Kayden

Your jeans were soaked dark from the knees down. Your hands were crimson. There were streaks of drying blood across your throat, your cheek, your hairline, splattered across the front of your old hoodie until it was impossible to tell what color the fabric had originally been, and even your boots left faint bloody prints against the cracked concrete as you walked.

Every single Mayan froze.

Bishop looked up from the table he'd been leaning against.

Hank slowly lowered the wrench he'd been holding.

Gilly muttered a quiet, "...Jesus."

Even Coco, who usually had a joke ready before common sense, simply stared.

Then chairs scraped.

Metal clanged.

Someone reached for a shotgun.

Someone else grabbed an axe.

The atmosphere transformed in less than three seconds from a lazy afternoon into the opening moments of a war.

"Who?" Bishop asked, already moving toward you.

His voice wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

The question hung in the air like a death sentence.

Who did this?

Who needed killing?

Before you could answer, Creeper appeared.

He'd been around the back with EZ, sorting parts from a wrecked truck, and the second he'd heard the silence—the unnatural, impossible silence—he'd come around the corner.

Then he saw you.

Everything inside him stopped.

His heart.

His lungs.

His thoughts.

All he could see was blood.

So much blood.

On your face. Your hands. Your clothes. Your neck.

You were standing upright, somehow, but his brain immediately supplied a dozen catastrophic explanations anyway.

Gunshot. Knife wound. Internal bleeding. Head trauma.

He was moving before he realized he'd started.

The distance between you disappeared in seconds.

"Baby."

His voice cracked.

Actually cracked.

He reached you so quickly he nearly collided with you, both hands immediately grabbing your shoulders with just enough pressure to steady you without hurting you, his eyes frantically scanning every visible inch of your body.

"What happened?"

You blinked.

"...Hi?"

"Nena."

He wasn't smiling.

Wasn't teasing.

He looked terrified.

"What happened?"

Behind him, Bishop's voice rang out.

"Get the bikes."

Immediately.

No hesitation.

Mayans scattered in every direction.

Keys appeared.

Engines started.

Weapons were pulled from storage.

Hank disappeared into the clubhouse and returned carrying two rifles.

Angel was already stuffing magazines into his kutte pockets.

Coco slammed a pistol onto the table before checking another.

EZ yelled, "WHO ARE WE KILLING?"

"No idea yet!"

"GOOD ENOUGH."

You frowned.

"...Guys?"

No one heard you.

Or maybe they did.

They just didn't care until someone had names.

Creeper was still staring at you like you might collapse at any second.

"I need you to talk to me."

"I am talking."

"Not enough."

"I—"

"What hurts?"

"...Nothing?"

He frowned harder.

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"I mean..."

You looked down at yourself.

"...nothing hurts?"

He looked like he physically didn't believe you.

His hands moved automatically. One slid carefully to the side of your neck. The other checked your shoulder. Then your arms.

His fingers searched gently, methodically, pressing lightly through the soaked fabric while watching your face for even the smallest flinch.

Years around violence had taught him something important.

People lied.

Especially when they were hurt. Especially people trying not to worry everyone else.

So he ignored your words entirely.

Instead, he trusted what he could see.

Or, more accurately...

What he couldn't.

Because despite the blood...

You weren't reacting. No sharp inhale. No wince. No instinctive pull away.

Nothing.

Still...

He wasn't convinced.

"Take the hoodie off."

You blinked.

"...Here?"

"Now."

There wasn't even a hint of embarrassment in his voice.

Just urgency.

Pure, overwhelming concern.

You quietly peeled the hoodie over your head.

More blood.

Across your shirt. Across your arms. Across everything.

A collective hiss came from the gathered Mayans.

"Holy—"

"What the hell—"

"Creeper..."

But Creeper had already started checking again.

His hands slid over your shoulders.

Your upper arms.

He carefully turned each wrist over, inspecting your palms before lifting your elbows to search underneath.

Nothing.

No cuts. No punctures. No bruises.

His confusion only grew.

He crouched.

Checked your knees. Your ankles. Your boots.

"You twist anything?"

"No."

"You hit your head?"

"No."

"You dizzy?"

"No."

"Nauseous?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"...Yes?"

He looked up at you.

Really looked.

Your eyes were clear.

Breathing normal.

Standing steadily. Not pale. Not shaking. Not showing any signs of shock.

Behind him, Bishop spoke again.

"Talk."

You rubbed the back of your neck.

"So..."

Everyone waited.

"...it's not mine."

Silence.

"...What?"

"The blood."

You gestured vaguely at yourself.

"...It's not mine."

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

"...Explain," Bishop said slowly.

You winced.

"I was driving home from work."

"Uh-huh."

"There was a car accident."

"Uh-huh."

"I stopped."

"...Uh-huh."

"There was a guy trapped inside."

The yard remained completely silent.

"So I climbed in."

"You climbed..."

"...inside."

"...The crushed car."

"...Yeah."

"You."

"...Yeah."

"Without thinking."

"...Pretty much."

"You pulled him out."

"...Eventually."

Coco stared.

"...You're telling me..."

You nodded sheepishly.

"...it's his blood."

"...Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"There was another passenger."

Creeper closed his eyes.

Of course there was.

"There were...two people."

You gave him an apologetic smile.

"They're okay."

"You sure?"

"The ambulance took them."

"You stayed?"

"Until they left."

"So..."

You looked down at yourself again.

"...I forgot I looked like this."

Dead silence.

Then Coco let out one single bark of laughter before immediately clamping both hands over his mouth.

EZ started laughing next.

Then Gilly.

Angel doubled over.

Within seconds half the yard was laughing—not because anyone found the accident funny, but because they'd collectively gone from preparing for a blood-soaked revenge mission to discovering you'd simply been...being yourself.

"You almost started a damn war," Angel wheezed.

"I didn't mean to!"

"You look like a horror movie!"

"I know that now!"

Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I'm getting too old for this club."

"Same," Hank muttered.

Engines shut back off.

Weapons disappeared.

The immediate threat dissolved into relieved grumbling.

Everyone slowly drifted away.

Everyone...

Except Creeper.

He still hadn't let go of your hand.

He was still studying your face.

Still unconvinced.

"You sure you're okay?"

You smiled softly.

"I'm okay."

"You could've gotten hurt."

"I know."

"You climbed into a wreck."

"I know."

"You scared the hell out of me."

That one came out quieter. Smaller. Almost fragile.

You looked at him. Really looked.

His hands were still trembling. Just slightly.

You hadn't noticed before.

Now you did.

Because while everyone else had been preparing for revenge...

Creeper had simply been terrified.

Terrified that he'd lose you.

You reached up and wrapped your fingers gently around one of his hands.

"Neron."

He looked at you.

"I'm okay."

"I need to make sure."

"You already did."

"I'm checking again."

You laughed quietly.

"You've checked me like six times."

"Not enough."

Before you could protest, he stepped closer again, gently brushing your hair back from your forehead, examining your scalp with surprising care before tilting your chin upward to inspect your neck one more time, his fingertips impossibly gentle against your skin as he searched for cuts hidden beneath drying blood, then moving to your shoulders once again, every touch careful and respectful, driven entirely by worry rather than panic now.

"You missed a spot," Coco called.

Without looking away from you, Creeper answered flatly.

"Shut up."

"You checked her elbow twice."

"I know."

"You looked at the same arm three times."

"I know."

"You've lost your damn—"

"I know."

You couldn't help smiling.

His eyes softened the moment he saw it.

"There it is."

"What?"

"Your smile."

"It went away?"

"When I thought you were hurt."

Something inside your chest tightened painfully.

"You really got that scared?"

He laughed once.

It wasn't humorous.

"I've been shot."

"I know."

"Stabbed."

"I know."

"Beaten."

"I know."

"I've stared down people trying to kill me."

You nodded.

"But seeing you walk through that gate covered in blood..." His voice became rough. "...That was the most frightened I've ever been."

You reached for him without thinking. Your arms slid around his waist.

"I really am okay."

He hugged you back immediately. Tightly. Like letting go wasn't an option anymore.

"I know."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not."

You laughed against his chest.

"I'll shower."

"Mhm."

"And change."

"Mhm."

"And let you inspect me one last time."

He pulled back just enough to look down at you.

"One last time?"

"You've already checked every inch of me."

"I'm checking again after the shower."

You grinned.

"You're impossible."

"I'm thorough."

"You are paranoid."

"I'm in love with you."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Everything froze.

Again.

Not the yard this time.

Just the two of you.

His eyes widened.

"...Well."

You blinked.

"...Well?"

"I wasn't planning on saying it like that."

A smile tugged at your lips.

"I kind of like that you did."

"You do?"

Instead of answering, you rose onto your toes and kissed him.

Softly.

Carefully.

Despite the blood.

Despite the scrapyard.

Despite the audience that definitely hadn't wandered as far away as they'd pretended.

When you pulled back, Creeper looked completely stunned.

"You kissed me."

"I did."

"So..."

"So," you echoed, smiling.

"I love you too."

For a moment, the hardened Mayan simply stared at you as if the world had narrowed to the space between your faces.

Then, with a laugh so warm it surprised even him, he gathered you back into his arms, heedless of the blood staining his own shirt now, because he'd spent the last ten minutes convinced he was about to lose you, and instead he'd somehow found the courage to tell you the truth—and discovered that the woman who had terrified an entire motorcycle club by arriving drenched in someone else's blood loved him back.

From somewhere across the yard, Coco yelled, "Can somebody hose those two down before they start hugging more crime scene onto each other?"

You trail off uncertainly, but Juice starts nodding like you are making perfect sense and drops behind the counter to pull out a small tincture vial that he hands you. You examine the dark bottle, reading the ingredients, all the effects, and the instructions.

"A little drop of that under your tongue each morning helps a lot. My brothers wipe out all the time on their bikes, and I'll drip a little bit of that into their morning coffee."

Juice giggles, his voice dropping like he was sharing a secret, and you can't help but blush a little at the sweet sound, "No one's questioned why they don't ache as much yet."

"I don't think it's safe etiquette to drug your club brothers," You hedge carefully, though you keep your tone light because you are almost 100% sure that the men in this MC have done way worse than THC.

You watch his face fall and quickly scramble to rectify your words, motherly instinct surging to the forefront of your mind. Your accent goes heavy with your rising emotions, "Not-not that Ah don't think they'd appreciate that, sweetie! Just consent is a big thing, even if yer doin' somethin' kind."

The kid stares at you, his cheeks steadily warming, and Juice can't help but think that you're one of the nicest, prettiest women he's ever had the pleasure of meeting. Girls usually saw him and wanted to use him to get closer to the higher members of the club, or, well, just to fuck. But you weren't even looking at his kutte, and that accent was thick.

And you'd called him Sweetie.

"I-yeah," Juice deflates and nods along, a bit embarrassed, but not too focused on that when you were looking at him like he was more. Like you were actually paying attention to him. He rubs the back of his neck, "You're right. I'll tell 'em about it next time."

You smile at him, proud that he had come to the right decision in such a short amount of time, and having zero idea that it was all because of you. A woman he'd known for a total of around five minutes.

You were dangerous, and you had no clue.

"Ah think that's a good idea, Juice," You tell him and offer a kind smile, and then raise the little vial in your hand, "An' I'll take this, too. Ought ta do me good tomorrow mornin'. How many drops do you put in their coffee?"

Juice grins, glad that he had given you an idea, and nods at the tincture, "Just two if I know it was a bad wreck. One other than that. That shit is strong, Momma."

He blushes deeply the moment that term escapes his mouth, and he scrambles to apologize, lips flapping uselessly until he hears the sound of your laugh that stops him dead. Juice looks at you and feels himself start to relax again at that calm little twist of your lips.

"I mean- Ah am a mother," you tell him, and Juice feels his interest tick up just a little. Were you after his heart? A pretty young mom, couldn't be any older than thirty, with a kind county voice and soft eyes? And she was talking to him?

Juice didn't want that to stop, and you didn't seem to mind his little slip-up.

But all good things came to an end.

"How much?"

The question knocks some sense into Juice, and he shoves off the counter, flashing you a smile and reluctantly stepping away so he can ring you up. He wants to tell you it's on the house, but the last thing he wants is to make you uncomfortable in any way. So instead, he tells you the total, takes your card, watches you pocket the tincture, then steps back to look around the shop a little longer.

Juice wants to see you again. He wants to hear you talk about nothing, and he wants to listen to you tell him what to do and how it's good to… be good. You have the kind of presence that makes the loud in his head start to relax because something in there recognizes you as someone important.

Even if he didn't really understand why right now.

You step back to the counter before you go to leave, flashing Juice a quick smile that makes his toes curl in his boots and his face feel warm. Before he can stop himself, Juice is already flapping his big mouth.

"We're having a cookout this weekend- you and your kid should stop by the lot. Guys wouldn't mind. I- I mean, as long as you aren't busy with work or uh, something else…"

He trails off when he spots the look on your face and shifts nervously, "…Did I say something wrong?"

You lick your lips and debate with yourself. You hadn't wanted to mention running into the other biker, but this would be the second time in a week that you and your son had been invited to their lot.

Now that makes Juice stall, because Kozik definitely had not mentioned meeting a sweet young mother with a southern accent who made a man's bones feel like jelly, and his stomach ignite like a bike's engine. Juice would have remembered that.

"Ya know," you begin, looking at Juice, tilting your head to the side, unconsciously covering the nasty mark on your face, "The big blonde, Kozik, invited us over the other day when he met my son at the gas station."

"Really?" Juice asks instead and smiles at you, because maybe the chance of you showing up went higher since you've already been asked once, "Did he tell you about the cookout?"

You laugh a little and shake your head, not put off a bit by his enthusiasm and good cheer. You couldn't help but wonder if all the Sons were like the two you'd met so far. Weirdly optimistic and a bit unhinged. You'd bet your bottom dollar that they were in some form or fashion.

"Nah," you tell him, shifting your weight, wincing as your knee begins to ache. You would need to leave soon and rest it for a while. "Just asked about drinks and offered to show Arthur the bikes."

Juice sees the pain that flashes across your face, but doesn't say anything about it. You standing here so casually in front of him, speaking so comfortably about your run-in with a dangerous biker, told Juice enough about your strength. Mentioning anything or offering anything without you saying something first would be a disservice. So instead he just nods along and rests his weight on the counter, giving you the best puppy eyes he can pull off.

"Well," Juice draws out the word and tilts his head, and feels victorious when he sees the soft flush that paints across your nose before you clear your throat and look away. He smirks and raps his knuckles against the glass countertop, "The offer still stands, Momma. We promise we know how to behave."

"Ah, highly doubt that," you immediately shoot back, huffing at yourself for feeling your face grow hot. You were a mother and a woman grown. These men should not be affecting you like this. You knew better, damn it.

"Come by then," Juice urges, his voice dropping an octave, dark eyes growing impossibly darker, "Let us prove you wrong."

You swallow hard and meet those dark eyes, the two of you staring each other down before the sound of a generic ringtone interrupts the moment. You relax when Juice breaks eye contact and digs into his pocket for a flip phone that he presses to his ear. You take that as your chance to step back a few steps, giving him privacy and yourself a moment to breathe.

"Yeah-Yeah, Jax," Juice assures the other man when his President asks if he'd be there in time for chapel, "Just caught a little caught up at the shop, but I'm on the way, man."

And then you were left standing there with a blush on your face and a tight feeling in your tummy because damn it.

He ends the call after Jax tells him to be safe and shoves the burner into the inner pocket of his kutte. Juice rolls his shoulders and rounds the counter, fishing out his keys for his bike and coming to a stop beside you. He smiles and nods at the door, walking you outside and resting by his bike.

"The cookout starts at four on Saturday if you want to come by," Juice tells you, and you nod along, ignoring the way your knee pops when you shift your weight.

"I'll keep that in mind, Juice," you tell him, and take a step back as he grins and tosses a leg over his bike. You can't deny you like the sound of the loud Harley when he starts the engine, or the way your heart picks up a beat when the young man grins at you under his shades after he buckles his helmet in place.

Juice revs his bike and meets your eyes, "See ya around, Momma."

It happened almost a week after the funeral.

You'd gone to the small house Happy had owned because Chibs had gently suggested you should collect the things he'd wanted you to have, and you'd agreed because it sounded simple enough, just boxes and clothes and belongings, practical things that required action rather than emotion.

The house smelled like him.

Leather. Motor oil. Soap. Gunpowder. Something so distinctly him it could never be described.

The scent hit you the second you opened the door, and for a moment your chest tightened so painfully that you had to grip the frame to stay upright.

But still, you managed.

Somehow.

You packed shirts. Folded jeans. Collected photographs. You found the ridiculous coffee mug he'd claimed not to like despite using it every morning. You even laughed once when you discovered three identical knives hidden in three different drawers because apparently Happy had never trusted himself to remember where he'd left one.

And then you found the envelope.

It was tucked inside the top drawer of his dresser beneath a stack of old paperwork.

Your name was written on the front.

Not printed.

Written.

In Happy's unmistakable handwriting.

For Y/N.

Your hands started shaking immediately.

Because somehow you already knew.

The world felt strangely quiet as you sat on the edge of his bed.

The mattress dipped beneath your weight.

Your pulse hammered inside your ears.

And slowly, carefully, you opened the envelope.

The letter inside was only three pages long.

Three pages.

Three pages from a man who barely spoke when he was alive.

You read the first line.

Sweetheart, If you're reading this, something went wrong.

And that was it.

That was the moment the dam broke.

Not the funeral.

Not the phone call.

Not seeing his body.

Not standing beside his grave.

Three stupid words written in black ink by a man who was no longer alive.

Something went wrong.

As though he wasn't talking about his own death.

As though he was apologizing for being late.

As though he was sorry he couldn't make it home.

You didn't even remember leaving the bedroom.

The next thing you knew you were sitting on the bathroom floor clutching the letter against your chest while sounds you didn't recognize tore themselves out of your throat.

The grief arrived all at once.

Not in waves.

Not gradually.

It crashed into you like a freight train.

Happy was dead.

Happy was dead.

Happy was dead.

The thought repeated endlessly inside your skull until you couldn't breathe around it.

The man who called you sweetheart. The man who pretended not to care while memorising your favorite snacks. The man who always positioned himself between you and danger without even thinking about it. The man who kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep. The man who promised he'd come home.

Gone.

Gone forever.

You slid to the floor beside the bathtub and curled into yourself, pressing the pages against your chest so hard they crumpled beneath your grip.

Tears blurred the ink.

Your lungs burned.

Every breath felt impossible.

You couldn't stop crying long enough to think.

Couldn't stop long enough to stand.

Couldn't stop long enough to unlock the door.

Hours passed.

Maybe.

You weren't sure.

The knocking started eventually.

Soft at first.

Then louder.

Then accompanied by voices.

"Y/N?"

Chibs.

"Darlin', open the door."

You couldn't answer.

You tried.

God, you tried.

But the second you opened your mouth another sob ripped free and stole whatever words you'd meant to say.

The silence that followed must have terrified them, because the knocking became pounding.

"Y/N!"

Tig this time.

Sharp.

Panicked.

"Open the damn door!"

You wanted to.

You just couldn't.

The letter remained clenched in your fist.

Your vision swam.

Your entire body shook uncontrollably.

And somewhere outside the bathroom, concern began transforming into fear.

"Get the key."

"It ain't workin'."

"Y/N!"

More pounding.

The door rattled.

You barely noticed.

Happy's handwriting blurred through your tears.

There was one sentence you'd read at least twenty times.

If I could've chosen anything in my life, I would've chosen more time with you.

The words shattered something inside you every single time.

Outside, voices grew louder.

Footsteps.

Arguments.

Then suddenly a violent crash.

Wood splintered.

The door burst inward.

And there they were.

Chibs and Tig.

Both breathing hard.

Both looking terrified.

For one horrible second neither of them moved.

Because the sight in front of them was devastating.

You were sitting on the floor in one of Happy's old hoodies.

Face swollen.

Eyes bloodshot.

Hands shaking.

Curled against the bathtub like a broken thing.

Still clutching that letter.

Still crying so hard you could barely breathe.

Tig looked away immediately.

Not because he didn't care.

Because he did.

Too much.

The pain on his face was almost unbearable.

Chibs swore softly under his breath.

Then crossed the room.

"Jesus Christ, lass."

You made a sound somewhere between a sob and a gasp.

The letter slipped from your fingers.

Chibs picked it up automatically.

His eyes skimmed the first few lines.

And suddenly his expression changed.

Not surprise.

Understanding.

Because now he knew.

Happy had left you a goodbye.

A final conversation.

A final I love you.

A final piece of himself.

And it had destroyed whatever fragile wall had been holding your grief back.

"Oh, sweetheart."

The words broke you completely.

You doubled over.

Sobbing.

Unable to stop.

Unable to breathe.

Unable to think.

And before you knew what was happening, Chibs was kneeling beside you while Tig dropped heavily to the floor on your other side, neither man saying much because there wasn't anything to say.

Happy was gone.

No words could fix that.

No comfort could undo it.

No promise could bring him back.

So instead they simply stayed.

Chibs wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

Tig rested a hand against your back.

And when you finally collapsed against them, crying so hard your entire body shook, neither man let go.

Hours later, after the storm inside you had exhausted itself enough to leave you trembling and hollow and barely conscious, you sat wrapped in a blanket in the clubhouse office while Chibs quietly handed you a fresh cup of tea.

The letter rested in your lap.

You'd read it three more times.

Every line hurt.

Every line mattered.

Tig sat nearby staring at the wall.

Eventually he cleared his throat.

"You know."

His voice sounded rough.

Older.

"He loved you."

Fresh tears filled your eyes instantly.

Tig laughed sadly.

"Yeah. Knew that'd do it."

Chibs shook his head.

"Brother wasn't exactly subtle."

That earned the tiniest, weakest laugh from you.

The first one since his death.

And somehow both men looked relieved.

You glanced down at the final page.

The final paragraph.

The final words Happy had ever written.

I don't regret much. But I'd regret not telling you this. You made my life better. Every damn day. If there's anything after this, I'll spend it looking for you.

The tears returned immediately.

But this time they felt different.

Still painful.

Still devastating.

Yet softer somehow.

Less like drowning.

More like remembering.

You pressed your fingertips against the ink.

Against the words he'd left behind.

Against the evidence that you'd been loved by one of the hardest men in California.

And as Chibs sat beside you and Tig silently guarded the doorway, you realized something important.

Happy hadn't left because he wanted to.

He hadn't stopped loving you.

Hadn't forgotten you.

Hadn't chosen to leave.

The letter proved that.

His last thoughts had been of you.

His last words had been for you.

And while nothing would ever erase the hole he'd left behind, while grief would remain a companion for a very long time, there was comfort in knowing that the greatest love of your life had carried your name in his heart right until the very end.

In the years that followed, the pain never disappeared completely.

But neither did he.

Because every time you reread that letter, every time you traced the familiar handwriting across those worn pages, every time you remembered the way he looked at you when he thought nobody was watching, it felt a little less like a goodbye and a little more like a promise.

And, in the quiet moments between grief and memory, you loved him still.