutely not.”

You grinned.

And suddenly Happy was looking at you again with that same dangerous softness that always made your pulse stumble.

Like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Slowly, carefully, he reached up and brushed hair back from your face.

The gesture was unbelievably gentle.

Your breath caught.

Happy’s thumb lingered briefly against your cheek.

“You should sleep,” he said quietly.

Probably.

Instead you whispered, “Call me trouble again.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Why?”

“I like hearing you say affectionate things against your will.”

“That wasn’t affectionate.”

“It absolutely was.”

Silence.

Then, lower:

“Baby was affectionate.”

Your entire brain short-circuited.

Because his voice changed when he said it.

Dropped rougher.

Softer.

Like the word itself meant something now.

Like it belonged somewhere between you.

Happy saw your expression immediately.

And for the first time since you’d met him, the man looked smug.

Tiny bit.

Barely there.

But enough.

“Oh, now who’s flustered?” he asked quietly.

You pointed at him accusingly. “You can’t suddenly develop game after fourty years of acting like a haunted attack dog.”

“I got game.”

“You absolutely do not.”

“Still got you.”

Your mouth fell open.

Happy looked equally surprised at himself.

Like the line had escaped accidentally.

Then you started laughing.

Real laughing.

The kind you couldn’t stop.

And after a second—

Happy laughed too.

Low.

Rough.

Small.

But genuine.

You stared at him in shock.

His laugh wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t polished.

It sounded rusty from disuse.

But it was warm.

Warm in a way that made your chest ache instantly.

Happy caught your expression and immediately looked suspicious.

“What?”

“That’s your real laugh.”

“No.”

“Yes it is.”

“Nope.”

“You’ve been hiding that?”

He shrugged slightly, suddenly self-conscious in a way you’d never seen before.

Didn’t like attention on himself.

Especially soft attention.

You smiled so hard your face hurt.

“I like it.”

Happy went completely still.

God.

There it was again.

That look.

Like every soft thing you handed him became something precious he didn’t know how to hold.

The room quieted around you.

Rain against the roof.

Muted television glow.

His hand still holding yours.

And slowly—carefully—Happy leaned forward.

Like he was giving you every chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

Not even a little.

His other hand came up to your jaw.

Warm palm.

Calloused fingers.

Gentle despite the strength in them.

Then he kissed you.

And it was nothing like you expected.

You thought kissing Happy Lowman would feel dangerous.

Intense.

Like fire.

Instead it felt devastatingly careful.

Like he was trying not to break something precious.

His mouth moved slowly against yours, hesitant for half a second before you kissed him back harder.

That hesitation disappeared instantly.

Happy made a rough sound low in his throat and pulled you closer, one arm wrapping around your waist.

The kiss deepened.

Hotter now.

Still controlled but barely.

Like years of restraint were finally slipping.

Your fingers curled into his shirt.

Happy kissed like he did everything else:

thoroughly,

intensely,

with terrifying focus.

Like once he committed to something, there was no halfway point anymore.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing unevenly.

His forehead rested briefly against yours.

Silence.

Then:

“…Baby.”

You melted instantly.

“Oh, you menace,” you whispered.

That tiny almost-smile returned.

Only this time it stayed.

You glanced up when you heard footsteps approaching.

Your smile appeared instantly when you saw Abel.

“Hey, buddy.”

Abel perked up immediately.

“Miss Y/N!”

He wriggled free from his father’s arms with the reckless confidence of a child who assumed the world would catch him. You did, laughing softly as he slammed into your side.

And Jax—

Jax was done for.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

Absolutely fucked.

Because Abel looked safe with you.

Happy.

The tight little crease that permanently lived between Jax’s shoulders loosened slightly watching you smooth Abel’s hair back from his forehead.

“You feeling better today?” you asked gently.

Abel nodded solemnly. “Dad made toast.”

“That’s impressive.”

“I burned it,” Jax admitted.

You looked up at him then.

Really looked at him.

Blue eyes. Sleeplessness tucked beneath them. Scruff lining his jaw. Broad shoulders beneath soaked flannel and leather. Tattoos crawling over his skin.

Dangerous, obviously.

But tired, too.

Not careless-tired.

Bone-deep tired.

The kind people carried for years.

And God help you, that did something unfortunate to your heart.

“Well,” you said lightly, “the important thing is nobody died.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

Low. Rough.

Real.

It surprised both of you.

Jax rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uh. Sorry we’re late.”

“You’re here. That’s what matters.”

Simple words.

Simple kindness.

But he looked at you like you’d handed him something fragile he didn’t deserve touching.

You stood, brushing dust from your skirt.

“I’m Y/N, by the way. Abel talks about you constantly.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. You’re apparently the coolest person alive.”

Abel nodded aggressively. “Dad has motorcycles.”

“Wow,” you said seriously. “That’s pretty hard to compete with.”

Jax smiled then.

Small.

Crooked.

Dangerously attractive.

You immediately hated how aware of him you became.

Because this was Abel’s father.

Which meant: absolutely not.

Unfortunately, your brain didn’t seem interested in cooperating.

Jax spent the entire ride back to TM trying not to think about you.

It didn’t work.

At all.

“Earth to Jackie boy.”

He blinked.

Chibs leaned against the garage counter watching him with amusement.

“You look like somebody unplugged your brain.”

Jax grunted.

“Nope,” Tig said immediately from across the room. “I know that look.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“That,” Tig announced, pointing dramatically, “is the look of a man who saw a pretty woman and now wants to ruin his own life.”

The room erupted.

Jax flipped him off automatically.

But he could still see you kneeling beside Abel.

Still hear your voice.

You’re here. That’s what matters.

God.

Normal people weren’t supposed to sound that gentle.

“She a mom?” Tig asked.

“No.”

“Hot?”

Jax glared.

The table went silent.

Then Chibs started laughing.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” the Scot wheezed. “Ye really are fucked.”

“Shut up.”

“Who is she?”

Jax regretted speaking immediately.

“Abel’s teacher.”

Dead silence.

Then:

“Oh, that’s bad,” Juice muttered.

“Real bad,” Tig agreed.

“She smiled at him once and now he’s mentally planning weddings,” Chibs said.

“I am not.”

“You look like she rewired something in your brain.”

Jax scrubbed both hands over his face.

Because the worst part?

They weren’t wrong.

Over the next few weeks, Jax developed a routine.

He told himself it was about Abel.

It was not about Abel.

He started volunteering for school pickup.

Started showing up early.

Started lingering.

And every single time, you smiled at him like you were genuinely happy to see him.

Which was becoming a serious problem.

Because you were… good.

Not naïve.

Not weak.

Just good.

You remembered which kids hated crusts on sandwiches.

You kept spare mittens in your desk.

You somehow managed to soothe crying children without ever sounding annoyed.

Jax watched you kneel to speak softly with upset students, watched tiny hands grab yours instinctively, watched exhausted parents visibly relax around you.

You made people feel safe.

And Jax— well.

Jax had spent most of his life feeling like a loaded gun somebody forgot to lock away properly.

One afternoon he arrived early to pick Abel up and found you sitting cross-legged on the classroom floor helping Abel paint.

Your sleeves were rolled up.

There was blue paint on your cheek.

Abel looked delighted.

Jax stopped in the doorway.

You looked up first.

“Oh good,” you said. “Perfect timing.”

His heartbeat immediately became stupid.

“Yeah?”

You held up Abel’s painting.

“Can you tell what this is?”

Jax studied the chaotic explosion of color.

“…a dinosaur?”

“It’s you,” Abel informed him.

You burst out laughing.

Jax stared at you.

God.

Your laugh was dangerous.

Warm and bright and completely unguarded.

He felt something in his chest shift painfully.

“You’re bein’ mean to me, little man.”

Abel giggled.

You stood and walked toward him holding the painting carefully.

Your fingers brushed his as you handed it over.

Tiny contact.

Barely anything.

But Jax went completely still.

And you noticed.

Your eyes flicked up to his.

Something changed in the air.

Not much.

Just enough.

Enough to make your stomach tighten unexpectedly.

Because you’d noticed things too.

Like how gentle he was with Abel.

How he always crouched to talk to him eye-level.

How his voice softened around children.

How carefully he listened whenever you spoke about Abel’s progress.

You’d expected arrogance from a biker.

Or intimidation.

Or indifference.

Instead you got a man who looked permanently exhausted but thanked you every single day for taking care of his son.

A man who always carried snacks in his pockets.

A man whose hands looked dangerous and whose eyes looked sad.

A very attractive man.

An unfortunately attractive man.

“Everything okay?” Jax asked quietly.

You realized you were staring.

“Yep,” you said too quickly.

His mouth twitched.

And suddenly you understood with horrifying clarity:

Oh no.

He knows I think he’s hot.

Disaster.

Absolute disaster.

The school fundraiser made everything worse.

You should have known it would.

The gymnasium buzzed with parents and children and cheap decorations while volunteers attempted controlled chaos around folding tables.

You were helping organize raffle tickets when you heard motorcycles outside.

The sound rolled through the parking lot like thunder.

Several mothers looked nervous.

Several others looked interested.

Then the Sons walked in.

Leather.

Denim.

Heavy boots.

Tattooed hands.

And somehow the most intimidating among them was still Jax, mostly because he looked deeply uncomfortable being there.

Abel sprinted toward him immediately.

“Dad!”

Jax caught him one-handed automatically.

Your ovaries betrayed you instantly.

“You made it,” you said as you approached.

His eyes found you immediately in the crowd.

Like they always did now.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

And Jax—

Jesus Christ.

That smile nearly killed him.

Tig appeared beside him, grinning like the devil.

“This the teacher?”

Jax visibly suffered.

You tried not to laugh.

“I’m Y/N.”

“Tig.”

“Unfortunately,” Jax muttered.

“Aw, sweetheart.” Tig placed a hand over his chest dramatically. “You wound me.”

You laughed.

Jax stared.

Again.

Tig noticed immediately.

Oh, he was absolutely going to make this everyone’s problem.

“You know,” Tig said casually, “Jax talks about you constantly.”

Jax nearly choked to death.

“I do not.”

“You really do,” Opie added helpfully.

Traitor.

Complete traitor.

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Oh?”

“Nope,” Jax said immediately. “Conversation’s over.”

But your smile had gone softer somehow.

Interested.

Curious.

And that was somehow worse.

An hour later you found Jax outside near the playground while the rest of the club helped with setup inside.

Or pretended to.

Mostly they were eating baked goods and terrifying suburban parents.

Jax leaned against the fence watching Abel play.

You moved beside him quietly.

“You look overwhelmed.”

He huffed a laugh.

“Little bit.”

“You’re doing great.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

“You always this nice?”

“Mostly.”

“That seems suspicious.”

You grinned.

God.

That grin.

Jax felt terminally ill.

“You helping because Abel’s here,” you said, “or because your friends threatened you?”

“Tig said there’d be pie.”

“That’s sounds about right.”

Comfortable silence settled between you.

The kind that sneaks up unexpectedly.

Children shouted nearby.

A cool breeze moved your hair across your cheek.

Jax wanted very badly to put it back into place.

He absolutely did not.

“You’re good with him,” you said softly after a moment.

“With Abel?”

You nodded.

Something vulnerable crossed his face briefly.

“He deserves better than… some things.”

The hesitation caught your attention.

You glanced at him carefully.

There were scars hidden everywhere on this man.

Some visible.

Most not.

“You love him,” you said simply. “Kids know the difference.”

Jax swallowed hard.

Because nobody ever made things sound that uncomplicated.

You said them like they were facts.

Solid.

Reliable.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

“You got kids?” he asked.

“No.”

“You’d be good at it.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“You already are.”

Jax looked away immediately.

Like the compliment physically hurt him.

And suddenly you understood something important.

This man genuinely did not see himself clearly.

That realization lodged beneath your ribs and stayed there.

The crush became unbearable after that.

For both of you.

Jax started finding excuses to stop by the school.

Dropping off Abel’s lunch.

Asking unnecessary questions.

Offering to help move boxes.

You started anticipating the sound of his motorcycle.

Which was ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

You were a grown woman with functioning survival instincts.

You should not have been developing feelings for a biker with criminal associations and exhaustion carved into his expression.

Unfortunately, your heart seemed unconcerned with practicality.

One afternoon you stayed late reorganizing classroom supplies.

Rain hammered against the windows outside.

You were standing on a chair trying to reach a box on the top shelf when a familiar voice behind you nearly made you fall.

“Pretty sure that violates safety regulations.”

You yelped.

The chair wobbled.

Strong hands caught your waist immediately.

Solid.

Warm.

Your breath vanished.

Jax steadied both you and the chair with effortless strength.

For one suspended second, neither of you moved.

His hands remained on your waist.

Your fingers gripped his shoulders instinctively.

You were suddenly very aware of how broad he was.

How close.

How blue his eyes looked this near.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded too fast.

“Yep.”

Neither of you let go.

Rain filled the silence.

Then slowly— very slowly— his hands loosened.

But his thumbs brushed your sides accidentally.

Or maybe not accidentally.

Your stomach flipped violently.

Jax stepped back like he’d touched fire.

“Sorry.”

“You caught me.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to apologize for that.”

He stared at you.

And God, there it was again.

That look.

Like he wanted something he’d already convinced himself he couldn’t have.

You climbed down carefully.

“So,” you said, attempting normalcy and failing horribly, “what are you doing here?”

“Abel forgot his backpack.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

Thick.

Dangerous.

Then:

“You should probably stop looking at me like that,” you blurted.

Jax froze.

“…Like what?”

You immediately regretted being alive.

“Nothing.”

A tiny smile appeared.

Slow.

Crooked.

Devastating.

“Nah,” he said quietly. “Tell me.”

Your face burned.

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

Liar.

You stared at each other while rain battered the windows.

Then Jax stepped closer.

Not touching.

Just close enough that your pulse became impossible to ignore.

“You got any idea,” he said softly, “how hard I’ve been trying not to do exactly this?”

Your breath caught.

“This?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.

Oh.

Oh.

“I should not be into you,” he admitted roughly. “You’re Abel’s teacher. You’re… stable. Sweet. Got your whole life together.”

You barked out startled laughter.

“I absolutely do not have my life together.”

“You know what I mean.”

You did.

And the terrifying thing was: you also knew exactly what he meant about himself.

“You think you’re bad news,” you realized quietly.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“Aren’t I?”

The honesty in that hurt more than if he’d joked.

You looked at him carefully.

At the exhaustion.

The restraint.

The sadness.

“You’re trying very hard not to be.”

Jax stared at you like nobody had ever said something like that before.

Then Abel’s forgotten backpack sitting on the desk saved both of you from doing something catastrophic.

Barely.

The club noticed immediately when Jax got worse.

And by worse, they meant: hopelessly gone.

“He’s smiling at his phone,” Juice whispered one afternoon.

The table fell silent.

“Horrifying,” Chibs agreed.

Jax flipped them off without looking up.

Tig snatched the phone from his hands before he could stop him.

“Oh my God,” Tig gasped dramatically. “It’s teacher lady.”

“Give it back.”

“You used a smiley face emoji. Bro, it’s serious.”

Jax lunged for the phone.

Tig danced away cackling.

“What’s her name?”

“Y/N,” Juice supplied immediately.

Jax whipped around. “How do you know that?”

“She came to pickup once while you were out. Abel talks about her like she’s Cinderella.”

Tig finally tossed the phone back.

Then his expression shifted unexpectedly softer.

“You like her.”

Not teasing now.

Just fact.

Jax looked down at the text message on his screen.

Abel says thank you for the dinosaur book recommendation 😊

Something painfully warm settled in his chest.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Think I really do.”

The table went silent again.

Because men like Jax Teller did not say things like that lightly.

You met Gemma accidentally.

Which was unfortunate timing for everyone involved.

You were leaving school late one afternoon when a woman leaned against a sleek car outside watching you carefully.

Beautiful.

Sharp-eyed.

Dangerous in an entirely different way than Jax.

“You Abel’s teacher?”

You paused.

“…Yes?”

“I’m Gemma.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Gemma smiled knowingly.

“Relax, honey. I’m not here to interrogate you.”

You weren’t convinced.

“He talks about you.”

Your stomach dropped.

“…Abel?”

Gemma laughed.

“Sure.”

You immediately wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

She studied you for another long moment.

“You make him nervous.”

“Jax?”

“Mm-hm.”

That seemed impossible.

Gemma smiled slightly.

“Haven’t seen that in years.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So instead:

“He’s a good dad.”

The words came easily.

Honestly.

Gemma’s expression shifted subtly.

Like the answer mattered more than you realized.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “He is.”

Then her eyes narrowed knowingly.

“You be careful with him.”

Your chest tightened.

Not threatening.

Warning.

Protective.

“He’s got a habit of carrying the world on his back.”

You thought about exhausted blue eyes and self-loathing wrapped in leather.

“I noticed.”

Gemma looked at you for another moment.

Then surprisingly:

“Maybe that’s not the worst thing.”

The first time Jax kissed you happened because of a nightmare.

Abel had one during nap time.

Nothing severe, but enough that he woke crying and was inconsolable after school ended.

You’d stayed late helping calm him down.

By the time Jax arrived, Abel was curled against your side on the reading rug while you quietly read aloud from a picture book.

Jax stopped dead in the doorway.

The image hit him somewhere deep.

Domestic.

Peaceful.

Beautiful.