Down The Rabbit Hole

He clicked off the stove, ruffled little girls hair, and shoveled some scrambled eggs onto her tray to keep her busy. Then stalked down the hall seeing no need for a rush. He was fully aware of the problem, and had no interest in fixing it. He leaned himself against the open door frame of your bedroom and there you were. 

A pretty little thing in serious need of an attitude adjustment. 

You blinked a few times to keep your composure, for a moment you thought he dressed that way on purpose. A view like that wasn’t unusual but it still made you weak. Grey sweats hanging at his hips did you in every single time, standing there like a man carved from stone, littered in art coated muscle. It was almost impossible to stay strong but your annoyance took precedence.

You raised the back of your hand, and it sparkled. It looked better than he imagined. It wasn’t too big, or too flashy. It was subtle in a way you would appreciate, but still enough that everyone would see it first. 

A sparkly claim.

“What the fuck is this?” 

“Your ring,” he tossed the dish towel at his shoulder and crossed his arms over his bare chest, “like it?” 

“Do I like it? You don’t want to try will you marry me or even a what do you say, are you actually insane?” 

“Yeah.” 

You chuckled despite yourself. Your handsome devil, so unbothered, so damn serious. 

“The answers no until you learn how to ask correctly,” you tossed it towards the end of the rustled sheets. It landed perfectly, gem glinting in the morning light.

It was like the damn thing was staring back at you. 

The cut, the clarity, the encrusted band with her birth stone. It wasn’t what you pictured, but he still managed to hit the nail on the head.

Almost like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and that annoyed you too.

“Put the fucking ring back on,” and then he walked away. Abrupt turn, heavy steps, resuming his perfect execution of blueberry pancakes so you had a plate ready when you finally decided to put your big boy pants on. 

You stared at it for too long. Considering, overthinking, and decided you couldn’t put it back on, not yet.

You treated it with care, but to give in would've been too easy. You had to let it stew inside you first, find a way to give him hell without actually saying no. 

He knew that, so he chose to overlook it when you sat at the table without it, because he also knew inevitably it would be right back where it belongs.

He had everything he never wanted, and he loved it. 

He loved coming home to you, he loved waking up to her climbing in the bed during the night. He loved rocking her to sleep, and holding you until you were snoring even though you swear you don’t. He loved the ring he bought you, and the tattoo of your initial healing perfectly where his ring will go.

He was made for more than he ever thought possible, because as it turns out, you can teach an old dog new tricks. 

He had a foot in both worlds and surprised himself everyday that he seemed to excel equally.

Violence was fun, the chaos of it was as easy as breathing. Loving you, parenting her, it had become second nature, something learned but worth every second of effort it took to get there. 

Only one thing could shit on his good mood, and that was the fucking Irish. The stubborn as fuck pale faces that act like kings. 

One patch went down, a prospect alongside him, and that meant war. 

War meant lockdown.

You and little girl were stuck in his dorm room, willingly this time, but without him. He wasn’t there for the bedtime story, or the early morning cuddles. He was on a hunt, stuck in a van with your adopted brother. 

Day in, day out. 

Staking out in revolving shifts but the damn irish were proving to be resourceful. Happy didn’t say a word about you, about the ring, about anything really. Jax tried to be as quiet, but his phone just kept ringing. Always Tara claiming she needed this and that. 

Happy couldn’t fathom the need for a call every five minutes. He tried not to side eye his president but at a certain point he couldn't help it.

You hadn’t called once, not even a text. Were you annoyed? Sure, of course. Exhausted and mildly pissed off? To be expected, but you were handling it. 

You knew he was busy keeping you and the people you love safe, so you kept your mouth shut. It made him want that ring on your finger even more, really. The way you understood club life like it was woven in your DNA.

It was hotter than he would ever admit. 

After the fifth and final call, Jax arrived. No van and no Happy.

You tried not to let the disappointment show when your brother shot you a charming smile, but you were approaching your very wits end with the level of understanding you’ve maintained over the past week. Your daughter gasped at the sight of leather, searching, searching, searching, and nothing.

You saw the disappointment hit her like a train and it wrecked you. 

This is easily the longest she’s gone without seeing him since they met. You explained daddy didn’t disappear, he would come back for her. She was just too little to comprehend anything aside from his missing presence. She had been nothing short of a terror. Throwing things, kicking and screaming, endless whining that was making your head throb. You tried to be a gentle parent. Calm, collected, respectful of her feelings. It never went far. She was at a loss, and so were you. 

She huffed, puffed, and plopped herself down from the picnic tables.

“Hey!” She yelled, commanding the attention of Chibs, Tig, and Jax too. “Where esm’ daddy?” 

Jax was all smiles, squatting down to reach her level and poke her in the belly. “He’s running some errands for me, he’ll be back for you soon, okay?” 

“No,” she huffed. Then she kicked him. Right in the groin, causing the charming blonde to drop back against the concrete with a deep groan. The leather kuttes from you to the door all groaned in sympathy, gripping their crotches like they felt it too.

“Hey!” You scolded, pulling her back by the shoulders and demanding she apologize, but she refused. She crossed her arms, staring them all down like they were enemy forces.

“Here darling,” Chibs drawled, pulling out a prepay from his pocket, “he’s the last number dialed, why don’t you let her give him a call?” 

You fiddled with the prepay, glancing around the smug faces that made your cheeks burn. “This feels like rewarding bad behavior.” 

“We’re rewarding a solid shot.” 

“Douchebag,” Jax groaned, rubbing his crotch as he found his footing. 

You shooed your miserable little girl back into the clubhouse, forcing her to keep moving until you were locked in the safety of his room. Just stepping a foot in was relaxing, for the both of you. He hadn’t stayed there for over a month now but the air still smelled like him. His cardboard thin pillows smelled like his aftershave, the sheets like his soap, the few shirts he had left in the closet still had that faint hint of motor oil and exhaust fumes that never quite washes out. It settled you more than it did her, you were surviving the week in his clothes and taking hits off his pillow just to keep it together. 

Pathetic? Yes. Necessary at this rate? Absolutely. 

It’s not your fault he’s made you so dependent, blame him entirely.

He was the one who made it a habit to always be home for dinner. He was the one who insisted on being there to put both his girls to bed. You were just the sucker who got twisted up by some sort of accidental Stockholm situation. 

You hit re-dial on what you assume is today’s current prepay number. He answered with a grunt, one that told you exactly how pissed off he was. 

“Guess again,” you chuckled. 

The harshness slipped. A soft whisper carried through the line, “hey.” 

“Hey,” you grinned, “your daughter is being a monster.”

“So now she’s my kid?” He chuckled, leaning back against a cool brick wall. God, he needed to hear you. The sweetest little reminder of what he had waiting was enough to settle him, hearing you laugh? That was like striking gold. 

It was annoying how much he missed you, how much he thought about you and little girl, and how ready he was for this shit to be over so he knew you were both safe again. It never stopped him from doing his job, but it was always there. The two of you had embedded yourself in his brain worse than a sickness, always lingering in the back of his mind. 

“She kicked Jax in the nuts because he came back without you, and I know for a fact she didn’t get that from me.” 

His laughter rumbled like thunder, carrying over the line like a lightning strike to your heart. “That’s my girl.” 

You glanced over at the corner she put herself in, arms crossed and pouting. “You have a minute? I think she could use some daddy daughter time.” 

“Put me on speaker.”

“Come on babe, Happy’s on the phone.” 

You hit the speaker button and placed it down on the bed. He heard everything. Her little whine from across the room, her stomps, the grunts escaping her as she weaseled up the bed because she wouldn’t just take your help to get there. He waited until he heard her close, the ruffle of sheets slushing through his end.

“You being good to your mom?” 

She crossed her arms again, staring you dead in the eye. “No.”

“Why not?” 

She babbled. Half of it was words, half of it was nonsense. You picked up on about a quarter of it, but he got it all. Her and her pitiful attitude come through the other end of the line. Angry he wasn’t back yet, stir crazy from lock down. She missed her bed, her stuffies, and her daddy. He hummed along, entertaining her tiny rant and encouraging her to let it all out. Mommy was being mean, she said. Mommy keeps saying no, she said. On and on with endless reasons why you’re wrong and she’s right, bring him to the conclusion it was time to wrap things up. You both had run out of grace for the situation and he couldn’t blame you. 

She needed a break, you needed a break, and he was desperate to see your faces after the bullshit errands keeping him too damn far away from you both. 

“Look who’s here,” you chuckled, pointing to the door where leather kuttes were trailing in one at a time. 

“That’s my dadddy!” She screeched, a full sprint taking over her chubby little legs. She giggled the whole way over, hands flailing, grin spreading, squealing like a bat out of hell. 

The crowd parted. First for her, then for him, making space where there wasn’t any so he could get by.

“Hey mama,” he said, voice rough, low, just for you. You tilted your head all the way back, lips puckered and waiting for his. He pressed his chapped ones against your soft ones gently, pecking them a few times in a row before pulling back. “You feelin okay?” 

“Better now, you?” 

“Better now,” he smiled, kissing the side of your daughter’s head, tickling her face with the rough scruff of his cheeks.

“Is it okay if I go home? She’s out of a few things, and I need a shower that’s not communal.” 

He gave you a look, one that very obviously told you a few separate things all at once. One, you’re testing his patience already. Two, having two girls to worry about in his life is exhausting. Three, you are absolutely not leaving this clubhouse. 

“You two are killing me,” he muttered, eyes shut tight. 

You weren't actually asking, he knew that, but it was sweet to pretend given where you are. You couldn’t completely ignore the reputation he has made for himself. You could act the part of a good girl rather well. Please, thank you, asking the question but ignoring the no he gives once you’re behind closed doors. It’s a system, he likes the system. 

You stood and slipped right in under his free arm, taking a hit of him. He hadn’t left the van in days, but even the van stench was delicious because it was him. Warm, breathing, intoxicating. 

You pulled in one, two, three, and an extra for the road. “I’ll be back before the vote, okay?” 

“Take a prospect,” he stopped you in your tracks, hand gently holding your arm, “Tacoma.” 

You nodded, kissing a cheek softly, and you were gone with the wind.

Then it was him and her. 

Her attitude came and went like the tide. She was so excited he was there, she forgot she was angry. Then she would remember, and start to pout all over again. 

Rinse and repeat. 

She was talking endlessly, then staring at him like he kidnapped her. She started laughing, then snarled at him if he touched the wrong toy. It was a game of cat and mouse with her attitude, and he loved every second because she was all you, but so much of him now too.

Every perfect inch of her.

You slipped on your ring the second you got in the car, admiring the view without his smug expression making you wish you left the damn thing at home all together. 

You couldn’t. You tried, but you just couldn’t. You never asked for it, you weren’t even sure if you wanted it, but it felt like part of you now. Something decided, certain. A mix of impending doom and the hope of a new beginning all wrapped up in one. 

It was stupidly perfect, and every single day you kept it close, teasing yourself with the idea of it. 

You had less questions this time. You know who he is, what he wants, how far he’s willing to go and what he’s willing to give. It all added up. 

You made your bed, with Happy Lowman, all he really needed to do was ask. 

You sucked up every single second of the rarity that is baby free time and felt guilty while doing it. Groceries were purchased. Snacks for him, her, a few unusual pairings for you. Bags of dirty laundry were switched for fresh clean clothes. Then you took a much longer shower than necessary, but the hot water felt too good, and every inch of you needed special attention. 

You did your hair the way you liked, dressed in something other than his well loved samcro printed tees. Circling back to hell on earth. Your least favorite place that still somehow manages to feel like home. 

You pulled in a few minutes to spare. Stashing your ring for safe keeping, fumbling with your bags, loading up the arms of the Tacoma prospect who was lingering behind you like a well trained dog. 

Then there was chaos. Yelling, screaming, the rush of fleeing bodies, then there was a boom. 

A life altering explosion that blew the clubs home to the sky. The rush of hot air hit you first and nearly knocked you down. Then it was the harsh stench of smoke, fire, and something sour that made you want to keel over. 

The reality of what you just witnessed set in and you gasped, collapsing at the sight. Your knees cracked against the asphalt so loud it could be heard over your sobs. 

Your baby girl was in there.

You screeched at the very top of your lungs but no sound left your lips. All the air left your lungs, every fiber in your being felt like it was pulled apart. Ash and smoke heavy in the air, warm firelight blinding your mind.

Then you saw them, emerging from the smoke and ash in slow motion like some low budget action movie. You cried, hard. You were so out of it you were crawling, pushing yourself up as fast as you could. Grabbing her, searching him, crying desperately despite both of them appearing whole. 

“We’re okay,” he wrapped his arms around you both, so tight his arms were shaking, “we’re okay.” 

She was sobbing, vicious cries that were ripping him apart with each wave. You were a snotty mess, absolutely wrecked with the possibility of what if. He was the pillar of strength letting it happen, holding himself together perfectly like he came pre-put together with superglue. “Come on, I’m getting you out of here.” 

He took you to the hospital. You didn’t think he would, at first. Hospital meant cops, Happy hates cops, but he checked her in himself. The police were circling the emergency room like sharks as more of the samcro family arrived by both car and ambulance. He let you give your statement, trusting you entirely to give them the illusion of help without giving them anything at all. 

He held her the whole time. Through the questions, the exams, too shell-shocked to put her down for even a moment. Rocking, humming, rubbing her back softly. Once she was clear, he took you home, but not the home you were expecting. His home. The three bedroom house that was made to hold a family, his family.

You two had discussed it offhandly one evening. His is bigger in every way. Bigger rooms, more square feet, and it has the bigger yard. You pay rent, he owns his outright. Logistically moving to his house made the most sense, but it was supposed to be a when we’re ready move. 

He helped you up and out of the passenger side, checking your head like you might spontaneously combust from the fever that didn’t exist. “You good?” 

“I’m not the one who got blown up.” 

“I got her out,” he mumbled, forcing you by the chin to look him in the eye, “she’s never in danger with me.” 

Your lip quivered, you couldn’t stop the waterworks if you tried. The fear, mom hormones on overdrive. He kept a steady gaze, brushing each tear away before they ever made it down your cheeks.

“I know,” you whispered, nodding against his hands. 

He nodded, satisfied, then immediately moved on to the next little girl that needed attention. 

“Come on little girl,” he cooed, guiding her tired arms out from her buckles, “we got a surprise for you.” 

“S’prise?” She slurred, blinking slowly. He hummed, jingling his keys as he approached the front door. 

It smelled just like him. Dull whiskey and the softest touch weed smoke. Gun oil and that rich earthy cologne he wears too well, it was enough to ease the tension inside you. You followed him step for step like the space was a booby trap waiting to happen.

It was clean, orderly. Everything had a place but there wasn't much to keep sorted. One couch. A table with one chair. No tv, no art on the walls. It looked more like a safe house than a home, but that's what he had you two for.

A reason to make it something.

“You ready?” He asked her softly, hand on the vintage crystal doorknob he installed himself. She nodded enthusiastically and he kicked the door open. 

Her jaw dropped, and so did yours.

The walls were her favorite color, and had a different design hand painted on each one. He painted her a castle, a rainbow, the weird green monster from her favorite book. There was a big girl bed covered in all the stuffed animals she could ever want. A doll house, a ridiculously fluffy rug, and a reading nook by the window. It was every little girl's dream come true.

“Happy,” you gasped, stepping into a room that looked like something out of a catalog. He plopped her down on the floor and off she went. Squealing and giggling at every little thing. It became a mess in seconds. You couldn’t see much of anything through the chaos of it, just a blur of your tiny tornado making herself at home. She tossed her entire toy chest, introduced herself to each and every stuffed toy, showed you all the Barbie’s he stocked the doll house (that was bigger than her) with. With every new thing she found, she ran to him first. Showing it off, laughing loud, making every dime he spent worth it.

The two of you joined her on the floor. Watching her lose her mind and every little thing. You wouldn't call him cheap, exactly. He prefers the term mindful of excessive spending, but this she didn't seem to apply.

“You spoil her.” 

“That’s my job,” he said lowly, voice carrying the clipped edge of roughness, “I was saving it for her birthday, but she needed a distraction.” 

His wheels were turning. Watching her, avoiding you. You've never seen that look on him before. You've learned the micro expressions that tell you what kind of day he's had. Anger was familiar. Relief was easiest to spot. This was new. Skin paled, his features usually flexed in one way or another were completely unbecoming. A dangerous cocktail of feelings he didn't know what to do with. Which to feel first, where to focus his energy.

You slipped your hand over his, knuckles raw from where he caught them both from smacking down against asphalt. “And what about me?” 

He took a breath in, like all he needed was the permission to be exactly where he was.

“You got that ring you’re supposed to be wearing.” His hand pulled back and dug into his pocket, pulling out something slim and flat, cuts in the metal fitted to the front door. “Got you a key made too, move in when you’re ready.” 

He looked at you, you looked at him, and the silence was enough. You were already a family, and it was about time you started acting like it. You rolled your eyes ridiculously hard and slipped your hand into your bra, pulling out that little loop of gems you were keeping very close. 

“I’m ready.” 

The roughness of his features gave an inch, momentarily putting away the hate he was clinging to for when they finally got their hands on the Irish. He took it, fiddling with it a moment before tugging you closer by the hand.

“You take this off again I’ll kill you,” he grumbled, slipping it back between your knuckles where it belongs. 

You took his hand, brushing a thumb across his tattooed knuckles, lingering across that picture perfect initial. The man you knew before, you might've believed him, but not this guy. You smiled up at him, this boundary crossing, agenda pushing, borderline psycho, who you just can't help but love.

"Whatever you say."

i feel like this isn't my best work, im so lost in mw4 land i can't stay focused on anything besides john mf price - sorrrryyyyyyy

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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

Your boyfriend, Dean, picks you up after closing.

He’s already pissed.

You can smell whiskey on him before you even get into the truck.

“The fuck were you smiling at that biker for?” he snaps as soon as the door slams.

“I was working.”

“You looked real happy doing it.”

You stare out the window.

That usually helps.

If you stay quiet long enough, sometimes he burns himself out before things get worse.

Not tonight.

His hand lashes out so fast your head cracks against the glass.

Pain explodes behind your eyes.

“Answer me when I’m talking to you.”

Your ears ring.

You taste blood.

And somewhere behind the truck, headlights appear.

A motorcycle.

Dean doesn’t notice.

You do.

The low rumble follows all the way to your apartment complex.

Happy.

Of course it’s Happy.

Dean finally notices the bike when he parks.

“What the fuck?”

Happy kills the engine slowly and removes his helmet.

No expression.

No hurry.

Just death walking toward the truck in boots.

Dean scoffs and climbs out. “You got a problem?”

Happy ignores him completely.

Looks at you instead.

You’re frozen in the passenger seat, heart pounding so hard it hurts.

Happy’s gaze drifts to the split on your lip.

Then to Dean.

“Get outta the truck,” Happy says quietly.

Dean laughs.

Actually laughs.

“Mind your business, psycho.”

Happy tilts his head slightly.

“You hit her?”

Dean squares up immediately, puffing his chest out like an idiot. “That’s my girlfriend. I do whatever the fuck I want.”

Wrong answer.

You see it happen in Happy’s eyes.

Like a switch flipping.

One second there’s a man standing there.

The next there’s something feral.

Happy grabs Dean by the throat and slams him against the truck hard enough to dent the door.

Dean gasps.

You scramble out of the passenger side. “Happy—”

Dean swings wildly.

Happy barely reacts.

He drives a fist into Dean’s stomach, then another into his jaw. Bone cracks loud in the parking lot.

Dean crumples.

Happy follows him down.

Not angry.

That would almost be better.

No, Happy is calm.

Methodical.

He beats Dean with horrifying efficiency while Dean wheezes and begs and spits blood onto the pavement.

“Happy,” you whisper.

He doesn’t stop.

Dean tries crawling away.

Happy catches him by the ankle and drags him back.

“Please—”

Happy stomps on his hand.

The scream echoes through the complex.

A porch light flicks on somewhere above you.

Happy finally looks up at you.

“You want him alive?”

The question hits like ice water.

Because he means it.

There’s no bluff here. No exaggeration.

If you say no, Dean dies in this parking lot.

Your entire body shakes.

Dean whimpers on the ground, swollen and bloody and suddenly pathetic instead of terrifying.

For months you’ve lived in fear of him.

Months of flinching at slammed doors.

Months of covering bruises with makeup.

Months of convincing yourself you deserved it somehow because that’s easier than admitting someone who claimed to love you enjoyed hurting you.

And now Happy stands over him like judgment itself.

Waiting.

You swallow hard. “I just… want him gone.”

Happy stares at you for a long moment.

Then down at Dean.

Dean starts sobbing.

Actually sobbing.

“I swear to God I’ll never touch her again—”

Happy pulls a gun.

Dean stops breathing.

So do you.

Happy crouches beside him, pressing the barrel beneath Dean’s chin.

“If I see you near her again,” he says softly, “they’ll find pieces.”

Dean nods frantically, crying so hard he can barely breathe.

Happy pistol-whips him once more for good measure.

Dean collapses unconscious.

Silence settles over the parking lot.

Happy rises slowly, blood smeared across his knuckles.

Then he looks at you.

And suddenly all that terrifying violence disappears beneath something gentler.

Not soft.

Happy Lowman isn’t soft.

But careful.

“You hurt anywhere bad?”

The question nearly breaks you.

Because nobody asked before.

Not really.

Your eyes burn unexpectedly.

Happy notices immediately.

He steps closer.

Slow enough not to scare you.

When he touches your jaw, his rough thumb barely ghosts over the bruise there.

The tenderness of it feels more devastating than the violence did.

“You shoulda told me,” he murmurs.

A shaky laugh escapes you. “You’re literally covered in blood right now.”

“Yeah.”

“And somehow that’s not the scary part.”

One corner of his mouth twitches.

The closest thing Happy has to a smile.

Behind him, Dean groans weakly on the pavement.

Happy doesn’t even glance back.

His eyes stay on you.

“You got somewhere else you can stay tonight?”

You hesitate.

Happy reads the answer instantly.

“C’mon,” he says.

Simple as that.

Like there was never another option.

The clubhouse is quieter by the time you arrive.

Most of the guys are gone or passed out somewhere.

Happy leads you to his room without explanation.

It’s shockingly clean.

Sparse.

A bed, dresser, weapons neatly organized like they belong in a museum exhibit for terrifying men.

You hover awkwardly near the door. “I can sleep on the floor.”

Happy gives you a look like you just said something profoundly stupid.

“Nah.”

“I don’t want to—”

“The bed’s big.”

Your stomach flips for reasons that have nothing to do with fear now.

Happy disappears into the bathroom and returns with a first aid kit.

Then he sits on the edge of the bed and pats the spot beside him.

You obey before you can overthink it.

His huge hands are impossibly gentle cleaning the cut on your lip.

“He do this a lot?” he asks quietly.

The question hangs heavy.

You shrug. “Enough.”

His jaw flexes.

You can practically hear the violence he’s imagining.

“You stayin’ with him because you’re scared?”

Your eyes drop.

“…Was.”

Happy finishes taping gauze over your split knuckles.

Then he leans back slightly, studying you with those dark, unreadable eyes.

“Nobody touches what’s mine like that.”

The words settle deep in your chest.

Mine.

Not possessive in the ugly way Dean used it.

Protective.

Certain.

Safe.

You should probably question that.

Instead, your eyes start burning again.

Happy notices.

Again.

“Hey.”

You hate how wrecked your voice sounds. “Sorry.”

“What’re you apologizing for?”

You laugh weakly. “Everything, probably.”

Happy stares at you for a second.

Then, unexpectedly, he opens his arms.

It’s awkward.

Like he’s not used to offering comfort but is doing it anyway.

Your heart cracks clean open.

You move before you can think better of it, crawling into his lap and burying your face against his chest.

Happy’s arms close around you instantly.

Solid.

Warm.

Unmovable.

He smells like leather, gunpowder, soap, and cigarettes.

One massive hand settles at the back of your head.

“That’s it,” he murmurs.

And for the first time in months—

Maybe years—

You feel safe enough to fall apart.

Dean disappears two days later.

Nobody asks questions.

Not at the clubhouse.

Not when Happy comes back from a ride alone, knuckles split open again and a fresh smiley-face tattoo added to his torso.

You stare at it over breakfast.

Happy notices.

“Problem?”

“That for him?”

Happy takes a drag from his cigarette.

“Yep.”

You probably shouldn’t feel warmth bloom in your chest over something so objectively horrifying.

But then Happy slides your coffee toward you exactly how you like it without asking.

His fingers brush yours briefly.

Gentle.

Careful.

Like he’s handling something precious.

And suddenly the violence makes a terrifying kind of sense.

Not cruelty.

Protection.

The kind a man like Happy gives with his whole damn soul.

He catches you staring.

“What?”

You smile softly.

“Nothing.”

Happy studies you for a long moment.

Then hooks a finger through your belt loop as you try to walk past him, tugging you between his knees.

You laugh in surprise.

His forehead presses against your stomach for a brief second before he looks up at you.

Possessive.

Devoted.

Dangerous.

“Anybody ever puts hands on you again,” he says quietly, “I’ll bury ’em.”

And looking into Happy Lowman’s dark eyes—

“Daddy!” She screamed, rushing the line of bikes before he had even parked, the dragged out cheer vibrating in her chest due to the rush of her steps. It was met with throaty laughter, a rumble louder than his engine as he walked himself backwards into his usual spot. 

“C’mon,” he clapped his gloved hands together, leaning down to grab her. He plopped her down in front of him on the bike and there went it, flutters so overwhelming you felt like you had a serious case of morning sickness all over again. 

Jax made his way behind you and dropped a heavy arm over your shoulder. “What are you guys doing here?” 

“We’re stealing him for lunch,” you leaned into him, chin gesturing to Happy and your girl contently sitting on the bike. 

The two of you watched a memory in the making. Happy explaining the throttle, the clutch, what it is and how it works despite her not having a clue to what even half those words meant. She smacked against the tank, stretched her arms for the handlebars but her chubby arms were too short to get anywhere close.

Happy was in awe of her, smiling so wide he looked like a damn cartoon character. You pulled out the little silver camera that stayed in your purse these days, capturing that sight three times over, and through it all you kept side-eyeing the blonde beside you. 

Jax doesn’t linger. He doesn't lean his head against yours and take one too many deep breaths like he’s just waiting for you to notice. He doesn’t talk to you anymore.

It started around the time of Tara’s return to Charming. He didn’t cut you out, never, but it was different. Distant in ways that were reasonable, separation that would be expected when your brother goes and gets himself an old lady.

Then Opie died, and he cut everyone out.

His wife, you, the club. This version of the man you call brother was rare, and after everything he’s done for you, you couldn’t possibly pretend it was normal. 

“You okay?” You bumped his shoulder, poking at the heaviness he wasn’t holding very well today. Your life with leather was just starting, but his was reaching the bottom of a very hard rock. He needed to let it out, but all you could do was open the door, he had to walk through it on his own.

“Yeah, darling,” he kissed the top of your head, pouring all his love into it with a deep inhale of your hair that smelled like the same damn shampoo you’ve used since you were ten, “all good.” 

You could push, pry, but knew it wouldn’t go far. It never does, but you hate seeing him like this. Tired, and fighting too hard to keep the walls up between the president, husband, and the monster he sees in himself.

You only ever saw the version of him you met when you were five. The kid who bullied people off the swings so you could have it all to yourself.

Then he became the angry teen who beat up any guy who dared to make you cry. The prospect who held you through your grief when your father died. The fresh patch who drove you to college himself so you didn’t have to lift a single box. The brother who held your hand through labor and you didn't even have to ask. The first man aside from your father to show you unconditional love in its purest form.

Even now, this broken version of your truest friend. You can see him doing his best, doing what he was built for, and struggling with every part of it. 

He never let that happen to you, and you couldn’t let it happen to him. 

“Hey Jax,” you called out, stopping him before he got too far, “I’m not Opie, no one is,” you shrugged with a sad attempt at a smile, “but you can always come talk to me.” 

He didn’t give you much, but he did grin. A glimpse of something real but rare these days. 

Little girl's never ending string of words was silenced by her favorite meal at Happy’s favorite diner. The hostess greeted them like old friends, grabbing a kids menu and a bucket of crayons on the way to a big booth in the back corner like it was second nature. Followed by the immediate arrival of a perfectly sized bowl of mac and cheese neither of you had to order before it appeared. She had a crayon in one hand, a grip full of noodles in the other. Smashing the cheddar goo in her mouth like a feral animal. 

“How many times have you guys been here?”

“Just for lunch,” he shrugged, coloring alongside her. Crayon dragging at the corner of the page until her name was spelled out in chunky bubble letters just like always.

You didn’t think it was possible to fall deeper but there you went, head first, diving right into the deep end. Eating, chatting, carrying the conversation because as much as you’ve grown to love him for it, talking to Happy is essentially talking to yourself. 

You talk, he listens. She talks, he listens. He talks, the world is probably ending. 

You ordered the universal safety meal of chicken tenders but when his burger came out your mouth watered. One look at your star struck expression and the worlds best dad was officially in the running for worlds best old man. You ate your fries, she ate his, and he let you take bites of his burger every time you asked for just one more until the whole thing was gone and he was finishing off your plate instead. 

Dates were a luxury, he said he had the time, but you knew the truth when you let him stay that night. It was only going to get worse, but his promise held weight because he didn’t make many.

It was getting worse, but it was going to get better, and in the meantime, he made time.

He would always make time. 

The time to push her for hours on the swing because it was her happy place. The time to help cook, clean, and hold you both during much needed rest. The time to make you feel heard without having to say a word.

He did balance well. It was one of the only things he did well that wasn’t tied specifically to some form of violence. All of it seemed to come so easy, like part of him was just waiting for someone to come by and wake him up.

It was an average night, the kind that was quickly becoming the new normal. 

The breeze was warm coming in through the kitchen window, and leftovers from dinner were already stored neatly in the fridge. She had a bath and smelled sweet like lavender and honey. You got to take a baby free shower while he forced her to watch yet another classic from his childhood that made her eyes droop in a matter of minutes. 

You came shuffling down the hall in the smiley face slippers you bought last week, a pajama set that matched hers, hair tied up and wanting nothing more than to fall into the curve of his side. 

Ding dong

For the briefest moment you were convinced you were cursed, one thing after another. 

“I got it,” Happy muttered, lifting off the couch with your baby girl in tow. 

It was one of the many unspoken rules he has.

You don’t pump your own gas anymore. You don’t go to the grocery store alone once the sun's gone down. It’s practically a law that he reads the nightly bedtime story. Amongst the ones you know, there are ones you’re still learning, but not this.

You, under no circumstances, are to open the door to your own home. 

You didn’t fully understand why, you didn’t care enough to ask, you brushed it off the way you do everything else. That world’s best old man award goes to Happy Lowman, because for all his quirks his priority was just to keep you safe. 

He passed her off on your way towards the kitchen, parting ways with a kiss to your forehead because it just happened to be within reach. Her head fell against your shoulder with a soft thud and a yawn to pair. You juggled her, her cup, the gallon of milk. You had your hands full and your ears turned on, picking up the unmistakable sound of Jackson Teller at your front door. 

You rounded the corner and the two of them were standing awkwardly. Happy looked like a little boy who got caught with his pants down, Jax looked like he’d walked in on his parents getting it on, and you were far too amused by all of it. 

“It’s for you.” 

“Yeah it’s my house,” you giggled, shuffling your way around the couch, “trade me?”

You passed him a sippy cup of cold milk for bedtime and let little girl kiss her uncle goodnight before handing her back off to daddy.

Once Happy disappeared down the hall Jax’s expression did a one-eighty. He went from borderline traumatized to smug as hell like usual. He trailed behind you back to the kitchen, fighting to keep quiet but that could only ever last so long between the two of you. 

“You move fast.”

“Slut shaming coming from you is crazy.”

He chuckled softly and accepted the coffee cup he had no intention of touching while taking a good look around. Your house was cleaner, neat even. No dishes in the sink, dishwasher running. Laundry mountain had been excavated, and all her toys from play time had already been returned to the toy chest. 

If Jax didn’t know you so well he wouldn’t think much of it, but he’s seen your childhood bedroom and the filth you let pile up during postpartum. He knows exactly how you tend to keep things. 

“It looks good in here.” 

“Apparently he likes things neat,” you gestured to the stack of mail organized by size and priority. Yet another thing Happy had taken care of while you and your mini were busy washing off the day. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” 

You didn’t expect it to be that easy, but you didn't actually expect him to show up at all. The softness of your tone, full of love and support, broke him down.

He went off, words wobbly and unsure. It seemed you weren't the only one experiencing the exhaustion of one thing after another. The patch and the weight of the damn president flash. Tara and the mess she was making of the life she chose. 

It was hard not to cut in, because of course you had your thoughts, opinions, judgements too. The club has bled all over her life, their family, but she knew what the club was. They’re not subtle, the good the bad the ugly, it’s all out in the open. He spoke quietly like he was tucked in a confessional rather than your dimly lit kitchen, mumbling about his boys and what the hell to do next. Until he was sniffling, palms pushing into his eyes to keep the tears contained. 

“I know how much you love her,” you sighed, hand petting over his slicked back blonde hair gently, “but if she can’t accept who you are, is it worth it? Our life is messy, but it’s our life Jax. It’s all we’ve ever known.” 

He looked up, stern with the thought she trapped inside his head. “We could have better.” 

“Do you want better?” 

His face quivered, head dropping from his shoulders. The answer was complex, multipart and too much for either of you to process in one night. 

Better? Yes. Away from the patch entirely? Not so much. 

“Yeah, me neither,” you huffed, resting your head against his in support, "you can stay in her room if you want, she sleeps with us anyway.” 

He nodded politely, palms rubbing his eyes hard. “How’s that been going?” 

“Well he’s the one putting her to bed, so you tell me.” Your comment brought his smile back. A small victory in the form of a silent bounce to his shoulders that lightened the weight that the gavel had burdened him with just enough to clean his face up. “I won’t make you stay but I think you should. Take the night, take a breath, it’ll help.” 

“You sound like mom.” 

“I changed my mind, get out,” you pointed to the door dramatically and he rolled his eyes, holding your knee like it might fix the disconnect in his mind. 

After a few hushed whispers and sibling banter while getting him set up, you made your way back to them. Feet dragging underneath you as you finished getting ready for bed. Teeth brushed, hair fixed, dropping the bottom half of your pj set from your hips and fumbling with the sheets. Happy helped, moving them both to give you more room, lifting the covers for easier access to fall right into his side and take your rightful place against his chest. 

“You mean what you said out there?” 

“Nosy,” you whispered, taking a moment to admire her attached to his other side. Fisting the sheets tight, tiny little snores filling the room. You tucked her hair out of her face, leaning over his torso to kiss her cheek goodnight. You finally settled, head on his chest, steady beat thumping in your mind, “which part?”

“You happy here?” 

You hummed, absentmindedly tracing the lines of his inked torso, trailing into quiet laughter when the thought filled your head. “I’m happy with Happy.” 

He fought his grin but it was there, twitchy corners he couldn’t help but give into. “Funny.” 

“So I’ve been told.” You climbed over top of him, maneuvering around your daughter with ease, lips connected to his neck. 

He pushed you off carelessly, grunting out a simple, “no.” 

“Seriously? She’s dead to the world,” you lifted her arm and it landed back down on the bed with a thud, “see.”

“Not happening.” 

“Chivalrous too,” you snickered, coming up for another kiss, hips rolling in a teasing grind, “very sexy.” 

He groaned into your mouth before he could stop it, “quit your shit.”

“Make me.”

He flipped you, too easy, pinning you into the mattress by the neck. Not rough, not violent, just holding you in place while you giggled quietly. 

“It’s bed time,” he murmured, black voids taking in your adorable little huff of defeat. 

“Yes sir,” you teased, hands up in defense. 

He leaned down for one gentle kiss before rolling back over. You on one side, her repositioned on the other, it’s how he slept best under normal circumstances. The night was peaceful. He held your hand against his chest, thumb circling the sacred space between knuckles. He hushed her when she stirred, accepting her in closer until she was draped across him entirely so she was in constant contact with you both.

As peaceful as it was, it was sleepless. Knowing his president was a room away kept his brain awake, those words of wisdom still ringing true. 

Keep doing what you're doing, it’ll happen. 

this chapter is secretly my favorite...thank you for coming to my ted talk. love you, bye.

general taglist: @vaugarkel @coffeedreaminanreadin @bonni-98 @anonymouse1807 @lv7867 @bsttwice @landpiranha-blog @declanoharasmustache @19forty2

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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

The first time Happy walked into your flower shop, everyone thought he was there to collect money.

Including you.

The bell above the door chimed softly as this giant tattooed biker stepped inside looking like a thunderstorm in human form.

The entire shop smelled like peonies.

Happy looked deeply out of place standing between displays of baby’s breath and pastel ribbons.

You blinked up from behind the counter.

“…Can I help you?”

Happy stared at you silently for a second.

Then held up a crumpled piece of paper.

“Need flowers.”

You took the note carefully.

Then immediately looked back up at him.

“This says ‘something pink.’”

“Yeah.”

“That’s… not specific.”

Happy shrugged.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then finally you sighed dramatically.

“Okay. Fine. Do you at least know what the occasion is?”

“No.”

You blinked.

“No?”

“Gemma told me t’pick ‘em up.”

That explained a lot.

You walked around the counter slowly.

“Alright, scary biker man. We’re gonna learn flower basics today.”

Happy looked offended immediately.

“Ain’t scary.”

You looked at the tattoos.

The scars.

The giant knife strapped visibly to his belt.

“…Sure.”

That should’ve annoyed him.

Instead, something in his mouth twitched slightly.

Not quite a smile.

Close.

You noticed immediately.

“Oh, there’s a person under there.”

Happy grunted.

You grinned.

And apparently that was the beginning of the end for him.

By the third visit, Happy stopped pretending he needed a reason to come by.

Sometimes he’d sit silently in the corner while you worked.

Sometimes he’d bring coffee.

Sometimes he’d just stand there watching you move through the shop with dirt smudged on your cheek and flowers tucked behind your ear.

You talked enough for both of you anyway.

“So hydrangeas are dramatic little bitches,” you explained one afternoon while trimming stems. “If they’re thirsty for too long, they just collapse for attention.”

Happy sat nearby cleaning his gun.

“Sounds familiar.”

You gasped.

“Was that a joke?”

“No.”

“It absolutely was.”

Happy’s eyes stayed on the gun.

But you caught the tiny twitch in his expression.

You pointed immediately.

“There! Again!”

“What.”

“The almost-smile.”

“Ain’t smilin’.”

“You’re literally emotionally attached to me now.”

Happy finally looked up.

Something soft flashed briefly behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said simply.

Like it was obvious.

Like it wasn’t a terrifying confession disguised as casual conversation.

Your heart skipped stupidly.

The club noticed before either of you did.

Mostly because Happy became unbearable about you.

Protective didn’t even begin to cover it.

Happy worshipped you in the quietest ways possible.

He fixed your shop door before you even realized it stuck.

Put gas in your car.

Walked on the outside of sidewalks automatically.

Sat through entire explanations about flower symbolism like they were life-or-death church meetings.

He remembered your favorite tea.

Threatened people who made you uncomfortable without you ever finding out.

And the way he looked at you—

Jesus Christ.

Even Tig noticed.

“You look at her like she invented breathing,” he muttered one night.

Happy didn’t even deny it.

Just lit another cigarette.

Across the clubhouse, you sat on the floor making flower crowns for absolutely no reason while Juice helped badly.

Happy’s eyes tracked you constantly.

Instinctively.

Like his body just naturally oriented toward yours now.

Tig shook his head slowly.

“You are down catastrophic.”

“Shut up.”

“She’s got dirt under her fingernails and you look ready to kill God for her.”

Happy took a drag from his cigarette.

Completely serious.

“Would.”

Tig blinked.

“…Jesus Christ.”

You loved Happy openly.

That was the thing that ruined him.

He wasn’t used to tenderness without conditions.

Wasn’t used to somebody touching his face gently just because they wanted to.

You kissed his scars.

Played with his rings while sitting in his lap.

Filled his house with plants he absolutely pretended to hate.

“You put another fern in here and I’m burnin’ it.”

“You named the last one.”

“…That ain’t relevant.”

“It’s named Fernando.”

Happy grunted while you laughed yourself breathless against his shoulder.

And Christ.

That sound.

Your laughter.

It got him every time.

Nobody had ever made Happy softer.

Not weak.

Never weak.

But softer around the edges.

Like you reached inside him and carefully planted something alive in all the ruined places.

Which was exactly why everyone knew what would happen eventually.

You were Happy’s weakness.

Not because you made him vulnerable.

Because he loved you visibly.

Completely.

There was no hiding it.

Anybody watching for five seconds could tell.

And in SAMCRO’s world, that made you dangerous to him.

So when you didn’t open the flower shop one morning—

the entire club knew immediately something was wrong.

Happy arrived first.

Your front door stood half-open.

Flowers scattered across the floor.

Broken glass glittering beneath overturned buckets.

And your phone—

your phone—

lay smashed near the counter.

Happy went terrifyingly still.

Jax arrived thirty seconds later and found Happy standing in the middle of the destruction without moving.

Too still.

That was always worse.

“Happy.”

No response.

Then slowly—

very slowly—

Happy bent down and picked up one crushed daisy from the floor.

His expression never changed.

But Jax watched murder settle behind his eyes in real time.

“Find her,” Happy said quietly.

Nobody argued.

You woke up tied to a chair in a filthy room that smelled like gasoline.

Your head pounded.

Hands numb from zip ties.

Three men sat nearby arguing loudly.

You recognized one immediately.

Landon Reese.

Local meth dealer.

You’d refused to let him use your flower shop for drops months ago.

Apparently he’d taken that personally.

“Well look who’s awake.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself not to panic.

“Happy’s gonna kill you.”

Landon barked out a laugh.

“That psycho biker?”

You looked him dead in the eye.

“Yes.”

And somehow that made him uneasy.

Good.

Because even terrified, you believed it completely.

Happy would come.

You knew he would.

Meanwhile, Happy Lowman was becoming something frightening even by SAMCRO standards.

Nobody had ever seen him like this.

Not even Opie.

Not even Chibs.

Usually Happy’s violence was controlled.

Precise.

Cold.

Now?

Now he looked rabid.

He barely spoke.

Barely blinked.

Every lead that turned dead ended with somebody bleeding.

By hour six, Happy had already tattooed four new smiley faces onto himself.

Juice noticed first.

“…Uh.”

Chibs looked over.

Then swore quietly.

Because everybody knew what the smileys meant.

Bodies.

Happy sat shirtless at the clubhouse table, tattoo gun buzzing steadily over his skin while blood smeared across old ink.

Completely calm.

That was the horrifying part.

Jax watched silently for a moment.

“How many?”

Happy didn’t look up.

“Four.”

It wasn’t enough.

Everybody could see that too.

Because you still weren’t home.

They found you forty-three hours later.

An abandoned repair warehouse outside Stockton.

SAMCRO rolled in like hell itself.

Gunfire exploded instantly.

You heard shouting.

Screaming.

Motorcycles.

Then—

“CLEAR.”

Happy’s voice.

You jerked upright so fast the chair nearly tipped.

“Happy!”

Heavy footsteps thundered toward the room.

Then the door burst open.

Happy stopped dead the second he saw you.

Alive.

Breathing.

Terrified but alive.

The entire world seemed to pause.

You’d never seen him look emotional before.

Not fully.

But now—

Now his face cracked open with something raw enough to hurt.

“Baby.”

Your eyes filled instantly.

Happy crossed the room in seconds.

Knife flashing.

Zip ties dropping.

And the second your hands came free, you threw yourself at him.

Happy caught you hard against his chest.

One arm locked around your waist while the other cradled the back of your head protectively.

You felt him shaking.

Tiny.

Barely there.

But real.

“You’re okay,” he murmured roughly into your hair. “You’re okay.”

You clung tighter immediately.

“I knew you’d come.”

Happy made a broken sound at that.

Because of course you did.

Of course you trusted him that completely.

Behind him, the rest of the club quietly looked away.

Nobody interrupted.

Nobody joked.

Because Happy held you like something holy.

Like getting you back had stitched his soul together again.

Then you pulled back slightly.

Your eyes caught on the fresh tattoos peeking beneath his sleeve.

One.

Two.

Three—

Your breath caught.

“…Happy.”

Silence.

Happy’s jaw tightened.

Jax rubbed a hand over his face nearby.

“Twelve,” Tig muttered quietly.

You blinked.

“Twelve?”

Happy looked at you steadily.

Cold fury still simmering beneath his skin.

“One escaped.”

The room went still.

Because everybody knew exactly what that meant.

Happy touched your face gently.

“Not for long.”

They found the thirteenth man before sunrise.

And when Happy came home afterward, exhausted and bloodstained and silent, there was one more smiley face inked into his skin.

Thirteen.

You sat on the bathroom counter while he cleaned blood from his knuckles.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The silence felt heavy now.

Not uncomfortable.

Just full.

You finally reached for his wrist carefully.

Happy’s eyes lifted to yours immediately.

Your thumb brushed lightly over the fresh smiley tattoo.

“You scared me,” you whispered.

Something in Happy’s face shifted instantly.

Regret.

Not for what he’d done.

Never that.

For putting that look in your eyes.

He stepped between your knees slowly.

Big hands settling carefully on your thighs.

“You’re alive.”

The roughness in his voice nearly broke you.

Because underneath all the violence and blood and brutality—

that was all that mattered to him.

You cupped his face gently.

Happy leaned into the touch instinctively.

Like he couldn’t help it anymore.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Happy closed his eyes briefly.

And when he opened them again, the terrifying rage was finally gone.

Only exhaustion and devotion remained.

“You ain’t ever gettin’ taken from me again.”

You believed him.

Absolutely.

Not because Happy was invincible.

But because there wasn’t a force on earth capable of stopping that man from tearing the world apart for you if he had to.

You pulled him closer carefully until his forehead rested against yours.

And for the first time in nearly two days, Happy finally looked calm.

Home.

What happens if it doesn’t work? If you don’t have enough in common given the age difference of it all? If he follows the club rules rather than the ones you want in place, stepping out with a croweater just because he’s on a run? 

Knowing him your whole life gives you a different perspective. Him, the club, the way they think and treat women like collectibles. They want it all, but no one's had you. Are you a challenge? A toy? Some sort of prize? 

How would it affect her? If you tried it and failed miserably, what happens then? Does he walk away? Do you? And would she ever forgive you if you did?

You had way too many questions and no way to answer them without actually asking for the answers, but getting words out of Happy was like pulling teeth. Grunts and nods only provide so much clarity, so the moment you sat down with that long awaited coffee you came out swinging. 

“Is this just about getting laid?” 

“The fuck you just say?” 

“Be serious,” you scolded him for his tone with a sharper one of your own, demanding he actually listen to you. “You’re the conqueror. Women from here to Tacoma talk about your monster sized dick, but they also talk about you tossing them out like trash when you’re done.” He choked on his coffee, hot black liquid snorted up his nasal cavity, but that didn’t stop you. “So again, is this just about getting laid? Because whatever the hell we’re doing is working, and if that’s all you want from me, I’d rather not ruin it for her.”

He listened to everything you said. He tried to anyway, but his brain was stuck. “Monster dick?” 

“Okay,” you sighed, pushing back on the table to make a swift exit with your overpriced iced coffee. 

“I treat trash like trash,” he took hold of your wrist before you could even take a step, straightening up in his seat, “you ain’t trash.” 

He dropped your arm, letting you have an out if you really wanted it, but it prompted you to sit. A little less tense than before, rejoining the conversation now that he was actually ready to have it. 

“I’m not playing with you.” 

You scoffed, fiddling with anything and everything to disguise the trembling taking over your limbs. “No you’re just a man after my daughter’s heart.”

“Already have that, it’s yours I’m worried about.” 

Everything around you came to a dead stop. The ringing in your ears faded to a dull hum and your hands finally stopped shaking with nerves of this epically failing before it could even start.

The two of you settled, relaxing into your seats, fiddling with your cups because neither of you knew what to do next. You’re out of practice, he’s never tried. The buzz of the cafe kept the two of you company while you figured out where you go from here.

You came out swinging, so it’s only fair you keep it going. 

“You’re halfway there, seeing you with her is like a cheat code… Be honest, you don’t find it even a little odd? How much she clings to you?” 

He looked up from his cup and blinked once. An expression that told you exactly how stupid of a question that was. “We’ll bring her with us next time.” 

“A family outing, how domestic.” 

“Family’s important.” He took a sip, you took a sip. Watching each other closely like the other might disappear if either of you blinked. It was his turn to speak first, but he didn’t do conversation well. He handled in facts, orders. “There’s a park by my house, we’ll go there.” 

“Domestic and presumptuous.” 

“Can’t hide from me, she won’t let you.” 

“Yeah that’s true,” you took another slow sip of coffee, eyes up, straw resting on your bottom lip, “so what I’m hearing is, technically you are using my daughter to get laid.” 

“Using our daughter to hitched.” 

You gasped, absolutely sure you uncovered the secret of the year. “Gemma did put you up to this didn’t she?”

“Nah, Jax.”

“Motherfucker,” you laughed, lightly kicking his leg under the table. The joyful noise broke the wall. It was a harsh shot to the support beam that sent his hardened biker attitude crumbling down. 

“Been watching you for a while, he noticed.” 

“Watching me?” You snorted, falling a little harder for that obnoxious bluntness that bordered the line of charming. 

“I liked your belly when you were pregnant, you looked like the sun.” 

You gasped again, softer, shock evident in the blood leaving your face. This wasn’t a whim. You had convinced yourself he just woke up and decided this was happening, that this was something he decided on just because it’s what she wanted.

He said it was about her, but this started before her. He might be too hardcore to admit it in those exact words, but he wanted you, he’s always wanted you.

He grinned at the thought. The sundresses that barely fit you, the waddle to your walk, the way your skin glowed like you were made up entirely of sunshine and morning dew.

"It makes sense now.” 

You swallowed the air stuck in your throat, and searched him. “How so?” 

“You had all the joy inside you, gave birth to sunshine.” 

The blood came rushing back, heat consuming you entirely, eyes like saucers. Who the hell is this guy and where did he come from? The Tacoma Killer you know wasn’t this. He was cold, distant, calculated and quiet. But Happy Lowman, you were quickly learning was much more than that. Warm when necessary, protective above all else, bordering the line of loving. As weird as the notion may be, very similar to your dad even. Someone halfway decent tied to a world that’s anything but. 

“That’s…that’s really sweet, Happy.” 

He nodded. One sharp tip of his chin to acknowledge the situation. “How’d she happen?” 

“Oh, that’s… that’s um.” 

He watched your mind work, spinning on a memory that turned your eyes a haunting shade in place of your bright irises. “You don’t gotta tell me,” he muttered, nudging your foot with the tip of his boot, “just curious.” 

“Well, there was this guy, obviously.” You swallowed. It was a lot, and nothing you’ve ever shared. Jax never asked, never cared, but he did mention it to Happy. All that hurt you came home with, and how far you’ve come since. A friendly heads up to help him understand you and your hesitation to trust anyone.

“It was supposed to be casual fun, but he started taking things too far and the psycho didn’t understand the word no I guess.” You fiddled with your coffee, eyes down, crossing and uncrossing your legs. “I came home the next day, didn’t stop driving until I was on Jax’s front porch. I took the morning after pill and everything but a month later was the positive test.” 

Everything fell into place like a math equation, x+y=z, he just didn’t have all the pieces back then. When he watched you fight like hell to put life back in your eyes. When you switched to burner phones permanently because your cell never stopped ringing. When you disappeared the same week Jax sent out a hunting party out for a pompous douche bag roaming around town. 

Happy didn’t care for details. The less he knows the simpler things go. It’s transactional, routine. With all the variables it's rageful, and rage creates a dangerous game. 

“I’m sorry, ‘bout what he did to you.” 

He slid his hand halfway across the table, mirroring the subtle movement of support he picked up from you. You didn’t take it at first, even though you wanted to. You shifted in your seat, absently tracking the mix of ink up his arm. He rolled his wrist, flexing, showing off the ink your gaze was fixated on, and your hand slipped. Right across the table and into his, brushing your fingers gently across his warm skin.

“I’m okay,” you managed, “I don’t think about it much anymore.”

“She get anything from him?” 

“No, thankfully. I was terrified I’d like resent her or something crazy.” You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of your little carbon copy. It was hard at first. All the hurt, pain, bottled up and redirected into being the best version of yourself for her. The little blip on the ultrasound that was now growing like a weed. A perfect balance of all you and your fathers best genes. “She uh, she does do this thing with her nose-” 

Your sentence ended with a laugh, watching his stoic expression transform into the most hilarious view. He knew what you were talking about before you had the chance, Happy made the face. The nose wrinkle, lips pursed, squinted eyes face. 

“Exactly, my dad used to do that. When he smelled something bad, or didn’t like how something tasted. She got that from him.” 

“I knew him.” 

You rolled your eyes and his jaw clenched. He so badly wanted to pop the side of your head, but of course he didn’t. He politely ignored the urge with a stabilizing deep breath in.

“Everyone knew him,” you smiled, eyes on the sky because despite all his faults you knew he was watching closely. Always with you in the stories told and the gentle breeze when things get tough.

“Not like that, we were friends.” 

Your head tilted, he walked right into that one, “and now you’re trying to get with his daughter, funny how things work out, huh?”

His jaw flexed, muscles working while he tried to shove down the thoughts he’s been doing his best to keep buried. You nudged his shoe, and that devilish onyx gaze found your softened one once more.

“I’m just messing with you,” you chuckled, leg stretched under the table to tap his knee with your toes. He caught your foot with a tug, putting your shoe in his lap and kept his hand wrapped around your ankle. 

“You’re like him, strong.” 

You readjusted yourself so the position you were forced in was at least halfway comfortable, soaking up the sensation of his thumb rolling over your joint. “Thank you.” 

“I need you to know you don’t gotta be strong with me.” 

That made you squirm, too much too soon, inching back up to sit straight in your seat. His words were hitting way to close to home and you didn’t know what to do with them yet, because you didn’t know what he wanted yet. 

“What do you want out of this? Really?” 

He tapped his ring on the table, deciding how to answer the question that felt like a trap. He could only really answer it one way because it should be simple. Obvious. She’s the only reason you’re here, and the only reason he grew the balls to do anything about his habit of craving you. “Told you, it’s been about her, you’re a good lookin’ bonus.” 

“Funny.”

“True.” 

You tapped your cup, fingers drumming nervously along the condensation. “I never wanted to be with a member, I know how messy it can get.” 

“Never wanted an old lady either,” he grumbled, surveying the exits like it was second nature, “things change.”

“You do know I’m not going to marry you just like that, right?” 

“I ain’t worried about that,” he cleared his throat and leaned back, “just let me know when you’re ready to change her name.” 

“Yeah right,” you chuckled and that devilish onyx gaze found your softened one. 

Oh. Oh, he’s serious. 

“She’s my kid,” he stated, voice rough and void of the hint of playfulness he kept letting slip. He was crazy, but not about this. You didn’t have to be a Lowman, but she would be, and something about that did it for you. 

The claim, the boldness, the seriousness too. This wasn’t a game to him. He just wanted to be a dad, her dad. That hungry look in your eye made him shift his denim, and that was all it took.

Mama Gemma was right, you really could use it.

“I have another hour before I’m supposed to pick her up,” you swirled your cup, ice shaking up the mixture, “do you want to get out of here?”

His expression searched yours. He knew that tone. That not so subtle lilt, the way you bit your lip and held it hostage. You wanted a test drive, and he was more than happy to oblige. He downed the rest of his plain black coffee in one gulp and stood, one hand out and the other pulling out his keys.

“Should be more careful about what you’re asking for.” 

He stalked towards the end of your mattress, cock too hard and heavy to stand upright. You gulped. Monster cock. Red hot and leaking, coming right at you like a war missile set to destroy. 

You expected heaven. You expected a minimum of one mind blowing orgasm that would make you see God. Your expectations hit an all time low. He was rough, selfish, and quick. He knew what he liked and took exactly that. There was no more, no less.

He manhandled into a position that did nothing for you. Split you in half by his size with little prep and used you like a flesh-light until the condom was tossed to the side like toxic waste and ropes of cum were spraying across your back. 

Then the beast of a man grunted, giving a harsh smack to your ass as a thank you. You collapsed, a quiet sigh leaving your lips as you rearranged yourself on the bed. That sound was impossible to miss. He didn’t have a clue what it meant but he knew how it felt.

Your deflated lungs double knotted his guts. He glanced your way, tossing a towel your direction once he was done with it so you could clean up the mess he made of your back end. 

You managed, but rather than a dick drunk smile, your mind was visibly at work. That’s not what he’s used to, but usually he just sends bitches packing. He couldn’t do that with you, he didn’t want to do that with you, but he wasn’t sure what to do next. More importantly what to do about that pitiful look on your face. 

“Something up?” 

You giggled before you could stop yourself. You wanted this to work but you love yourself enough to know you wouldn’t be doing that for the rest of your life. You were mentally weaving through your thoughts on how exactly to go about this.

The male ego is a fragile thing, but nothing about Happy was fragile. 

“I think you’re used to this being all about you,” you chuckled, crawling back to the bed’s edge, “if you have it in you, maybe we can try again?” 

He stared at you, hard. Not once in all his years has he received criticism. But you, perfect little ol’ you managed to do it with a smile on your face.  

“You tellin’ me you didn’t get off?” 

You grabbed at the air, rushing because you didn’t have much time left. Pick up time was quickly approaching and you need some form of hope you could at least train him properly. 

“It’s okay, really! I’ll just walk you through it this time.” 

Oh, that stung. Based on the look in his eyes, you were convinced his ego would never recover. You’re half his age, he should be teaching you things. His experience should be all knowing, but you’re not just doubting his skills, you’re critiquing it. Calling him old without actually doing it, willing to help him learn skills he never gave a damn about before. He didn't really give a damn about much. If it wasn't tied to the kutte across the room, it wasn't worth it, but you are.

He took a long time with it. Thinking, calculating, trying to understand the situation for what it was. What went wrong and why. If he fucked it up and how to fix it, but he didn’t know any different. He gave you what he gives everyone, what he thought he does best. Quick and careless fun. His mind was racing but his whole body went stiff, visibly absent of the panic he was mentally working through. Steady breathing, frozen in place, and a lifeless stare fixed on your tits.

He stood defeated by your dresser like someone powered down your play toy before you even had a chance to have any real fun. 

“Just come here,” you whispered, tone softer, more serious. 

He didn’t move. Fuck he wanted to fix it, but he used the only condom in his wallet, and he knew better than to ask the girl who’s never brought another guy home if she had one. “I’m not about to baby trap you.” 

“We are so way past that,” you scoffed, crossing the room and pulling him back to the bed with slow sultry steps. You moved him like a doll, placed him at the edge, encouraged him to get comfortable, and then mounted that thing like a horse. 

“Now kiss me,” you whispered, and his mouth gapped open, “don’t swallow me, kiss me.” 

He pressed his to yours, softer, letting them linger. Yours moved first, parting gently as you resumed your movements. Rough hands traveled up and down your spine. Holding you, rocking you, following your lead.  Up, down, up, down. Consistently bouncing on his cock until deep groans thick with the pleasure he wasn’t even convinced was real poured into you.

Every part of you felt like a dream, the sticky wet heat morphing around him. The way your hips rolled, and your delicate touch held his face in your hands. His body felt alive. Every nerve was on fire, his heart beating out of his chest, balls so tight and he found himself holding his breath so he didn’t bust like a two-pump chump.

Your tongue swirled his mouth playfully, swallowing everything he was giving you while you gave him everything you had. Your moans became breathless, pleasure twisting in your gut until you were letting out high pitch sounds that were music to his ears. The way your walls clamped down around him was addictive. Each and every second you used him to chase that high, he was convinced your death grip sent him to heaven. His one and only taste of a place people like him don’t belong.

He saw the light and before he could stop it, or warn you at the least, he released. Thick, creamy, loads of warm cum sprayed your cervix and your body shuddered.

Your rhythm faltered and his hands smoothed down, a vicious grip to your hips that forced your body to keep going. Fucking his seed deeper with a smile on his face. One that was wide, toothy. A look so warm, and usually reserved for your little girl, but right now he was drunk on you. Star struck by the sensations you created with such simplicity. 

“That was so much better,” you giggled, kissing his face cheek to cheek. 

Your little girl has never squealed so loud, and admittedly, you were a little jealous. She rushed out the daycare doors to him. Right past you, no need to say goodbye to her teachers or friends, daddy was there and no one else existed. 

“Hello to you too,” you huffed, taking her bag, today's art project, and the juice cup with her name on it from the teacher. 

Little girl strapped in, daddy behind the wheel, domestic life felt good as a passenger princess.

The music played softly, and she was going off. She talked, the two of you listened. Talk talk talk talk, until she was all talked out. During that time he held your hand. Drove your car like he owned it and kept your fingers hostage with a grip so tight the tips of them were turning blue. Thumb dragging across the skin of your knuckles, circling at your ring finger like you wouldn’t notice something so obvious.

Once he got the both of you home, he locked the car doors as he got out, giving himself just enough time to make it to your side before you were able to unlock it and fling it open yourself. He helped you up and out, a gentle tap to your ass sending you towards the front door, insisting he could manage little girl just fine.

Which of course he did, you don’t get to see it often, but it is a well practiced routine. She helps to unbuckle herself, crawling out and up the tattooed body of quickly formed devotion.

Bag, baby, he stepped inside and quickly began making himself at home.

“You’re not staying?” 

His nose curled up, kutte already half stripped off, “huh?” 

“We’ve been on one date, you're not staying over with my daughter in the house.” 

He opened and closed his mouth three times. You were right, you were making sense, but he still didn’t like it. The way you continue to call her my as if he’s not standing right there. The fact you just gestured to the door like he wasn’t just making himself at home in your sheets less than an hour ago.

Getting put out like the damn dog. 

“We’re together.” 

“Yes, but I told you I’m not just diving in. Today was great but we still have a lot of things to work out.” 

“Fine,” he shrugged his kutte back on and you saw him change, hardening back up into the killer you know best. Tone dark, indisputable. “I want fifty-fifty till then.” 

You choked on air, tapping your chest absolutely stunned. “You’re not serious?”

He shrugged like it was nothing. No big deal asking for you to restructure her whole life to include him, it is already halfway done. “You said we’d work it out.”

“Yeah I meant like, getting to know each other, letting you pick her up from school by yourself. Not split custody! She’s not even y-”

“Stop saying that shit.” 

“Happy-”

“This shit ain’t a game.”

“No, it’s not!” You barked, stabbing his attitude with a vicious glare until he sat down and shut the hell up. “She is my child, Happy. Raising her is the single most important thing I will ever do and if we’re really doing this, we have to do it right.”

“I’m trying to.” 

“I know,” you tension you were holding dropped, head landing in your hands. You sat there quietly for a moment, rubbing your face, thinking it over. Each breath putting you back to somewhere levelheaded and calm. “You’re amazing with her, and I see you trying to take this seriously, but club life is so unpredictable and the risk-”

“We’re done hauling, working on getting out of guns next, that's what all this shit going on has been about.”

Your heart stopped, your breathing caught, and your mouth gaped open. Legitimizing the club would solve a plethora of issues. Limits risk, danger, the possibility of baggage reaching your doorstep. All your arguments die right there, because for you it’s not the club. It’s never been the club because for all their faults you love every single one of them. It’s the risks, the unknown, the possibility that one day he won’t come home.

“You shouldn’t have told me that,” you whispered, sizing him up this time. Old ladies do know things. They certainly know more than most, but you’re not an old lady. Not yet. No ring, no crow. Technically, you were just someone's kid. Some guy who died protecting the club you were actively watching fall apart. A club that this man in front of you would kill for, die for too if he had to, and he trusted that with you. 

“Did it help?” 

You sighed, fighting everything inside you to not immediately say yes. 

“We’re not doing fifty-fifty. She lives with me, but you can start coming over for dinner, bedtime, pick her up from daycare when you’re off early. Things like that.” 

“Can we bring her on our dates?”

“Dates? Plural?”

“How the hell else am I supposed to get you to marry me?”

“Careful, Happy…it sounds like you’re proposing.” 

He looked down at his rings. Mixes of gold and silver, and one more couldn’t hurt. If it makes whatever this is permanent. He wasn’t worried about it, not really, not until you tried to send him home after getting a taste of what it’s like to have it all. 

“I know what I want. Life’s slowing down, I’ve got the time for her, for you.”

“And you want this?” You gestured to the mess that was your life. Chaos at every corner. Dirty laundry piled high, clean laundry that you’ll never get around to folding without someone there to force your hand. Dishes in the sink, empty pizza boxes on the stove. Her toys like trip hazards covering every square inch of the living room floor, and the obnoxious sound of Mrs Rachel keeping her mesmerized at the center of it all. 

“Get your fucking ears checked.” 

You huffed, lighthearted, too amused to hide your body relaxing despite how rough his tone just came out. “Fine.” 

He cocked a brow, and you moved, putting yourself right in his lap, “you can stay.” 

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“It’s raining,” he said flatly, still raw with sleep. Her nose nuzzled up to his, a loving hum served as her good morning to the stoic biker. “Stuck with me.” 

“I like that,” she kissed the corner of his mouth, too close but still not close enough because he hadn't said yes. Her stance was as clear as she could make it. All he gave her was time, and he deserved that too, but it was odd. The man who had done nothing but show absolute certainty, hesitated. The fear was tense in her tissue, but her mind knew better. No running, he said. That wasn't a yes, but it was something.

She spent the night watching him laugh, tease, catch the pieces of food she tossed at him in his mouth with practiced ease. Realizing how profoundly lucky she is to know the sgt-at-arms like this. To be allowed into his space in such a tender and transparent way. Dancing with the devil and in love with him too.

She had nothing to do, nowhere to be besides the bed he kept her trapped in until noon. No distance allowed, not even to pee. There were a mess of sheets, limbs, and trailing hands. Peaceful rest pushing the envelope of innocent company. Her hand stayed at his neck tracking his pulse, feeling it jump with each slight shift closer she made. Occasionally drifting the backs of her fingers across his face, the tip of her finger ghosting down the bridge of his nose.

She loved watching his eyes dance behind his eyelids. The way his lip twitched at the corners when his rough hands ventured under cotton, caressing all of her. Her hips, back, down her arms and thighs. Fiddling with the seamless fabric of her panties to pass the time, mapping everywhere he wasn’t allowed to touch before this. She never tensed, never moved or swatted at his hands, but always followed his lead when he readjusted them. Closer, tighter, pulling the majority of her over top of him like his own personal weighted blanket. 

“You have to let me go.”

He grunted. A harsh noise that stood for absolutely the fuck not

“I need to pee, for real this time.” She tried to move but his grip only tightened, fingers digging into the plump flesh of her ass hard enough to bruise.

“Get over it.” 

“No, you get over it!” She tossed and turned in his hold, but he never let up. She leaned in, a wet sensation sent a shock to his nervous system when she nibbled his pulse point to distract him, his grip faltered just enough for her to wiggle herself out of his grasp. Scrambling across the sheets before he could keep her hostage any longer. “I’ll be right back!” 

That was the biggest lie she’d ever told. Her busy body couldn’t sit still that long, and she was impressed he made it that long. She did pee, used a bit of his mouthwash, peeked under the sink, in the shower, and sorted through the medicine cabinet while she was at it. She stepped into the hall and considered climbing right back in the bed, but there was another room to explore. Door shut, a knob that sticks, but she got herself inside quietly. The floor creaked with each step, giving her away the further she crept in.

It was all so painfully Happy, the whole house was. It was clean, neat, but there was no color. Black, grey, the club colors subtly mixed in with deep shades of blue. Snakes, reapers, odd taxidermy creatures that looked like he’d done it himself. What little personality he had was everywhere, with tiny pieces of her mixed up in between. The sweet silver frame moved from the clubhouse just to sit beside his own copy of her favorite book. The weak spots in the floor grew louder beneath her feet the closer she got. She tipped on her toes, little steps that were slow and careful, reaching out to trace the preexisting swipe through the thin layer of dust it was covered in. It ran right down her pictured body, impossible to miss in the warm afternoon light.

He knew exactly where she was, her steps were light, but not light enough. He had the advantage of being on his home turf. He knew which boards on the floor were weak and it allowed him to track her down in silence. Snooping, of course. Nosy as hell, he thought. Watching her tug on the chest he kept locked for good reason, giving up with a huff and working her way through his bookshelf.

She didn’t need to look to know he was watching. He had a silent approach but a very loud presence. 

“You never told me you like to read,” she muttered, tugging out an Edgar Allen Poe hardcover with a grin. Poetry, she thought. Happy Lowman, the Tacoma Killer, reads poetry? It proved something she already knew. Happy was as smart as he was sexy, making him all that more dangerous. 

“Never asked,” he rasped from the door, admiring the way his tee shirt hung over her body. Ass on display with her stretch, arm reaching to put the book right back where she found it. 

“I mean, you really read,” she chuckled, looking over the shelf. Classic literature of an obvious theme. Tragedy, war, and sorrow. Their tastes couldn’t be more different, but their style was exactly the same. He had two first editions, some sat new and untouched, some were ratty and worn as if he’d read them a hundred times over. All in order by size and color. “Can we go somewhere?” she asked, fluttering her lashes over her shoulder. Sweats hung low on his hips, warm skin of ink and muscle that made her knees weak, paired with a sight that was becoming more common by the day. That damn grin, from ear to ear forcing a dimple with his nod.

He was prepared to leave her there, let her snoop until her heart was content. He had a list of things to get done when the weather let up, but how could he say no to that face? She had other plans, which meant he had other plans. 

It included a very wet ride to get her car, but she didn’t care. She hid behind him, letting him take majority of the hard-hitting droplets smacking into their skin, but when they stopped, she stretched her arms out and soaked in the gentle sprinkle that felt like bullets when he got up to speed.

Sopping wet, mildly pissed off she wasn’t willing to just wait an hour, he got her home. Hot showers, the spare set of clothes he kept in her dresser, his foot stomping a hole in the floor as he waited for her. Hair, make-up, picking the right outfit. She took forever with just about everything, but he learned early she was well worth the wait. 

She came into view, a cute little white dress patterned with pink flowers, the perfect match to the powder pink cardigan in her hands. Her head leaned against the doorframe, watching, waiting for him to notice. His elbows braced against his spread knees, crisp white samcrow shirt, leather hung on his shoulders like he was born with it. Steady breaths with his eyes fixed on nothing in particular, until she shifted. Her weight leaned from one side to the other and his gaze flicked up. Pretty, he thought. Too damn pretty for someone like me.

“You’re driving.” 

He didn’t mind driving, but he hated driving when he didn’t know the destination because she was a terrible navigator. She forgot to tell him about three different turns but used it as an opportunity to stop at the local bakery on the way. Two coffees to-go and a box of sweet treats he wasn’t allowed to touch. Charming wasn't big enough to get lost in but they did it. She hardly recognized the space around them, searching for landmarks through the haze of clouds and drizzle. Between his grumpy looks and a lot of giggling, they somehow muddled through. On the exact opposite side of town, an empty parking lot and a rundown brick building sat against a forest line of dead trees and wild growing weeds. 

He glanced from her to it and back again, “this where you kill me?” 

“How’d you know?” She gasped, leaning over the center consol with her lip pouted that he'd ruined all her evil planning. He pinched it, gripping it between his finger and thumb and tugged until she winced. It didn't change her face, smile bright, muttering playfully about her plans to make sure it hurt, climbing out from the passenger side. She readjusted everything. Smoothed out her dress, fixed her sweater, sized him up his entire walk around the car. 

Wide palm open and out, “I put up a good fight.” 

“Duh," with a skip to her step she took his hand, “that’s half the fun.” 

He watched, like a slow-motion picture admiring her flirt. Eyes intentionally wide, tongue smoothing over her glossy bottom lip swollen from his grip. She waited for his grin to make an appearance, but he voided out all emotion from his expression to keep her on her toes. Not yet, he grinned internally. It was his turn to play hard to get. Her nostrils flared, her eyebrow twitched, and she took a weak step back. 

The smell hit him first. The sweet scent of rain was immediately overrun with his first step in. Stale air with something crisp under the atmosphere that was essentially coffee coated paper. Shelf after shelf in a never-ending sea of books lined the space from wall to wall. Baby greeted the receptionist like an old friend. Giggled softly about the man made of stone lingering far too close behind her and traded the box of pastries for a key card. Tugging Happy behind her like an accessory, he took one step for every three quick ones she took all the way to the back wall. Three shelves down to the left was a door that opened up to a single flight of stairs.

The smell was cleaner, colder, but parchment was the main source. Books, books, and more books. The lights were lower and the temperature was drastically different than upstairs. It was enough to send a chill down her spine, but she had him. Warm hands on her hips molding them like dough in his palms. 

“This was our favorite spot when we were kids," she whispered, taking in the room that was the equivalent of a 10 by 10 storage unit. She hadn't mustered the courage to face it in months, hoping time would heal all wounds but the memories burned in the deepest parts of her tissue. She took an unsteady step forward towards the town archives and let out a shattered breath. “Our mom worked upstairs, she’d stick us down here so they didn't have to pay for a babysitter.”

She moved, pulled him with her until they made it across the room. He was too focused on her to look at much of anything. He was in a room of printed gold but the only shiny thing catching his attention was her.

“You know he had a studder?” a quick glance over her shoulder, watching him watch her. She tipped on the very tip of her toes, forcing her ass out intentionally so she would bump right into his crotch. Hips on the hunt, but it wasn't there. No lump or strain against denim at all. She huffed, grabbing a ratty book from the top self. It was obvious it didn’t belong in this section. It wasn’t a first edition or a rare book that required the safety of this climate-controlled environment, but it was her favorite. Their favorite.

Where The Sidewalk Ends, by Shel Silverstein. Just about everyone knows it, loves it, can remember a poem or two. She knows them all and their well-loved copy was hidden here for safe keeping.

Her finger brushed over the signatures on the inside cover. Phil’s clunky handwriting clear as day from his view over her shoulder, her first attempt at a cursive signature just underneath it.

“We read this one at least a hundred times, practicing his words.”

“Thought you were the little sister.” 

“Yeah,” she huffed, “sometimes I think they only had me to keep him company.” 

“Good company.” 

She rolled her eyes, leaning all her weight back into him. “Have you ever read it?”

He grunted out a sound she had learned meant no, which she all but expected. It wasn't exactly from his time, nor was it his style.

“Come on,” she pushed him back a step, using the book to gesture to the floor, “I’ll read it to you.” 

The pages were marked. Corners bent down on all their favorite pieces. The ones that were easier for Phil to mutter his way through, her favorite lines highlighted in pink. He hung on to every word, each poem flowed out of her before the page had even flipped. Years of muscle memory on display, her careful hands tracing a mix of her and Phil’s notes in the free space. 

Her voice was softer than her silky sheets, emotion thick in her vocals that made every word stick to his skin. She read half of it out loud, half in her head, voice trailing off with half of each poem. Tiny little slips of the tears she was fighting while rereading her brother's margin notes that outlined proper pronunciation. Each one she knew deep in her bones. Alongside her big brother, it shaped her young mind to think for herself, to trust her gut and mind. That little voice inside her spoke at volumes and despite this man being all sorts of wrong for her, he was exactly right too. She read half of it out loud, half in her head her voice trailing off with half of each poem. Tiny little slips of the tears she was fighting while rereading her brother's margin notes on pronunciation.

Not once did Happy reach out or break the boundary that was long gone by now. He kept his gaze cold, his hands to himself, a few inches between for good measure. His hands twitched with every little crack that split a word into something heartbreaking, but it was easy to disguise with a simple adjustment to his rings.

Once the book closed, she sniffled. Smoothed over the cover, treating it just as well as a rare work. She slipped it carefully on to the empty shelf beside then and took in a short breath of cool air. Her butt wiggled on the icy concrete until she was close enough to feel his heat. She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, waiting for something. His hand, his eyes, words from the wordless man who’d been avoiding her bed since spilling her lovesick guts.

“I’m sorry it took me this long to figure everything out.” 

“Already signed your packet.” Voice rough with amusement, beady eyes softening to the view of pure shock taking over hers.  

“What?”

“Got this too,” he reached in his kutte and pulled out a neatly folded printer paper, “thought it’d help.” He offered it up as his own piece to complete this far too complex puzzle.

The letterhead of the hospital and negative results on every test he had them run. Which was all of them. Her eyes flickered between him and it, speechless at the simple paper with medical lingo that meant nothing to him, but everything to her. 

“Are you serious?” Her voice dipped, low and shaky sent the tremble to her hands. Clinging to the thin sheet of white, inked with the promise of loyalty she was searching for. 

There was a beat of silence, taking in the view of her cycling through all the emotions at one second intervals. “I want you to be mine.” 

The revolving door jammed with joy. Her head tilted to the side, a smile sweeter than candy watching a pulse of pride skip in his chest. “I thought I already was?” 

“Gonna let me kiss you this time?” 

“You better do a lot more than kiss me.” 

He’s never moved so fast. Yanked her over him like she weighed nothing and swallowed her lips in a needy, desperate, sloppy kiss. It was everything he was hoping for and then some because she didn’t hold back. No fear, no hesitation. She opened right up and dove in. Tongue’s dancing and battling for dominance, her teeth pulling back on his bottom lip when breaking away for shallow gasps of air. His calloused fingertips trailed down her back, encouraging her body to ripple, pouring all her love into the kiss he'd been waiting on for the better part of a year now.

A feverish heat radiated off him the closer she got. Hips rolling diligently over his lap without breaking away for more than a quick breath. Panting softly, sharing hot air that was just enough to keep going. Desperation that no longer had bounds. His hands traveled down, teasing touch slipped up her thighs. His fingers gripped into her ass cheeks, pulling them apart with the deep grind against the undeniable presence of his bulge between legs. His hips twitched beneath her in an intentional rock to meet the movement. The pressure caught the fabric of her thong and pinched at her clit just right. She whimpered into his mouth and the kiss deepened into something dangerous. Hungry and all-consuming chasing that high again and again. His hands enveloped her waist, a harsh grip that all but guaranteed blooms of purple would make an appearance underneath. Hushed begging sounds poured into his lips parting against hers. One hand smoothed down, teasing its way up the fabric of her dress, slowly his calloused palm slipped over the curve of her thigh to her inner leg.

Her hips lifted, straddling the hand inching for the throbbing heat between her legs. He peeled away the soaked through fabric and moved them to the side just enough to trace her entrance. His fingertips found a warm, dripping, silky heaven. Her body arched, welcoming the thick fingers toying with her with a quiet sigh.

She moved with intention, chasing the tips of his fingers until one slipped right in. Her whole body shuddered, and the sweetest whisper left her lips.

"Please."

He hummed, a throaty baritone vibrated against her neck just before he kissed it. His tongue slipped out just as he pushed, breaching her entrance until he was knuckle deep. Her head fell back and her body began to move, working herself over his hand like she was the one who'd been waiting all this time. Desperate but adorable sounds started spilling out of her, the word "please" repeated again and again as he found a stable pace with just one finger. He pulled back and eased in with two, stopping before he got too far and spreading them apart inside her.

"Yes," she gasped, leaning forward for another kiss. That was all he needed. He worked her open with intention, gentle in the ways that mattered and rough in the exact way his precious little thing was begging for.

The stretch burned in the most delicious way, slamming ring deep into her and she was already so painfully close. Pleasure coiling in her stomach, walls pulsing around his fingers curling with each thrust.

“Happy,” she whimpered, and he felt it. Her walls clamped down hard, slowing his pace unwilfully as he fought against her body to push her further. She shuddered over his hand, riding the high of his unrelenting pace until her body was collapsing into him with erratic twitches.

"That was-"

Amazing. Happy swallowed the word and just about everything she had left. Her breath, her spit, anything and everything he could get with one long swirl of his tongue. The desire in her body burned like a wildfire and she needed it all. All of him, in every way. She broke away and fumbled. Knees digging into the cold concrete flooring, body lifting and inching back until she had her eyes on the prize.

“Here?” He chuckled, watching her desperate hands work at his belt and jean zipper, forcing the fabric to give.

“Right here,” she said, thick shaft in hand already at work. Pumping, guiding, lining him up. The moment skin met skin, a throaty groan echoed off the books, pleasure shuddered through him and broke his stoic facade like fragile glass. Letting the pieces of him only she knew land before the love drunk eyes watching his mouth gap open as the thick tip brushed her sopping entrance. “Oh my god,” she gasped, sinking down on mushroom tip. The first inch had tears pricking burning in her eyes, but her gaze never left his. The burn spread, red hot surges of pleasure pulsing through her veins. She pushed, and pushed, trying to take it but her body resisted. “I don’t think I can,” she whimpered, teasing herself with careful readjustments. The rock-hard lump would occasionally poke her in the back from time to time, grind against her ass in sleep when he forced his way in closer. Even bulge covered fabric can be deceiving it seems because it was all girth, all length, heavy and hot. 

“Too big, baby?” he cooed, forcing her hips down another inch and she failed like a fish out of water. Gripped at his shoulders for dear life, nodding helplessly. He let her slip back off him, breathing deeply against his mouth. He smoothed her hair, hushed against her quivering lips. Watching her squirm had that dangerous need building back up in his core.

“Get over it,” he growled, a vicious grip on her hips forcing her down as far as her body would go, “stay quiet.”

He only managed to get about half in before the tight friction stalled her slip down. Her head dropped and teeth sunk into his shoulder to keep from screaming out. He groaned, loud, eating his own words as she grated her teeth into his flesh to keep herself from cursing his name.

He felt everything. The harsh grip of tight warmth splitting open by violent force just for him. Her walls fluttered to the rhythm of her silent sobs, muscles forced to accommodate every inch of him all at once had her whole body vibrating in his lap. Gasping, whimpering, working her body over him to adjust and take far more than she had room for. Every time she opened her mouth to speak all that came out was a pathetic squeak for help because the sensation was the equivalent of being split in two.

“That was so mean,” she cried, as quietly as she could but the pain was heavily outweighing the pleasure. A breathless shriek broke free from her chest when the grip on her hips tightened, pushing another two inches deep. 

“You used up all the nice I got.”

He moved her face, just enough so she’d look at him. Pupils blown, the blue in her eyes swallowed whole and gleaming with tears. His shined with softness. An undeniable presence of devotion that was reverent, captivated entirely while guiding her through a deep breath in and a steady exhale that released the tension her body was clinging to. Her head thumped against his collar bone, lulling back and forth, and her walls welcomed the last of him when she finally forced herself to move. Inhaling him, counting the beats thumping out of his chest, nibbling up to his ear. Each bit of him she absorbed relaxed her enough to sink down further to the base of his dick. Slowly, inch by brain numbing inch.

"Feel that?" he rumbled, pressing hard against the bulge protruding out from her stomach. The weight of his hand had her weeping in his arms like a baby, stars blinding the front of her eyes. He kissed her tears clean, licking the salty taste up as it spilled freely from her waterline.

She looked down and it truly looked as painful as it felt, too much, too full, but there was no going back now. The slightest roll of her hip stripped away the intense control he was doing his best to keep a grip on, but it was her grip that blinded him. Every flex, shudder, careful readjustment, all of it nearly took him out. He stayed silent, rubbing up her thighs while she got herself used to the way it burned.

All of it was like the two of them spoke their own language, relaxing into the natural movement that was being with each other. She rolled, he rocked. She grinded down, he thrusted up. Synced together like they had done it a thousand times already, like they knew exactly what came next before it was even happening.

The movement became more consistent, pleasure growing with the careful pace. A breathy cry echoed in the silence of the room and his lips claimed hers, swallowing her sounds with another desperate kiss. Flesh tight grip driving him mad with each slow slick grind against the throbbing shaft bumping right into her cervix with each drop down on his lap. His body fell into a daze, guiding her hips up and down in a slow, teasing ride. Mesmerized by the sensation of her, the throbbing walls stretched to a custom fit. Gummy tissue made for him to destroy.

The weepy gasps for air poured into the parted lips expelling a throaty groan of his own. Her pace attempted to find its own rhythm, but he white-knuckled her hips. He wanted to savor it, to commit each and every sensation to memory. Forcing her hips still, continuing the painfully slow strokes that were bringing him a euphoric bust. He dropped her down on it, letting her grinding motion milk push him to the point of breathless moans the biker had never heard from himself before. Happy snagged her hair, twisting a handful of the soft curls and yanking her head back to stare up as her hips continued to push his seed further in. 

“You better get your ass to the damn car,” he growled against the crook of her neck before taking a bite of her thumping carotid artery. She yelped, a jolt of surprise that bounced her on his shaft still rock hard inside her. He groaned, loud, a shudder down his spine he couldn’t fight, embarssingly overstimulated by the slightest movements she was making to get herself up, “right fucking now.” 

She fought against her legs that felt like jelly, hoisting herself up with one of the shelves and holding herself there until he was up. Every part of her ached from the inside out, the twist of her muscles lingered. One step forward and her knees buckled, giggling into his chest where she landed. Simple enough, he tossed her up in a bridal style hold and rushed. Ran up the creaky stairs like they were fleeing a burning building and didn’t stop for anything. Not even to return the key that Baby chucked across the way with their exit. 

“You’re so nasty!” The receptionist laughed, holding the keycard like it had personally offended her when the wafting scent of sex caught her nose.

“Kinky is the better word!” 

They barely made it to the car. She kissed everywhere she could reach, dragging the flat of her tongue from the base of his neck, up. Sucking and nipping until indisputable proof of where he was this afternoon was left behind in her wake. So busy tasting every pore she didn’t notice his beeline for the backdoor until she was tossed inside it. 

“Happy they have cameras out here!” She gasped, scurrying back against the opposite end of the backseat. 

“I don’t give a fuck,” he growled, pulling her right back by the ankles. He ripped the thin fabric of her cheeky panties in half, tossing them haphazardly in the front seat. His knees hit the wet asphalt, and he admired his handy work. Swollen, visibly overworked, abused flesh. She was still dripping, oozing a mix of them and it was breathtaking. “So,” a kiss to her knee, “fucking,” a kiss to her inner thigh, “pretty,” and in he went. Head first, tongue out. Soft as silk sweet as honey, he buried himself between her legs. The tang of himself overwhelmed by the taste of her liquid sugar. 

It wasn’t frantic or hungry, it was savouring. Drunk on the taste they made he held her in place, a hand spread firm across her abdomen to keep her from squirming out of reach. He peered up through his thin lashes, watching her body rise and fall with each flick of his tongue. Her eyes spoke, even when they were rolling in the back of her head. Each time she got close, he stopped. Kissing her inner thighs, gently teasing the tender skin with his stubble causing her to shiver and whine.

“All fucking mine,” he murmered against her folds, sending the vibration of his bass to her core. He dove back in with a vengeance, giving her exactly what her body was begging him, slurping her like a peach until the coil in her belly finally burst into ecstasy. Her body arched against the clothes seats with a squeal all of Charming could hear and he released her with a pop.

“You’re insane,” she gasped, covering her mouth before the giggles could pop the bubble of scolding she was trying to maintain. 

“You knew that already,” he used the door to pull himself up, leaning down just enough to take her hand. 

He helped her readjust, slowly guiding her back to the open door to help her out, but she stopped. Wide eyed, devilish grin, attention far too focused on her new best friend. Trapped in his denim cage, she was eye to eye with his throbbing bulge. She looked around, once, twice, and then tugged. Yanked him close by the open belt buckle he hadn't bothered to fix downstairs. 

“Now who’s crazy?” 

“That’s why we work, isn’t it?” Her hooded eyes rolled up, toying with the button of his jeans, unzipping them painfully slow. She gave him plenty of time to stop her, but he didn’t. His grin only spread, shoulders back, hips pressing forward. 

He hated how well she did everything. It boiled his blood watching her move with practiced ease like it was just another day, just another dick. But with each move she made she looked up, adorably seeking approval. Like she could see right through him, she lifted her hand, palm up and open, blinking sweetly. He spit right in the center and she went to work. Gliding the mess all around until he was slick and comfortable working in her palm. A few quick pumps was all she gave before the tip of her tongue made contact and his silence ended there. He groaned, a deep base that rattled his bones. The wet warmth buckled his knees and one arm hung over the passenger door to keep himself up right. 

“Aw baby,” she teased, pulling away just enough he was sure to see the way she fluttered her lashes, “too much?” 

He sucked his teeth and snatched her face with his free hand in one swift move. He dipped his head into the car, face still obscenely wet with her juices. He leaned like he was going to kiss her. She had her lips puckered and ready but all he did was wipe it all over her. Rough stubble scratching against her soft skin he rubbed his sticky cheeks against the pulse flesh of her face, tongue coming out to clean it up each time until she was glistening with the remnants of herself and his saliva. 

“Open your fucking mouth,” he ordered, leaning back up, fingers curling to force her jaw open, “that’s right.” He gripped at the base of her neck, guiding her forward with a steady pull. A feral nose wrecked its way through him, watching the dick drunk hooded pools of blue staring up at him eagerly. Mouth hung wide, tongue slipping down the thick length inch by painfully thick inch. “Gonna take all of it?” his hands worked into her curls, pushing himself slowly into the back of her throat. 

She was good, too good. His hips met her rhythmic pace waiting for the gag that never came. Her tongue swirled against his tip as he pulled out, panting above her with stars in his eyes. She followed him when he stepped back, leaning forward in a chase and taking it back in her mouth like a seasoned pro. Bobbing in a steady pass, her mouth working in competition with her hands slipping down the sloppy layer of saliva he was coated in. A slurpy giggle overwhelmed the biker’s senses, the vibration of it tickling a thick seep of precum to coat her tastebuds. A sultry hum followed, and she got greedy. Sucking more out until it was shooting down the back of her throat in record time. Swallowed down with a prideful smile kissing up and down the throbbing shaft twitching at each playful touch.

“Where the fuck you learn to do that?” 

“Have you never seen me eat a popsicle?” 

He blinked. She blinked. Two hot messes staring blankly at each other in the middle of the library parking lot. “Put your fucking seat belt on.”

He anticipated challenges dating a younger woman. Her bratty attitude, naturally. Stamina sure, but this was next level. She should be a whimpering mess begging for mercy. She just kept moving, unphased and smiling, her hips in a constant rock to keep him hard. 

The only sound in the house was skin clapping into skin, lewd sounds of sopping wet mess squelching in rhythm with the squeak of her bed. He slammed his pelvis into her like it was the last thing he’d ever get to do, hitting hard with each begging cry for more rattling his mind. He lost count how many times he felt her body milk him, and not once did she let him pull out. As if their bodies had morphed into one, where he went, she went. Cock glued to her inner walls, blocking the entrance so not an ounce of him could seep out. 

Squealing, whimpering, gasping for air. It was an unspoken game to see who would tap first. Happy wasn’t a loser, not by a long shot. He’s endured beatings, torture, and interrogation. But none of it prepared him for the energy of a dick drunk twenty-seven-year-old who hasn’t even been fucked properly. Once his body went dry from the dehydration, he gave in. 

His body collapsed against the mattress, giving her nothing but his weighted hands on her hips while she finished. She followed him down with the sweetest sigh that could only be described as content, sliding off him and filling the space next to him by tucking into the curve of his side. 

“When did you sign it?” She asked softly, tracing the curves of the muscle mountains that traveled down his abdomen.

“The day you gave it to me,” he tucked her hair back from her face, thumb ghosting across the apple of her flushed cheek, “I would’ve told you yesterday but I liked how we were.”

“This doesn’t change anything.”

“Changes everything.”

“Not with us,” she wiggled her way back up his body until she was straddling his lap, his spend dripping out of her creating a puddle on his skin. Hair a mess, dopey smile, body bear, warm and sticky. Black and blue with bites, hand and fingerprints decorating every spec of her sensitive skin. His to touch, caress, admire. “I still expect to be pampered or I will revoke privileges.” 

“You’re mine now.”

“I always was you big softy.”

“New rule,” he huffed, flipping them with ease. She squealed and squirmed but he caged her, “you call me soft again, I’m revoking privileges.”

“Yeah right,” she giggled, leg hooking around his waist, “Happy Lowman, the secret teddy bear.” She pinched the knot at his ribs and he growled, slipped inside with a perfectly aimed thrust that made her choke.

“That feel soft?”

She sucked in a few stuttered breaths, nails racking down his back, desperate to pull him closer. “Like a gummy worm,” she teased, “are you sure an old man like you can even keep up with little ‘ol me?” 

His hips snapped viciously with another cruel thrust, tip smashing into her cervix making her muscles spasm erratically. 

“You’re going to break me,” she cried but even so she was smiling, laughing through the pain and moving to meet the new pace. Heels against his lower back forcing him deeper than her body should be able to accommodate.

“Good,” he huffed against her ear, “want you ruined for anyone else.”

She stilled. Consciously she knew he meant nothing by it, but her body felt the opposite. She spent one moment too long trying to puzzle together the dirty talk for what it was and Happy moved. Hooked her leg against his shoulder for a better angle and pushed every girthy inch back inside her. Blank eyes of coal burning for her and her alone. He waited patiently for her to tell him what’s wrong, rolling his hips nice and slow to keep her from getting too lost in her head. Every ounce of attention on her wobbly bottom lip, the pad of his thumb rubbed across it, swollen from his vicious kisses he smoothed back and forth until she was ready to speak.

“There is no one else.”

An unwilling huff blew warm air across her face and he leaned in, a soft kiss pressed on the tip of her button nose. “No one else,” he grinned, pulling back and out, “ever.”

She blinked, a flash of love shot across her irises like lightning. “Ever?”

“You’re addictive enough.”

“You’re a sucker,” a watery chuckle escaped her and the tension lessened just slightly, “you could get over whatever this is.”

“This,” he hissed, “is everything to me,” he released his grip on her leg and guided her soft palm up to his cheek, “I ain’t ever getting over you.”

Her thumb brushed the faint scar line just under his eye, “can I get that in writing too?”

His body shook with a silent chuckle, nodding his way down to her lips. He changed tactics, putting the fun away for now in exchange for what they enjoy together best. Quiet. Careful with his touch, his eyes, her. Always so careful with his perfect pink princess. He nosed cutely at her cheek, searching for more of those kisses he couldn’t get enough of. All teeth and tongue and he was obsessed. With how she tastes, whines, cries his name as he bullies his fat cock into her. Another orgasm came in a rush. Sudden and pushing her past the point of having any conscious thoughts. He took it nice and slow, fucking her through it gently this time and memorizing exactly what it felt like to be with her. Dragging his heavy weight in and out as she convulsed underneath him, whining and crying but still pleading for him not to stop. 

“Mine,” he whispered, soft kisses trailing over her sweat slick skin, tiny nips with his teeth to leave a trail of red in his wake. “Mine, mine, mine.” The words slipped out of him between each tender bite, tongue slipping out to sooth her skin on his way to her collar bone. It all slipped off his tongue so gently it was more for him than her, confirmation, small reminders to himself that it was real this time. Permanent. 

“All yours,” she whimpered, nails gliding down the length of his neck. The gentle rake took him by surprise. A tingling sensation shot down his spine, and he spilled inside her with a strangled groan. Panting, pulsing, stuffing her full with one load too many. Mouth attached to the base of her neck, suckling the taste of her sweat because even that tasted sweet. She sighed, welcoming the sharp contrast of gentleness after the vicious game that left every muscle in her body aching.

Coarse stubble rubbing against her body. Strong, capable hands caressing her while she came down from the tip of her release. Softening shaft lazily fucking his cum back into her just to feel her gasp and twitch underneath him. It was so warm, comforting. The feeling of being not just adored, but worshipped. 

“You need some water?” He asked, voice rough like gravel. He was utterly worn, slumped down against her body like a cage. She had successfully drained the life out of him and he had nothing left to give, but for her…he’d move if he had too. 

“In a minute,” she mumbled, collecting the beads of sweat across his forehead with a few gentle kisses. She tended to him by petting him softly, teasing his skin with a feather-like touch. The further she weighed down into the mattress, the more his weight came down with her. Every ounce of pure muscle kept her trapped in the soiled sheets. She knew she should get up. Hydrate, pee at a minimum to avoid the impending UTI. But that would lead to a shower, time wasted changing the sheets. She let him keep her there, connected by more than a simple touch, because all of it was worth it. The waiting, wondering, second-guessing.

It all brought them here, and neither of them had any plans to let go. 

i wrote smut, someone check my pulse. feedback wanted, welcome, and appreciated. ily x3000 for reading this far

divider cred: @pixopix & @veejiez

tag list: @coffeedreaminanreadin @lv7867 @chaoticsunball @vaugarkel

Something the feisty nurse had come to realize after that night, she was far deeper than she should be. Something that solidified when a young prospect she was all too familiar with stepped off the elevator. Scrappy, slightly cute if you squint hard enough. Ratboy had attempted a total of ten times to get her to join their lockdown. No is a complete sentence, something she hit him with each time he circled back. Unfortunately for Rat, he had instructions from the enforcer himself not to leave without her. He was persistent, but she was petty. And petty always wins in her book. Security was called to escort the prospect to the parking lot, and her phone had been ringing on and off since.

“Don’t these people realize I have a job.” She mumbled to herself, switching her phone to silent mode.

“Why you ignoring your brother” Happy snatched her phone, answering the call she had silenced. Her whole-body flinch, head flung up over her shoulder. The air thickened with the scent of gun oil and spiced after shave. “Got her” was all he said before stuffing the phone in his own pocket. Her glare was vicious, spiced with her usual sass.

“That’s mine.”

“Mine until you learn how to use it.” He stood, gloved palm out and waiting for hers.

“I told Rat no, told Phil no, and I have no problem telling you-”

He snatched her chin, quick but still gentle. Not trying to hurt her, but redirect. Eyes up, no arguments, just fact. “Wasn’t a question.”

“It’s still a no.”

“Why you gotta be so fucking stubborn?”

“I don’t want to see the show today” she scoffed, feeling the answer was obvious. Any time she went to the club, she caught sight of something that pissed her off. Though, she never let it show. Not in the moment anyways. Instead, she’d let it sit. The jealousy marinated her rage like meat preparing for the grill. Sometimes she thought he did it on purpose. Like he wasn’t hunting, and her reactions were the prey. She’d gotten quite good at masking, copying him from the hours of observing him in silence. Straight lips, eyes glossed over with an absence that made emotion impossible to place. It was simple. They weren’t together, she couldn’t be jealous. So, she wasn’t. Until they were alone, only then would her sarcastic jabs slip. She only went to the clubhouse when she absolutely had to. Lockdown for something that might happen, in her opinion, wasn’t a good enough reason.

“I need you safe.” He quipped back a little too quick, but it worked. A rare dose of sugar to cut the acidity of her useless attitude. Her fight fell, soft skin slipping into leather gloves and taking a defeated step forward. “About threw you over my shoulder.”

“Oh in that case” she huffed, snatching her hand back. She created an inch - maybe two - of space between them before his gentle hands moved possessively. There was an attempt to protest, words spewing that she was too heavy disappeared, tossed like a ragdoll over his shoulder. Bouncing against his back she became a giggly mess. “This is so unprofessional.” She muttered as he stepped into the elevator, holding tight until she was begging to be put down. Red in the face and dizzy on her heels. Arm locked in his, they made for his bike. Making for a quick ride across town. She barely even hung on, hand dancing in the wind, rubbing his arms at red lights. He ate up each and every moment of it. Her gentle touches and sharp inhales when he leaned into a turn too fast.

She understood the basics of lockdown but pulling in the regret churned in her gut like spoiled milk. People were everywhere. Kids and old ladies coming and going with bags and blankets. To say they were at max capacity would be an understatement. She inhaled deep, putting on her friendly attitude and mentally preparing herself to step towards the clubhouse.

Her first step went right but Happy moved left. He clicked his tongue like he was trying to lure a feral cat towards him. Taking steps towards the garage. The orange painted sky took her breath away, but even better was the view of Happy slipping a key into the office door of TM. His head gestured her inside to a plastic bag with snacks and drinks on the office desk. Her favorite throw blanket from the end of her bed. A flat pillow with a black case next it on the well-worn leather couch.

“Wiped it down, pillows mine.” his chin gestured to the couch, then back towards the clubhouse “knew you weren’t gonna stay in there.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, stepping further into the office. Her finger inspecting the contents of the plastic bag. A variety of waters and pink Powerade, beef jerky, salt and vinegar chips. All her favorites, down to the book and new bookmark. Her finger ran over it, delicately tracing the skull etched into a thin piece of tin. “Why um, why’d you do all-”

“I don’t like it when you ask stupid questions.”

“It’s not a-” she paused when she looked up to that face. Absolute annoyance quickly taking over. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

He moved past her, hand at the door leading to the garage. “This one don’t lock but I’m tattooin’ out there tonight, no one’s messing with you, promise.”

“Tattooing?” She asked. Her tone went sharp to signify the question.

“Why? Want one?”

“No way!”

“You need something you find me,” the knob turned, cracking it open and smirking at that pretty face “got it?”

She nodded, matching his smirk and snatching the chip bag. “Yes sir.”

It earned a sound, something dark and borderline amused. Shifting the crotch of his jeans where a bulge had tightened the fabric. Her curiosity got the better of her, circling to the shop window every so often. When he said tattooing, she had assumed it would be a reaper, maybe something to add on one of the guys. With each passing hour it was the same canvas. Ex-president, and now excommunicated, Clay Marrow. It seemed the whole club showed up. All eyes watching Happy erase years of this man’s life. Black ink jammed into him and turning art into bitter history. The crowd thinned, little by little until it was just the two of them. Clay tried to speak but Happy didn’t utter a word. He finished up as any professional would. Wiping him down, applying ointment and even tossing him a bottle of it for good measure. She scrambled back to the couch, wrapping herself up and cracking open the book he’d left her to the exact middle. Act cool, she thought.

“Been reading the whole time?” She didn’t even look up, her eyes skimmed the writing and spoiled a major plot point in the process as she nodded. “Shit ass liar” he chuckled, snatching the book and tapping her hip.

“It was kinda sad to watch,” she made just enough room for him to take a seat, swinging her legs across him “it was brutal with everyone staring at him.”

“He earned it.”

“How?” She asked quietly, tracing the ink of his forearm. He shifted, grunting to move her on from question. “So you trust me with your guns, but not your secrets?”

“Not my secrets to tell.”

“Do you have any secrets you can tell me?”

“Not yet.” He teased, holding out on this situation in his own way. “Greed. Power’s a dangerous thing little girl, messy as hell in the wrong hands.” He admitted once the silence had lingered long enough. Twirling one of her curls on his finger like she was a fidget toy. She knew better than to ask more. He always gave her just enough. Tiny pieces to the elaborate puzzle he and her brother lived in.

“If, and I do mean if, I let you tattoo me, what would you do?”

He didn’t even hesitate, his next words so cavalier. “Crow. Somethin’ small, got one drawn up for your ankle.” A crow, something that would connect her to the club, to him. She may not understand the seriousness of the concept, but he loved how quick her smile pulled up.

“Can I see it?” She asked, eyes gleaming at the thought he already had something planned. She had always wanted one, but never loved anything enough to follow through.

“Not until it’s done.”

She wasn’t some old lady to brand. He had all intentions of making this woman his wife. It needed to be tasteful. Something that could age well and touch up nicely in the years to come. He didn’t even ask, but she didn’t exactly say no. Following his guidance to the garage. Propped up on a work bench. Skin clean and shaved, nothing but the image in his mind to guide him.

“No,” she squealed snagging her tiny foot back from his grip. He groaned, tapping the table once more. “Okay okay okay” she giggled “I’ve got this.”

“We doin this? Or not?” he asked, tugging her ankle so she was a few inches closer. Soaking in that fruity scent of watermelon sugar wafting off her. Brushing his thumb of his last canvas of the night. “Come on, skin’s too nice to mess up” he smirked, turning her leg for a better angle above her ankle. The steady hum of the machine echoed off the walls, and needle met skin. There was a sharp gasp, but she didn’t flinch. Line work went fast, and the shading had her tensed and holding her breath. Gentle circles rubbed the dollop of Aquaphor into the fresh ink, smile tight while he admired her, admiring it. A branch inked up her from her ankle joint, supporting two small crows, one slightly bigger than the other. Her face said everything. Beaming like a ray of sunshine. But still an unfamiliar feeling twisted in his gut. Second guessing shot through him like ice in his veins.

“One for your brother, one for-“

“You,” she smiled, melting the shards slicing him from the inside out. “I love it Happy, really, it’s so pretty.”

Pretty, he scoffed internally. No one had ever looked at his art and dared to call it pretty. But, if he was to open his eyes and look at the full picture. Doe-eyes thrilled to be marked by him, for him. It was very pretty.

“Gonna let me kiss you?”

“You’ve branded me and you’re worried about a kiss?”

“I’m always worried that kiss.” He grumbled, pulling her legs to the edge and wrapped around his waist. Hands slipped up, cool skin against warmth. Pulling him down into her space only to lean left. Leaving a perfect glossy print to his cheek, giggling to herself as the exhale of tension blew out across her face. “You’re killing me woman.”

“You love it” she snagged his chin, placing another to the right.

The revelation hit him like a train. A pulse of emotion wrecking through him as he watched her ass cheeks shift so intentional. Extra sass in each step, playful eyes over her shoulder just to make sure he was right behind her. And just like always, she moved, he moved. Following the double knotted tether between them.

Love you, he thought. I love you.

Drunk on love with this slow burn so please hang in tight. Thank you for reading, hoping you like it as much as I do.

divider credit: @strangergraphics

Again, she groaned internally. Pulling into the clubhouse parking lot. Wondering how it was possible she was here, again. She wasn’t even allowed on this side of town growing up with Phil. Now, he called her nearly once a week. Always with a bloody mess for her to clean up. This call pulled her straight from the hospital. It was an emergency, her brother had said. One she was absolutely required for. Mainly because the subject of today’s blood bath, wouldn’t let anyone else touch him. Air caught in her lungs when she stepped into the musky bar. Blood drenched the left side of his body. Flowing down from the side of his head into the white tank top that was now half a deep shade of an oddly beautiful color. Bright bloody red. Big blue eyes swept over the tight grimace and for the first time, she was able to place emotion. Pain, she thought. His honey toned skin had gone pale, sweat beading down his shaved skull, and visibly uncomfortable with the people surrounding him. Flinching back from Chib’s hands attempting to help and choking back a shot of something strong. He was wearing enough of himself to be dizzy but he stood strong. Posed like he was anticipating the next attack.

“Careful darling, he’s a little feisty today” Jax joked, patting the shoulder of the equally feisty nurse stepping up to the stoic biker. Her head tilted up, clacking her jaw and teasing the tattooed devil she’d bit. Toying with him to ease some of that tension flexing the muscle of his clenched jaw.

“I’m terrified” she said taking another step up into his space. The vicious features tracked her movement like a wolf would stalk its prey. A glare that held fierceness in an attempt to protect himself from the vulnerable position he had found himself in. Subject to the not equal, but rather capable hands of the pretty young woman.

“Should be” Happy grumbled, meeting her in the middle with a single large step forward. Finally, he thought. He was ready to get this over with. For her dainty hands to glove up and fix the throbbing ache echoing through his mind.

“Somehow I doubt that” she giggled, stepping back from the hot breath that tickled against her pink sparkled cheeks.

That’s when it happened. The candy-coated giggle told him everything he’d been waiting on. His chin lifted ever so slightly and his eyes, sharp and steady, told the story of his realization. She was getting over it. Time spent with the club helped, obviously. Becoming the club’s replacement doctor gave her better perspective. She got to see them as people, not devils.

“You gonna let me help you? Or just stand there bleeding?” Phoebe raised an eyebrow, waiting for the silent man to make a move. Her eyes swept up and down in a not-so-subtle fashion. The streaks of red blending with the ink of his toned arms. His muscles tight and flexed to hold his pain well. Art, she thought, seemingly chiseled out of stone.  

He grunted, nodding down at her devious smile and taking the chair to his left. Meticulous movements started with the deep pink duffel bag of supplies. Local anesthetic, sutures, gauze, wound strips, medical tape. All laid out even and in the exact order in which she would need them. An intentional distribution to her right, silent and composed. Furrowed brows showing her deep focus as each item was opened and readied. She kept her stance, moving back and forth from the high top. Careful to be extremely gentle, she numbed each cut deep enough for stitching. She was so focused, to the point of completely overlooking something rare. Softening of dark eyes. Admiring, observing, collecting details. Her emotions clear as day and her disdain slipping. All while she was reviewing the moves in her mind for the best stitch for his cheek. She didn’t want it to scar, why she cared that much, she wasn’t entirely sure. She settled on her favorite. A lock-stitch that would keep the skin tight, and gave her an excuse to come back. Just to remove them, of course.

“I don’t know many delivery nurses that can do a perfect lock-stitch suture” Tara said softly, tone offering the statement as a question to the how she ended up here.  

“I uh, I trained as a trauma medic but switched last minute when I did my rotation on the OB floor.”

“Trauma nurses make more money” her brother grumbled. Watching Happy, watch her. Dark eyes that showed zero interest in anything, observing her like she was a goddess. Odd, Phil thought. They didn’t like each other - at all. That’s what he’d been led to believe, until he saw that smile. A tight smirk his sister only wore when she was ten chapters deep in a spicy romance novel. For the stoic biker’s murderous gaze to swoop over her with each slight shift closer. A blossoming look of adoration taking over the violence usually so deeply rooted in the sharp jaw going slack.

“Something you just never fail to remind me” she sighed, rolling her eyes at the comment she was starting to hear more and more often “not everything is about money Phillip.”

Happy’s features changed, a slight readjustment she’d caught this time. A reaction to either the statement or the pain medication they’d given him finally doing the work. Phoebe couldn’t quite make out which, considering the stare shifting on the soft pink of her lips. But hers changed with his, dropping her wall just an inch to play the game. Correcting the shimmer of her gloss back and forth while she cleaned up the thick gash on his cheek. Tease, he thought. Admiring the pretty mouth that had invaded his mind like an armed intruder. Taking everything hostage in place of one thought. The warmth, the wet, the harsh bite that made his jeans tighten just watching it move. Her lips and the way they formed certain words, tucking between her teeth to hold back her smirk, pressing together when her brother said something stupid.

“It is when you don’t got none” Phil snorted, irked with his sister theory that money wasn’t the thing that made the world go round. He did it to himself. He’d hid the reality of it from her as long as possible. She only just starting to understand how screwed the little family, that only consisted of the two of them, would be if the money the kutte brought him stopped.

“We made it work” she scolded him with her eyes. Saying enough was enough.

It wasn’t easy, and as much as she hated it. The money from the messy life he chose for them did help. The local mill was cheap, mind-numbing labor. Something he endured far too long to take care of his little sister. Lost in the ache of life being ridiculously hard, for no apparent reason. Bills that never ended. Bills that until she returned home from university, she never knew about. All the secrets he’d kept while she’d been away and the moves of their deadbeat dad causing far more problems for the young man than he’d ever admit willingly. It took weeks of back and forth about his decision to join the club but somehow, they’d seemed to find a middle ground.

Phil was a zombie before the club. It was the only reason she’d found a way to get over it. Her brother had his smile back, he was social – which was incredibly rare for him. He was trusted, and he talked to everyone. Laughing, joking, questioning, and advising. He was different. Bolder, more himself. He found a family that actually liked him for the quiet quirks, and seemed to love him just as much as she did. People who accepted his sister and her fierce attitude as a package deal. Out of all of the bad things the club brought to their doorstep, the brotherhood of it was the most beautiful. The only part worth it, Phoebe thought.

“Why labor and delivery?” Tara asked, admittedly curious considering her line of work in neonatal. Tara knew the nurse far better than the rest of them. Though, she only knew the side of her from work. Spunk in her step, always smiling, and never letting a hectic day get under her skin. The trauma training explained a lot, how she seemed to have far more stamina and quick thinking than the rest of the pediatric nurses on staff.

“The pink scrubs.” Her brother cracked, taking a few steps back when her hand shot out to swat at him.

“Do you ever shut up?” She asked, pulling a chair just in front of her wound biker. “Honestly I really liked the mom’s” Pheobe smiled up at the doctor who looked surprised. “I did trauma at first because I like getting my hands dirty,” she gave a playful jazz hands, flaunting her bloody gloved finger tips. He was mesmerized, his gaze swept over her once more, locking on the gorgeous color of him on her. “But I don’t know, watching how much strength it takes to create life, it felt bigger, more me.”

“I like her” Tara smirked, leaning back into Jax and watching the effortless stitching knot at the end of his gashed cheek “hands like that you could’ve been a surgeon since you like to get messy.”

“Please don’t tell him that,” her chin gestured to her brother now thankfully waiting for a beer by the bar “I’ll have to hear about how much more money I could’ve made.” A grunt left the man in front of her, that perhaps could’ve been a chuckle if he didn’t look so frustrated. “Do I get to know how this happened?” she asked through her lashes, blinking at the now vacant stare watching her each move like it was an attack in motion. Her hand took hold of his chin to force him still when he didn’t answer, angling his face towards the light. Chasing the flicker of something more in his expression like they were playing hide and seek. “Yeah I didn’t think so, but worth a shot.” She spread a thin layer of ointment over his cheek bone and went straight for the top of his head.

A deep gash straight across the left side of his skull. It was close, too close. A deep groove where the path of bullet had ripped right through his skin. Inches from cracking the skull and exposing the pink mushy tissue that held all the stoic man’s secrets. She wanted a peek inside his twisted mind, but not like this. She stood, gently moving his head as she stepped closer to his front. He took in a deep breath. Her watermelon sugar was faint, washed out by the antiseptic she seemed to embody all the same. It would’ve been easier to view from the back, but there were a lot of eyes watching. She made the situation work, body blocking watching eyes for her next steps.

“This is going to hurt” she hummed before pressing hard to clot the bleeding, he growled at the pressure. Feeling the throb of the wound grow with each dab of the gauze. “I told you.” She chuckled, reaching for a fresh piece of cloth. “I’ve got him” she smiled, jolting her chin to send the hoovering bodies all on their way. She didn’t want eyes over her shoulder, and the man underneath her was holding far too much tension in his body. “Here” she whispered, stepping in closer with one of his knees slipped perfectly between her thighs. She encouraged his head down, letting his forehead against her stomach that acted as a perfect pillow. The weight he was holding on his shoulders dropped into her. A hand shot up out of instinct, gripping the back of her thigh with each tug of stitching pulled through his skin. Thank you, he thought. Not daring to speak out loud. She was gentle, precise, and quick.

“Is it safe to assume this was not friendly fire?” she asked dabbing the area of red to keep sight on the ragged edges. Happy grunted, gripping at her leg like it was his own personal stress toy. “You know a few inches down and you’d be dead” she tied the final knot, dabbing it clean once more before applying the bandages. She snapped her gloves off, hooking a finger under the chin still resting against her “you should be more careful.” Her step back, hesitated. Brushing her thumb across the salt and pepper stubble. “Good as new.” She gave a lopsided smile, pivoting on her toes for her bag. He lost the view of her smirk with her turn but his eyes didn’t leave her. Watching her bright pink scrubs shift against her hourglass figure, wild curls sticking out of her messy bun. Cleaning up her equipment and garbage as if stitching up a bullet hole was just another Tuesday. Marveling at the fact he’d gotten to touch her today. That she let him touch her today.

-

Happy had thought about it from every angle, and not one piece of the puzzle fit into place when it came to the young woman. The sudden shift in her fierce behavior. Recognizing the pain and guiding him through it with a big step over the line of disinterest she’d drawn clear between them. Happy didn’t know much. Not unless it came to his fundamentals. The club, the bar, and getting away with murder.

He did know a tease when he saw one, and when a woman was only interested in him for the sausage in his jeans. It wasn’t like that for her. She was being kind. Uncharacteristically so in the presence of him. Meaning - something changed, and Happy missed it. He never missed anything, he thought. He’d never added much to the list of known, until today. After that, one thing he did know, he wanted her. And Happy Lowman was excellent at getting what he wanted.

“Why are you in my bed?” Her shaky vocals filled the room. Stepping into, in her words, a disturbing view. Black socks, baggy blue jeans, an unholy ones patch leaning back on her headboard.  

“Phil” he grumbled, doing his best to keep his eyes down. Keeping the banter alive as he skimmed the pages of a book he hated to admit, wasn’t bad. It wasn’t his usual read, but it was there, and he was bored. He’d already examined each detail of her before settling in for the two hour wait. Trailing over her desk, everything perfectly organized and pastel. Her pens, her sticky notes, the stickers all over her laptop. Everything pretty, most everything pink, and confusing all the same. Looking at her, it made sense, but getting to know her, it didn’t. She was strong, definitely stronger than she let on. But soft, equally so. A beautiful balance, he thought while shuffling through her closet. Pinks of all shades, creamy white, baby blues. Dresses, jeans, and of course, the majority baby pink scrubs. A spandex blend of fabric designed for comfort in the never-ending steps she took throughout her work day. Which today, very obviously so, wore her down.

“I’m having a hard time believing my brother let a man into my bed.” She crossed her arms, leaned on the door way to support the exhaustion taking over.

“Let me inside,” he put down the book down, finally taking in the view that was her “got in here on my own.” Her bun loose, wild ringlets slipping from the silk scrunchy. The fabric clinging to her splattered with bodily fluids that clearly weren’t hers. Her bright white socks, and a fatigued expression that was sliding on the scale to irritation.

“Okay, great,” she said awkwardly “can you get out now?”

“No” he rasped, short and harsh. Going back to the book he’d stolen from her bedside table.

“Did you-” her eyes fixed on the pages, bookmark removed and turned to the beginning “did you lose my fucking page, are you kidding?” His finger hooked where it was separating the pages, flipping back to the middle where she’d left it this morning. She groaned, dropping her bag at her feet and her head from her shoulders. “Look” she took in a lung filling breath, pulling the silk scrunchie from her messy bun with her heavy exhale “I had a really long day, I’m not interested in whatever game we’re playing right now.” The heavy mop of bouncy curls dropped wild and free.

“You let me touch you.”

“You were in pain, it’s my job.”

Pheobe would love to ignore him, but considering he didn’t seem interested in leaving, she groaned her next steps forward into the room. Slipping off her rings and creating a small pile of gold jewelry on her desk. Right next a picture of four. The petite beauty that was her mother in the center, an oversized man that resembled Phil a little too much, and two younger versions of her and the now giant biker from years ago. Her delicate touch brushed the edge of the vintage frame, mentally saying hello to her mother like always.

“Letting me touch you aint your job.”

“It helped, didn’t it?” She asked, collecting fresh clothes from the wooden dresser at her right, snagging her towel for the hot shower screaming out for her aching muscles. He grunted, in a surprising agreement to the fact, but more concerned with why she cared at all. “You better be gone when I get back.” She dismissed the second grunt that was demanding her to stay put for the questions he had.

She did an incredible job of hiding it, but she was flustered. The feeling of his palm sliding up and down the back of her thigh had replayed on a loop the entire day. It was nice, she thought. Soothing, and not just for him. Her real answer would’ve just encouraged him, and she didn’t want that. So, she kept it to herself, like she did most things. The fact being, she didn’t know why she did it, she just did. Everyone responds to pain differently, he obviously wasn’t a talker, but touch. Touch did something to him. She’d watching his micro expressions which each brush of her thumb or gentle touch to his face. An unintentional second nature to help, and a silent apology for the hell she’d put him through the past few weeks.

She took her time, exfoliating, touching up the shave to her legs, and washing away the smell of antiseptic and newborn spit up. Hoping the lack of interest and her hollow threat was enough to send him on his way. If she knew Happy at all, she’d know he had a very one-track mind. And his predatory gaze had fixed on her. He wouldn’t be leaving, especially without answers. A cloud of steam followed her steps out, the heat of the room from her blow dryer stuck to her dewy skin. Pretty, he thought. The moment she came into view. Pajamas, gripped to her curves tight. Little feet with white nail polished toes. Ivory skin kissed by the California sun just enough to give her the appearance of tan.

“Please Happy, I have to be up in like four hours” she whined. Fighting the growing interest for why he was still here. He grunted, legs crossed and turning to the next page of the fantasy novel he was now losing interest in due to the sight. Her thick thighs that he was dying to bury his head between. The hem of her baby tee rising against her stomach as she tied up her curls in a satin bonnet. The dip of tight cotton fabric between her ass cheeks as she moved around the room. Unwinding from the day in her own way with her routine on display. Exact, he thought. Everything she did was very exact. The way she hated her food to touch unless it was sandwiched together on her fork. Her medical supplies always placed in the order she’d need them. Her closet organized by color, every single thing having a place. Even her nightly routine was exact, unwinding slowly before his eyes. He liked things neat, orderly. It’s the only way life made sense to him, and it was helping him make sense of her. She moved with ease, unaware of her grace spilling over the sides of walls built up to protect herself from men like him. She no longer saw him as a threat, but more an experiment you can’t seem to look away from. Not something you should get close to per say, but something far too interesting to not at least take a few notes. “You are the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met” Phoebe groaned, tugging at the duvet he was weighing down “if you’re really staying can you at least get under the blanket.”

It wasn’t exactly an invitation, but he took it as one. Tucking her bookmark where it belonged, folding the corner to mark his own page for later. Taking to his feet and dropping his kutte from his shoulders. She paid very little attention to the man over staying his welcome, slipping into the peach sheets with her heart in her throat. Well, she tried not to pay attention, but her eyes. They just kept shifting. Watching his grey tee shirt strip from him in one swift move, followed by a hitch in her breath. A Glock, black metal reflecting the lamp light as he placed it down on her bedside table. His slender body chiseled and toned. Muscles that appeared sculpted to be nothing more than the perfect display for art. Decorated with his mix of colored inks, making himself a true masterpiece to observe. She could’ve fought harder, forced him to leave, called her brother and demanded he handle the situation. Considering Phil is the reason she was in this mess in the first place. She was too tired to fight, and admittedly interested in what he had to say. Because as far as she’s ever known, he doesn’t exactly say much.

“I like these” he rasped, fiddling with the baby blue cotton hem of her shorts. She took his hand, returning it back to his own space and tugging the covers up over them both. “Why’d you do it?”

“Why do you care?” She shifted in closer, she hesitated, but she reached in. Brushing her thumb over the swollen apple of his cheek. Watching him consider his next words carefully.

There were a lot of things he could’ve said. Things like her lip gloss, a sparkly sheen over her pink lips that he sees every time he closes his eyes. Her teeth, that pearly white grin, and how badly he wants to feel them sunk deep into him once more. Warmth, the moist heat that seemed to stitched into his skin with the faintest mark left behind by her bite. The scent of sweetness like lingered in his mind like an addiction, turning him on his heels if he catches even the faintest smell of something similar. Two ocean eyes blinking up at him and waiting for something. He wasn’t very good at saying something, but something about her softened features made words feel comfortable, easy.

“You letting everyone touch you like that?” He asked, low, gravely, and remaining absent from the words. The absence of his tone couldn’t cover up the eyes. The spark that brought a single second of life to the coal irises admiring her drowsy features.

Phoebe’s sleepy smile tugged into a lopsided grin, blinking the curious blues up at the stoic features “not everyone.” Her hand tucked under her cheek, her expression equal parts confused and fascinated.

“Thought so” a soft raspy chuckle bounced around in her mind. The low sound wasn’t forced, a genuine slip of something that he’d kept locked up. She’d barely seen him smile, but each time she did, it was always in her direction. Warming her cheeks from soft pink to a rosy tint of flushed red.

“You’re still an asshole” she said softly through a tiny yawn she tried to contain. Blinking back the sleep and reminding herself of who this man is. The club’s enforcer, as Phil had put it. He didn’t detail it, or elaborate when asked, but she knew. The inked collection of smiling faces against his abdomen told her everything. Childlike in design and unfitting for the hateful features he wore just as well as the kutte.

“Gonna have to get over that” he hushed, gently reaching for her. Correcting the gaze admiring his ink, up. The hateful features were slipping, giving this last attempt everything he’d gotten from their battles of back and forth. She didn’t respond well to force, or having her body sized up like a piece of meat. What he had come to find out, she responds best to laughter. Smiles, and friendly exchange. Her softness required attention, proof he could meet her where she was. So that’s exactly where he put himself, dead center in uncharted territory.

“I won’t” she whispered, biting her lip at the words she was already losing faith in. Her blinks slowed, face snuggled in to the feather pillow.

“Yeah, you will.” He moved back to his own space, watching the sleepy smile fall into rest. He followed her lead, admittedly exhausted himself. Rolling to his back, clicking the table lamp off and admiring a new view. Glow in the dark stars all across her ceiling. Perfect constellations recreated and adding a soft light to her room at night. His gaze shifted between them, and her. Her settling in despite, technically, having a stranger in her bed. Her lack of fear in this specific circumstance was far from naïve. The last person on this earth that would be considered a threat to her after today, was him.

She woke up alone. The towel she’d dropped on her floor was hung up. Her bag placed in on her desk chair. Her book gone and replaced by a pink sticky note. A phone number in tiny scribble was all he left. Phoebe would love to say it was the last, and only time. But despite never calling his number, it ended up being a habitual habit. He never asked, but she never said no. Silent steps through the sibling’s house, the subtle creak of her bedroom door. The clatter of his pant chain against her side table followed by a quiet thud of his gun resting to their left. A heavy dip in her mattress rolling her right into the protective presence of gun oil and leather filling the room. Always on the nights Happy knew Phil was with the club and always gone before she woke up in the morning.

when i say this story is my child - i mean it - I'm obsessed with my plan - thank you for reading, hoping you like it as much as i do.

divider credit: @strangergraphics

Lockdown was a dime a dozen, and the term 'just in case' made your head hurt. Even though you knew you were fine, and most likely which ever current war they were fighting wouldn’t touch you, you still went. Every single time. If something happened to you because you failed to take it seriously was one thing, but you have her. The littlest girl you wouldn’t risk for anything.

Happy was the one who informed you about it this time. He called, but because you didn’t have his number, you of course didn’t answer. He showed up at your front door, thumbs hooked in his pockets, and one grunt was all it took for you to gather it was time to start packing. 

You groaned internally that it was happening, again. You had too much going on around you to even consider time off, and now you were being forced, yet again, to figure it out. Your life had essentially become the very definition of one thing after another.

Happy had reverted back to his comfort zone of darkness and misery due to the circumstances. The stone cold soldier who needed to be ready for anything. His face was blank, his tone flat, eyes void of emotion. You paid him little mind because it was normal to you, routine.

Usually, it would be a prospect eager to please, or Tig who knows where everything is, but this way was admittedly easier. A silent pillar of support willing to help with whatever you two needed, but he didn’t offer, and you didn’t ask.

Even after reminding him this wasn’t even close to your first rodeo, he still stayed.

He didn’t hover when you started stuffing bags in the trunk, he didn’t rush you while reviewing your mental checklist three separate times before locking the door. He gave you space, time. Keeping your baby out of the way, and his eyes searching for danger. 

He insisted he escort you across town, riding your bumper like his life depended on it. He watched every corner at every red light, lips pursed in a thin line, head on a swivel.

You had the windows down, music up, singing along to your minis current favorite song. It made it easy for him to roll right on up, hand dipped into your passenger door so she could hold it tight while she belted out nonsense. She was on beat, words slurring together, and so off key he slipped up and started laughing. A belly deep rumble that made your head spin. 

The Tacoma Killer, officially in the running for a worlds best dad mug. 

The first thing you did when you parked was walk her towards his bike, meeting him halfway and guiding her into his arms like it was normal. “I forgot I was supposed to pick up Lyla, can you keep her? I’ll be quick.” 

He settled her on his hip with ease, morphing together like she was an extension of himself. 

“You ain’t going nowhere by yourself today.” 

“I won’t be by myself, I’ll be with Lyla,” you winked, tipping your toes with your lips puckered. Each second happened in slow motion, he was borderline convinced you were coming up to him. He leaned, supporting her gently, and met you in the middle where your lips found her cheek. “Be good for Happy, okay baby?” 

All the air left his lungs, a sudden burst from his flared nostrils made you do a double take at the wrecked expression he was wearing. You wheeled through the options, was it because you didn’t call him her daddy? It may be fine for her, but it still feels weird for you. It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue seeing as you’ve never even kissed the old man. His cheeks were flushed, his jaw tight, muscles flexed, lips glossy from the slip of his tongue. 

Oh. 

What felt like hours was a single minute of you collecting information and processing what the hell to do. He didn’t show you much, but he couldn’t hide that. The hunger in his eyes, gaze on your bottom lip now held hostage between your teeth. 

Happy wanted to kiss you.

“Be careful,” he muttered, raising a hand to take hold of your chin, “keep your eyes open.” 

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came out. You had half a mind to do it, already on your toes, close enough you could smell the freshness of his spearmint toothpaste. Fuck it, right? …but you chickened out. The word complicated playing on a loop in your mind. You gave him exactly what you gave her, a shift kiss to the cheek, pulling back with bewildered expression like you had surprised even yourself.

You cleared your throat, eyes painfully down, “I will.” 

And there you went, fleeing for your life, yet again...but this time the mess was your own making. 

“You see that?” He rumbled, bouncing your baby in his arms. Without a clue as to what he was talking about, she laughed anyway. Hugging tight around his neck, snug as a bug making their way into the clubhouse.

You talked Lyla to death. The moment she slipped into the passenger seat your mouth opened and didn’t shut for the entire drive. You took the long way and there still wasn't enough time to run down exactly what you were doing. Because you didn’t know, it just happened. It’s been happening. He’s silent, but persistent. He’s distant, but attentive in all the right ways. Taking down your wall one brick at a time. 

You convinced yourself it was just about her, but with her comes you. It meant something, that’s the conclusion you came to as you pulled back into the busy lot. The way his warmth radiated through your body, your little girls giggle in between, and that look in his eye. You were sure it meant something. 

You shuffled in behind Lyla, a bag in each hand, searching for her kids, your kid, anywhere with enough space for the lot of you. 

You heard her before you saw her. The unmistakable sound of her never ending giggle. The bags dropped with a thud, and your blood boiled. Red hot fire in your veins as you watched him, her, and the age appropriate croweater fawning over them both. You didn’t realize you were moving, but the overcrowded clubhouse did, and they parted like the red sea. 

“So you’ve just been using my daughter to get laid? That’s low, Happy, even for you.” 

The older woman’s eyes tripled. It could’ve been your tone, your face, the red hot rage that was visibly vibrating through you. “Oh he wasn’t-” 

“Am I talking to you?” You hissed, barely sparing her a glance. “My daughter,” you held your arms out, and he couldn’t help but notice the hurt you were burying under the appearance of hate, “right now.” 

Jealousy was oozing out of you, and he counted each mental step back you were taking. Happy fought every muscle in his face to keep from challenging you. If talking to a croweater was all it took to bring you to reality, he would’ve made that mistake a month ago just to speed things along. He wanted to play into it, quip back something blunt and indecent but your face suggested that was the wrong move. He was officially under your skin, but after this you might not even be willing to admit it. He cleared his throat and followed your demands like it was a hostage situation. 

Your little girl went to you willingly but looked so confused as to why you were taking her away from her favorite person on the planet.

You bullied your way through the overcrowding, sweating in places you shouldn’t, muttering to yourself about how idiotic you were to even think it. You were immediately done with all of it. Him, the club, the stupid lockdown that was overkill at best. This building, these people, it was suffocating you. All you wanted to do was get the fuck out, but you couldn’t find your stuff. 

“Where the hell is-”

“One of the girls just went to put your stuff in Happy’s room.” 

You spun around, hair on fire. “Who the hell told them to do that?” 

“I assumed you did,” Lyla said offhandedly, barely looking up from the book she had brought with her. 

“This is getting crazy, it feels like I’m being sold off like cattle.” 

“Probably shouldn’t have kissed him then,” she chuckled softly. You huffed, puffed, searched the space some more like maybe you could avoid the inevitable, but it was done. You were stuck in this building, and now apparently you were doing it in his room.  

“Fuck.”

One thing became instantly clear. There was no getting rid of him. You could avoid him, retreat back into that natural state of indifference where life was less complicated. Only now you have a batshit crazy toddler bullying you around, and all she wanted was him. After holding her hostage for an hour, her restlessness was getting the best of you, so you put her down.

She stomped the entire way over to him, making sure every eye in the room gave her a glance as she pounded her attitude into the concrete flooring. 

Your head dropped into your hands and just when you thought you had a moment to breathe. 

“Here sweetie,” the older blonde mused, placing down a steaming cup of perfectly creamed coffee, “for what it’s worth…I’m sorry for getting too close, she’s just so damn cute.” 

“I know,” you offered half a smile in return for the fresh cup of coffee, “sorry for yelling at you.”

You didn’t hate the croweaters. You grew up around most of them. You don’t exactly approve of their lifestyle choices, or want your daughter picking up their tendencies, but usually there’s a level of respect you like to maintain between worlds. She took it as an invitation, sliding into the bar stool next to you. 

“Don’t be, I knew better. Your family’s real important to him, he’s adamant we need to steer clear.” 

Your heart skipped. “He what?” 

She laughed, looked you up and down the moment she realized you didn’t have a clue. “He tossed Britney out of here by the hair the other day after she tried to sneak into his room during nap time.” Her head nodded towards the corner, your little girl pressing her nose against his and babbling endless little nothings he seemed to understand perfectly. “I’m clear of your man sweetie, I was just showing him how to fix the setting on his camera.” 

Your man. Happy, as far as anyone in this room was concerned, was officially your old man. Love it, hate it, none of that mattered. It wasn’t about you, it was all about her. Your little lady who had more love in her whole body than Happy had in his pinky finger, but every ounce he did have, went to her. 

You had easily a dozen questions, but you didn’t want to interrupt. They were so content. Off in the corner that might as well be their own little world. So you waited, watched, waited some more. So painfully obvious your brother by circumstance took matters into his own hands. 

Jax casually made his rounds, checking in as any decent president would. Landing himself in their space, grabbing hands snagged his niece up for some quality uncle time she wanted no part in.

She looked right over the charming blonde's shoulder. A deadly gaze she obviously picked up from Happy, eyes locked on her daddy. Silent communication happening between the pair for him to come save her. Jax gave you a look. A silent communication of his own to take advantage of the opportunity.

You weren’t built for apologizing, and you already punched that ticket for the day. Your steps were hesitant, but you crashed the party of one anyway. 

“I understand you have a camera.” 

He broke away from her just long enough to look up. Eyes void of the warmth he has with her sized you up like a meal, then gestured to the empty seat beside him. “You asking around about me?” 

“I'd like to see it,” you said, deflecting the question but keeping him hooked, “considering my little girl is your muse.” 

“She’s cute,” he rumbled, watching her like a hawk as Chibs tossed her up in the air. Leather kuttes provide a good distraction, but not good enough. 

“She gets it from me.”

His eyes flickered to you, the corner of his mouth hardly moved but it was there. His jaw flexed, his gaze softened, and you squirmed. Such an unfamiliar look taking over his features, and you liked it. You liked being the reason for it. That was new, and scary.

“It’s uh, nap time, can I put her down in-” 

“Bags already in there.”

“I heard,” you chuckled, looking his way again. Smug. So smug, watching your baby toddle through the crowded clubhouse to find her way back to him. “Did you do that?” 

“She sleeps better in there.” He leaned forward, legs spread, hands open. Her head fell into the crook of his neck with practiced ease and his hand tucked in his kutte as he stood. A small digital camera dropped into your lap. “Go through it, I got her.” 

You always wondered what they got up to when you were gone. How much fun could she possibly have with him? Tons, it seemed. The camera powered up and the first three you clicked through were just her laughing. Her on the swings, standing on top of the pool table like she owned it. A few of her covered in finger paint, head to toe. One too many of her smiling face covered in chocolate. The ones of her sleeping were heartwarming. Always in his bed, on his chest, at an angle you could just barely see the corner of his mouth, smiling. 

Happy Lowman, worlds best dad.

She was so adored, genuinely loved by this hunk of stone. Indisputable proof sat in your hands. He was actively, willingly, and unconditionally filling a hole in her life. The most obnoxious part was, he was doing it well. He was patient, kind, but most importantly he knew her. He took the time to understand every wild thought her little mind had to offer. 

There was no manual on parenting, no rules for how to handle this at all. Could some random guy just…be her dad? Could you allow this suddenly soft around the edges version of the silent killer you know take part in raising her? And if you did, where does it leave you?

There were so many images. Her, her, and you. You, always from a distance. Holding her hand, walking away, dancing with her like nobody was watching, but he was. He was always watching, admiring. Mindful of your need for space. 

Once you reached the end of the month's worth of memories, you sighed. You stared out at the overcrowded space and wished your dad was amongst the sea of faces. He’d know what to do, what to say, he’d take all the overthinking off your plate. He wasn’t a man of many words but he’d either kick his ass, or give you the nod.

Instead you had Jax. Blonde hair, blue eyes, too cocky for his own good. Giving you his cheesy version of the nod you were searching for from the bar. Beer in hand, smile on his face, head gesturing to the hall that Happy had disappeared in. 

All Jax had done was tell you it’s a good idea, without actually saying anything at all, you just weren’t a very good listener. 

You drummed your fingers against the door softly, slipping in quick and quiet to keep the noise out. She was already out like a light. Dead center of the bed, lips parted letting out tiny noises that were too faint to be snores. He didn’t look up, didn’t move, didn’t even tense as you crawled up his bed beside them. 

“Next time you can ask me,” you said, voice small, “how to use something.” You slid the silver camera across the sheets, unsure where it would take you or where you wanted it to.

“You weren’t here.” 

“Then wait.” 

An amused exhale burst from his nostrils. Glancing at her, then you, back to her and her death grip she had on his finger even in sleep. 

He’s not dumb, not slow or brain damaged like some like to believe. He knows how crazy this is. Happy considered how he would feel if one day a patch like Juice, or Rat even, found themselves in this predicament with your daughter. Intentions pure, fondness on overdrive, but far too old for her. He’d kill them, simple as that. Patch or no patch, disappearing someone was his specialty. 

It made those thoughts about you messy, and made him question himself. He knew your dad, loved him even. They took rides, shots, dug shallow graves together in the dead of night. He remembers everything.

You sitting at the bar doing your homework throughout the years when Tacoma got called up for assistance. The silent slips of tears at your father's funeral. Your graduation party, your sudden return home from college that left you different. 

He’s seen every phase of your life and this one. This era you're locked in forever, motherhood, it’s your best look. It’s a guilty pleasure he never would’ve acted on without the push forward of tiny toddled steps into his personal space. 

But now he's here, with her, waiting on you. No pressure, no rush, just a willingness to give you exactly what you ask for until you're willing to meet him where they already are.

“I know I’ve been over stepping,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze to keep a hold on his composure. His next words were too important to get wrong, “but she’s the only good thing I got.” 

“Yeah,” you whispered, glancing around his room. Little hints of her were everywhere. Toys, books, arts and crafts. Your gaze landed on her scribbled attempts at art. Taped to his mirror, what you can only assume was a masterpiece depicting the two of them. Her, and her daddy. “That much we have in common.” 

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You weren’t old enough to remember the first years of SAMCRO, but you’d been around long enough to become permanent.

You worked at the garage office three days a week, helped Gemma whenever she demanded it—which was often—and had somehow become everyone’s little sister despite being fully capable of handling yourself.

Chibs brought you coffee.

Juice fixed your laptop whenever it crashed.

Tig flirted with you relentlessly until Gemma threatened to stab him with a barbecue fork.

And Happy…

Happy watched.

Always from the sidelines.

Always quiet.

Always observant.

At first, you thought he hated you.

He rarely spoke directly to you unless necessary. Half his answers were grunts. The other half were blunt one-word responses delivered in that rough, gravelly voice.

But then you started noticing things.

Happy always walked you to your car at night without mentioning it.

He killed spiders for you after overhearing you panic over one in the office.

He remembered your coffee order despite pretending not to care.

Once, after you’d mentioned offhand that your apartment heater sucked, he appeared outside your door two days later with a brand-new space heater still in the box.

“No idea where this came from,” he’d said flatly.

You’d smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.

Happy had looked away immediately.

The problem with Happy Lowman was that he made affection feel dangerous.

Not because he was cruel.

But because he wasn’t soft.

The men around him loved loudly. Jax teased. Chibs hugged. Opie sat close enough to shoulder-bump you affectionately.

Happy loved like he was guarding something fragile from the world.

Silent.

Protective.

Terrifying.

And somewhere along the way, you fell in love with him.

You never meant to.

It happened slowly.

In pieces.

In the way he stood behind you in crowded bars like a shield.

In the way he remembered things you mentioned once months ago.

In the way he looked at you when you laughed—as if he didn’t fully understand happiness but liked hearing it from you anyway.

But you never said anything.

Because Happy was hard to read.

Because he slept around.

Because men like Happy didn’t settle down.

And because you were terrified of wanting something you couldn’t have.

The call came late.

Too late for anything good.

You were asleep when your phone buzzed violently against the nightstand.

You answered groggily.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?”

Happy.

Immediately awake, you sat up. “Home. Why?”

“Stay there.”

His voice was deadly calm.

The kind of calm that meant something awful had already happened.

Your stomach twisted.

“Happy—”

“I’m coming over.”

The line disconnected.

You stared at your phone.

Ten minutes later, there was pounding at your door.

You opened it to find Happy standing there in a black hoodie splattered with blood.

Not unusual for him.

What was unusual was his face.

Murderous.

His jaw looked locked so tight it might crack.

And behind him stood Chibs.

Which meant club business.

Which meant bad.

Fear crawled into your throat.

“What happened?”

Happy pushed inside immediately, eyes scanning your apartment like he expected danger.

Chibs lingered near the doorway.

“Sit down, lass.”

Your pulse spiked.

“What happened?”

Neither man answered immediately.

That terrified you more.

Then Happy spoke.

“Your ex-boyfriend’s dead.”

Everything inside you stopped.

The room became very quiet.

Very still.

Very far away.

Ethan.

You hadn’t heard his name in almost two years.

Not since you left Sacramento.

Not since you came to Charming and rebuilt yourself piece by piece.

Not since the nightmares finally started happening less often.

Your knees nearly gave out.

Happy moved instantly, grabbing your arms before you collapsed.

His hands were warm.

Steady.

“Hey,” he said roughly. “Breathe.”

You realized dimly that you were shaking.

“Dead?” you whispered.

Chibs sighed heavily.

“He showed up in Charming.”

Ice flooded your bloodstream.

“No.”

“He did,” Chibs confirmed gently. “Started asking around about you.”

Your vision blurred.

“He—he found me?”

Happy’s grip tightened.

“He ain’t touching you.”

But that wasn’t the point.

Because suddenly you were back there again.

Locked apartment.

Bruises hidden under sweaters.

The smell of whiskey and rage.

Ethan pinning you against a wall while telling you nobody else would ever want you.

Your breathing became ragged.

Happy crouched in front of you immediately.

“Look at me.”

You couldn’t.

You felt sick.

Humiliated.

Ashamed.

Even after all this time.

“Sweetheart.”

The word hit you like lightning.

You jerked your gaze toward him.

Happy almost never used endearments.

Now his dark eyes were locked onto yours with terrifying intensity.

“What’d he do to you?”

Your throat closed.

You didn’t want to say it out loud.

Didn’t want those words existing in the room.

Happy seemed to understand anyway.

Because something changed in his face.

Not surprise.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

Like he already knew.

Or suspected.

“Did he force you?”

Silence.

Then your eyes filled.

Happy inhaled sharply through his nose.

And suddenly the entire room became dangerous.

You physically saw rage settle into him.

Cold.

Controlled.

Lethal.

Chibs muttered, “Jesus Christ…”

You wrapped your arms around yourself instinctively.

“I didn’t tell anybody,” you whispered brokenly. “I just… I left.”

Happy stood slowly.

Too slowly.

Like he was trying not to explode.

“How’d he die?” you asked weakly.

Neither man answered.

Which was answer enough.

Your stomach turned.

“Oh my god.”

Happy’s voice was flat.

“He ain’t hurting you anymore.”

You looked at the blood on his hoodie.

Fresh blood.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“You killed him.”

Happy didn’t blink.

“Yes.”

The honesty of it stunned you.

No excuses.

No lies.

Just truth.

Your eyes burned.

“You could go to prison.”

Happy shrugged once.

Didn’t care.

Actually didn’t care.

That realization hit harder than anything else.

Because he had done it for you.

Not for the club.

Not for money.

For you.

Chibs cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’ll give ye two a minute.”

The door shut behind him.

Silence filled the apartment.

Happy stood there staring at you like he was waiting for you to recoil.

To fear him.

To hate him.

Instead you whispered:

“What did he say?”

Happy’s jaw flexed.

“He bragged.”

The words came out murderous.

“He talked about you like you were property.”

You felt nauseous.

Happy stepped closer.

“I asked if he touched you.”

Your breathing hitched.

“He laughed.”

That was all he said.

He didn’t need to explain the rest.

Because you could see it.

Happy Lowman was not a man built for mercy.

Not when it came to people he cared about.

And suddenly everything made horrible, beautiful sense.

The protectiveness.

The staring.

The way he hovered near you at parties.

The way no man in Charming ever pushed too far with you.

Happy had been guarding you long before you noticed.

Tears slid down your cheeks silently.

Happy looked stricken.

Actually stricken.

Like your crying physically hurt him.

“Don’t cry,” he muttered roughly.

You let out a broken laugh. “That’s your solution?”

“Yeah.”

Despite everything, your lips trembled upward.

Happy stared at you for a second too long.

Then his expression shifted.

Vulnerable.

You’d never seen him vulnerable before.

“I would’ve killed him anyway.”

Your heart pounded.

“What?”

Happy swallowed hard once.

“You think I watched you flinch every time some drunk asshole got too close and didn’t wonder why?”

You froze.

“I knew something happened.”

His voice grew quieter.

“Just didn’t know who.”

Emotion clogged your throat.

Happy stepped even closer now.

“So when I found out…”

He stopped himself.

You could practically see the violence trying to crawl back out of him.

“He deserved worse.”

The intensity in his voice stole your breath.

No pity.

No disgust.

Just fury on your behalf.

And somehow that hurt more than sympathy ever could.

Because for the first time since Ethan, you didn’t feel ruined.

You felt protected.

Happy looked at you for a long moment before saying quietly:

“I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stopped.

Actually stopped.

The room tilted.

Happy’s expression remained hard, but you saw fear underneath it.

Tiny.

Buried deep.

“I know I ain’t good at…” He gestured vaguely. “This.”

You stared at him speechless.

“But I love you.”

Your eyes filled again immediately.

Happy looked alarmed.

“Fuck. Don’t cry again.”

A watery laugh escaped you.

“You can’t just say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because—because you’re Happy.”

“That supposed to mean something?”

You shook your head incredulously.

“Yes.”

For the first time all night, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Tiny.

Barely there.

“I love you,” he repeated stubbornly. “Been trying not to for a while now.”

Your chest felt too small for your heart.

“Happy…”

He moved closer carefully.

Like approaching a wounded animal.

“If you don’t want this, fine.” His voice was steady despite the tension in his shoulders. “But I need you to know something.”

You swallowed hard.

“What?”

“Nobody touches you again.”

The conviction in his tone shattered you completely.

Not possessive.

Protective.

Devoted.

You stepped toward him before you could think better of it.

Happy immediately went still.

Like he couldn’t believe you were close willingly.

Your fingers curled lightly into the front of his bloody hoodie.

“You really killed him for me?”

Happy looked down at you.

“For you?”

His voice dropped lower.

“I’d kill anybody for you.”

The terrifying thing was that you believed him instantly.

And maybe you should’ve been horrified.

Maybe any sane person would’ve run.

But you’d spent two years terrified of being powerless again.

And standing in front of you was a man who would burn the world down before letting anyone hurt you.

You kissed him before you could overthink it.

Happy froze.

Completely froze.

For one impossible second, you thought maybe you’d imagined everything.

Then his hand gripped your waist so hard it almost hurt and he kissed you back like he was starving.

Rough.

Desperate.

Years of restrained feeling breaking open all at once.

You gasped softly against his mouth.

Happy immediately gentled.

It was so unexpected it nearly made you cry again.

His massive hand slid carefully to your jaw.

His forehead rested against yours.

“Tell me if something’s wrong.”

The quiet sincerity of it wrecked you.

You kissed him again instead.

This time slower.

Intentional.

Happy made a rough sound low in his throat that nearly melted your spine.

When he pulled back, his dark eyes searched yours carefully.

“You sure?”

You nodded immediately.

“I’m sure.”

Something emotional flickered across his face so quickly you almost missed it.

Relief.

Three days later, Happy got another smiley face tattoo.

You found him behind the clubhouse sitting shirtless while Kozik cleaned excess ink from fresh black lines on his ribs.

Another smiling face.

Another death.

But this one felt different.

Happy looked up as you approached.

And for the first time since you’d known him, his face softened openly at the sight of you.

Not hidden.

Not subtle.

Yours.

You sat beside him carefully.

Kozik smirked. “You know this psychopath sat through the whole tattoo without flinching?”

Happy lit a cigarette.

“Shut up.”

You looked at the fresh tattoo quietly.

Not afraid anymore.

Happy noticed.

His fingers brushed yours.

Tiny touch.

But intimate.

“You okay?” he asked.

The concern in his voice was immediate, instinctive.

You nodded softly.

Then after a moment, you leaned your head against his shoulder.

Happy went very still.

Like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to have this.

Allowed to have you.

His arm came around you slowly.

Protectively.

Possessively.

Like it belonged there.

Across the yard, Tig nearly dropped his beer.

“Holy shit,” he yelled.

“Happy caught feelings.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Happy barked instantly.

You laughed against his shoulder.

Happy looked down at you.

And there it was again.

That softness nobody else got to see.

That terrifyingly gentle love hidden beneath scars and violence and death.

You realized then that Happy Lowman loved with his entire soul.

Brutally.

Absolutely.

Forever.

You met the Sons because your brother was an idiot.

A lovable idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.

He’d blown a tire outside Charming during a rainstorm, called you in a panic because his phone was dying, and begged you to come pick him up before he got stranded. You’d expected some lonely stretch of road.

Instead, you found him sitting outside Teller-Morrow drinking beer with a biker that looked like he crawled directly out of someone’s nightmare.

Long hair. Tattoos. Massive frame. Blank dark eyes.

The kind of man mothers warned daughters about.

Your brother had waved enthusiastically.

“Hey!”

You’d stared.

The biker had stared back.

Not openly hostile. Not friendly either. Just… assessing.

Like he was deciding whether you were a threat.

“You the sister?” he’d asked.

Deep voice. Rough. Gravel dragged over concrete.

“Unfortunately,” you’d answered.

Your brother had laughed while the biker’s mouth twitched slightly.

Not quite a smile.

Close enough.

“That’s Happy,” your brother had said. “He helped me with the tire.”

“Thanks,” you’d said carefully.

Happy had shrugged once.

Then his eyes dropped briefly to your bleeding knuckles.

You’d cut your hand on something earlier that day at work and wrapped it badly.

“You should clean that.”

Not hello.

Not nice to meet you.

Just that.

And somehow that had been the beginning.

Happy was confusing.

At first, you thought he disliked you.

He barely spoke.

He stared too long.

Half the time he looked one inconvenience away from murder.

Then you realized he only acted that way around people he didn’t trust.

Around you?

He became… attentive.

Quietly.

Subtly.

Dangerously easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.

He’d appear beside you before you lifted something heavy.

He always noticed when your gas tank was low.

You complained once about your apartment door sticking and came home the next day to find the lock replaced and the hinges fixed.

No note.

No warning.

Just done.

When you asked him about it later at the clubhouse, he looked genuinely confused by the question.

“Door was busted.”

“Yes, Happy, I know. I’m asking why you fixed it.”

Another shrug.

“You needed it fixed.”

Like that explained everything.

Maybe to him, it did.

You learned quickly that Happy loved through actions.

He wasn’t verbal. Wasn’t soft in any conventional way.

But he remembered everything.

Every single thing.

Your coffee order.

The fact you hated driving in heavy rain.

That you preferred extra pickles on burgers.

That crowded places made you anxious if strangers stood too close behind you.

He’d quietly position himself at your back without being asked.

Like a wall.

Like protection.

Like it belonged there.

And maybe that was the problem.

Happy acted like you were already his.

Not in a controlling way.

Never cruel.

Never demanding.

Just… certain.

Like his brain had skipped past the part where he was supposed to ask.

“You know he’s in love with you, right?”

You nearly choked on your drink.

You looked across the clubhouse toward Chibs, who was watching you over his beer with visible amusement.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“He absolutely is not.”

Chibs barked out a laugh so loud several heads turned.

Across the room, Happy immediately looked up.

Immediately.

Eyes narrowing slightly toward your table.

You watched his posture shift.

Alert.

Attentive.

Your stomach did something deeply embarrassing.

“He checks every room you walk into,” Chibs said casually.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“He stabbed a man for touching your waist.”

You blinked.

“What?”

Chibs stared at you.

“You didn’t know that?”

“No?!”

“Aye. Last year. At the bar in Stockton.”

You thought back.

There had been a fight that night.

Happy came back with blood on his knuckles.

You’d asked what happened.

He’d said, “Guy was rude.”

That was all.

“Oh my God.”

Chibs leaned back, grinning.

“Lass, the only person who doesn’t know Happy’s in love with you is Happy.”

The thing about Happy Lowman was that he existed in extremes.

Violence or silence.

Loyalty or nothing.

And once he loved something?

That was it.

Permanent.

You started realizing how bad it was in pieces.

How his eyes tracked you unconsciously.

How he always sat beside you.

How he got meaner with everyone else when you missed club dinners because you were working late.

How he touched you.

Not constantly.

Happy wasn’t clingy.

But casually.

Naturally.

A hand at your lower back guiding you through crowds.

Your knee under his at the bar.

Fingers brushing your wrist before he handed you a drink.

Tiny things.

Possessive things.

Tender things.

Things men didn’t do unless they were gone for somebody.

You should have said something sooner.

Maybe then the whole disaster could’ve been avoided.

It happened on a Friday night.

The clubhouse was packed.

Music loud.

Pool games going.

Prospects running around trying not to piss anyone off.

You were standing near the bar waiting for a refill while Happy talked to Tig across the room.

You’d barely noticed the guy approach.

He was decent-looking.

Clean-cut.

Clearly not from Charming.

“You here alone?” he asked.

You gave a polite smile.

“No.”

That should’ve been enough.

It rarely was.

“Your boyfriend around?”

You opened your mouth.

And that was the exact moment Happy looked over.

Their eyes met.

The stranger smiled at you.

Big mistake.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

You inhaled slowly.

Somewhere behind you, Tig visibly started losing his mind.

Juice muttered, “Oh no.”

Happy moved before you could answer.

Not fast.

Not dramatic.

Almost worse because of how calm he looked.

He walked straight over, expression unreadable.

The guy turned toward him.

Probably expecting him to order a beer.

Instead Happy stopped directly beside you and rested his hand low on your back.

Warm.

Heavy.

Familiar.

His eyes never left the stranger.

“She’s taken.”

Silence.

You felt your entire brain short-circuit.

The stranger blinked.

“Oh. Sorry, man.”

Happy nodded once.

The guy disappeared immediately.

Smart man.

Meanwhile you stood there frozen while the entire bar collectively tried not to explode.

Tig looked seconds from tears.

Chibs had both hands over his face.

Juice walked directly out of the room.

Happy finally glanced down at you.

“You okay?”

Like nothing strange had just happened.

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

“You think I’m your girl?”

His brows furrowed.

Not defensive.

Confused.

“Aren’t you?”

Dead silence.

Complete and total silence.

Then Tig burst into hysterical laughter so violent he nearly fell off his chair.

Happy genuinely did not understand why everyone found this funny.

That somehow made it worse.

“Brother,” Jax said, still grinning, “you never actually asked her out.”

Happy looked at him like he was speaking another language.

Then he looked back at you.

“You go on dates with me.”

“You take me to diners after runs.”

“You sleep at my place.”

“You wear my hoodies.”

You crossed your arms.

“You never asked.”

Happy stared.

Actually stared.

As realization slowly hit him.

“Oh.”

Tig started wheezing again.

“OH?” you repeated incredulously.

Happy ignored everyone else entirely.

His focus narrowed completely onto you.

“You thought we weren’t together?”

“You thought we were?!”

“You’re always with me.”

“That’s not the same thing!”

To your horror, he looked genuinely unsettled now.

Like this revelation had actually rattled him.

“You kissed me.”

“You kissed me first!”

Another pause.

Happy’s eyes narrowed slightly as he replayed events in his head.

Then, with absolute seriousness:

“Thought that made it official.”

The room erupted.

Even Chibs doubled over laughing.

You slapped a hand over your face.

“Oh my God.”

Happy stepped closer.

Close enough that the laughter around you started fading into background noise.

“You’re not seeing anybody else.”

“No.”

“I’m not seeing anybody else.”

“I know.”

Another step.

“You love me.”

Your breath caught.

Because he said it like fact.

Not ego.

Not arrogance.

Simple certainty.

And maybe that was the terrifying part.

Because he was right.

Happy’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again.

“You shoulda told me.”

A startled laugh escaped you.

“I should’ve told you?”

“You knew what I meant.”

He sounded almost annoyed by the misunderstanding.

Like the entire situation had inconvenienced him emotionally.

Which, honestly, it probably had.

You looked at him for a long moment.

At the man who fixed your apartment door without asking.

Who remembered your coffee order.

Who silently stood behind you in crowds because he knew they made you nervous.

Who apparently believed you’d been together for months.

And somehow never questioned it.

“You are unbelievable,” you muttered.

Happy’s hand tightened slightly at your back.

“You mad?”

The question sounded rougher now.

Less certain.

You realized suddenly that despite all his confidence earlier, this mattered to him.

A lot.

The clubhouse had gone quieter around you.

Watching.

Waiting.

Happy Lowman — terrifying, violent, emotionally constipated Happy — looked at you like your answer could ruin his entire night.

Your heart melted instantly.

“You never even asked my permission before getting possessive.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

You laughed helplessly.

“No. I didn’t.”

“No?”

“No.”

The tension in his shoulders visibly loosened.

Then he leaned down slightly, voice lower.

“So you my girl or what?”

You smiled slowly.

“Thought that made it official.”

For the first time since you’d met him, Happy smiled fully.

Not the tiny twitch you were used to.

A real one.

Small but devastating.

The entire clubhouse immediately started yelling.

Tig screamed something obscene.

Chibs demanded money from Juice.

Gemma shouted, “Finally!”

Happy ignored all of them.

Completely.

Like always.

His forehead pressed briefly against yours.

“You hungry?”

You burst out laughing.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“You accidentally discovered we weren’t technically dating thirty seconds ago.”

“So?”

“So maybe say something romantic?”

Happy considered that.

Really considered it.

Then:

“I’ll kill anybody that bothers you.”

You stared at him.

“That is deeply concerning.”

“It’s romantic for me.”

Another helpless laugh escaped you.

And God help you, it really was.

Happy watched you with that same terrifying softness he only ever seemed to have for you.

Then his thumb brushed your jaw once.

Gentle.

Careful.

Certain.

“My girl,” he murmured quietly this time.

Not possessive now.

Not performative.

Something warmer.

Something honest.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m your girl.”

Happy nodded once like the universe had finally corrected itself.

Then he kissed you in the middle of the clubhouse while your friends cheered loud enough to wake the dead.

And somewhere in the chaos, you realized something important:

There was only one true highlight to your days: Rickon Stark.

Cregan's son of 18 moons now, Rickon inherited his father's looks but none of his aloofness. He was a glad child, chubby and giggly. And though he was not your own, there was some motherly instinct that pulled you to him.

Thus, you spent your time avoiding Cregan. And instead, playing with little Rickon.

What you didn't know was that Cregan noticed it. Of course, he did. 

He would watch you two in doorways, from balconies, far enough to not interfere, but close enough to see the way your eyes twinkled with little Rickon. 

Your eyes didn't twinkle like that with him. 

… 

You were currently outside, the two of you bundled up, as you played in the snow. 

Rickon jumped happily, kicking with his pudgy legs. His coordination was still often tested. But with the snow so thick, it cushioned his falls. 

You scooped up a handful of the white powder and tossed in the air. He giggled as it fell around you. 

He always had this way of making your days happier just by being in them. 

It quickly turned to a game of tag. You ran around the snowy courtyard, trying to give the boy a chance. He'd spend half of his energy just trying to turn around in his heavy furs, then shriek to see you so close to catching him. When you caught him, you spun him around in your arms. You pretended to drop him once, making his face turn pink in happiness. 

When you set him down, it was his turn to chase you. You happily obliged, barely speed-walking to keep the distance manageable. You gave a mock sound of fright when he got too close. 

You saw a heavy snow pile nearby and plopped yourself into it. Rickon laughed and crawled up after you, wrapping his arms around your neck as if "catching you." The two of you were pink, from both laughing and the cold. 

"Lady Stark."

You sat up with true fright this time, wrapping an arm around Rickon in your lap to keep him steady. Your hair was covered in snow and you no doubt looked a fool. 

Lord Stark stood there, shoulders wide and back straight. His head tilted as he studied the two of you. "What are you doing out in the cold?"

The happiness that was warming you left, making you realize just how cold you were starting to get. "I… forgive me, my lord. Rickon merely wanted to play."

Rickon, immune to the tension between his two favorite people, trudged his way to Cregan, arms extended out. 

"There's my boy," he murmurs, already reaching down to pick him up. He does it with ease. 

You'd seen his biceps a few times now— you knew lifting a 10 kg toddler was no hardship for him.

"You just wanted to play?" He asked him, blue eyes searching. Rickon nodded happily, hands coming to his father's face. When the Warden got whatever answer he was looking for, he turned to you again. "Is your ladies' tea not soon?"

You shy, standing and trying to brush some of the snow from your cloak. "Another hour but yes."

"An hour?" His brows furrowed. "An hour and you are not in your chambers preparing?"

You sigh. It felt like half of your day was spent in your chambers trying to look presentable. "Once this snow has fallen from my cloak, that is presentable enough. Rickon asked me to play with him, and that was far more important."

Saying such a thing was foolish. Cregan might begin to believe that you wanted to neglect your duties as his Lady. But it did quite the opposite. 

He blinked, mind unsure, lips parted, as he tried to register the fact that you believe his child to be important.

It was a deep fear he'd never voiced. That a second wife may cause a rift with Rickon. 

But it seemed he was worried for naught. 

"It…" he stumbled over his words for a moment before hardening. "Get inside before you freeze."

You obeyed without resistance, not wanting to anger him anymore than you believed you already had. 

He cursed under his breath. He hated his own harshness sometimes. 

As Cregan trailed in far behind you, Rickon rambled about what he did outside. The Warden tried to pay attention to his son, but part of his mind was on his second wife and how you dropped everything just to entertainment his boy. 

…

That night, a servant comes to your bedchamber late, saying Cregan was calling on you. 

As he did occasionally. 

You gave a polite nod, dressing in your robe. After all, he was calling you just to do your marital duties. There was no point in dressing up if he was just going to hike your skirts up anyway. 

It was a bit later in the night than he usually called for you, but you hardly noticed as you walked down the corridor. 

On regular nights, you'd enter and the two of you would awkwardly stare at one another for a moment until you laid yourself on his bed. 

He didn't touch you more than he had to. Didn't take his time to make you preen. You figured he was just not interested in you. And that was alright. You were not Arra, and nothing would change that. 

But this time, you opened the door to see him still in his day clothes. He sat by the hearth of his large room. His head didn't snap at the sound of your entrance. Not like he usually did. He stared at the flames. 

You stood there in the doorway for a moment, waiting for him to take initiative. Or even just to acknowledge you. But he didn't.

"M… My lord?" Your voice carried, softer than you wanted. "I was told you called for me. If you did not… I apologize—"

"I've been thinking," he interrupts, eyes still on the red hearth. "About things."

"I understand," you try to ease. "Being the Warden leaves your mind quite occupied. If you wish for me to come back at a better time, I will."

"No. I've been thinking about you."

That's when his head finally turns to you, eyes right on yours. There's something knowing, something scrutinizing, something almost soft. It's complicated, but it fills you with both warmth and a chill.

"Oh," is all you manage out. 

The edges of his lips twitch in amusement. "Oh?"

"I… I'm confused, my lord."

"'S alright." He waves a paw of his in a beckoning gesture. "Come sit with me."

You shut the door, your feet cold and pattering across the floor. 

You sit so politely on the chair next to the settee Cregan is on. He's spread out, naturally from his broad frame, but also in his relaxed state. 

You won't admit it, but his room was always warmer than yours. It was quite nice.

The silence settles over the two of you as Cregan's gaze gets hazy with deep thoughts once more.

Worries started to flood you. "I know I have not been a proper wife to you." You miss the way his expression hardens. "But I can do better. Be better. For you. If you want to give me a second chance." You find yourself fidgeting with the hem of your robe. "I understand if not, as well. Wherever you send me will be fine."

You can feel his gaze on you now, but you refuse to meet it. The embarrassment was already warming your cheeks enough. 

"You think," he speaks uncharacteristically soft, "that I called you in here to send you away?"

"I understand if you did, my lord. Being the Lady Stark is a task that not many can do. If I've disappointed you, then I apologize."

Then, he begins to laugh. Not a loud one, not a demanding one. Quiet. Much like the rest of him. 

Cregan was a quiet man, but everything he did was noticeable all the same. Not because he demanded attention, but because he earned it. 

"Too kind for the likes of me, my girl." He shifts in his seat, grunting like an old man whose muscles ached after sitting for long amounts of time. "Calm yourself. Why are your shoulders always so tense?"

You try to force yourself to relax, dropping your shoulders immediately. It did little to ease you inside. 

His head tilts. "I'm not sending you away. Far from it."

A breath leaves your lips in relief. Now, your shoulders truly begin to slack. "Thank you, my lord. Thank you for a second chance—"

"Quiet," he teases, raising a hand up. "This is not a second chance. You had not ruined your first. Tell me." He leans forward, resting his wrists on the top of his knees. "Do you love me?"

You hesitated. You loved the North. Winterfell. Rickon. But did you love Cregan?

He already detected an answer in the silence. "I see." His tongue ran over his teeth. "I hold no anger towards you for it. You love my son. I see that now. I suppose that's all I need."

"Oh, yes. I love him very much," you can't help smiling about. "He's a cheery boy."

"Aye." He runs a hand over his chin. "You've made him so. He was… rather quiet after…" he stopped. 

You hum. "He just needed someone to play with, I think."

"He needed someone to listen to him. To care for him. And you're doing so. Thank you, my lady."

"Do not thank me for that. I did not do it for your favor."

"I know that. I do."

You take a moment. "I still don't understand what you were thinking about then? Were you thinking of children? Is that why you called for me?"

"Hm? Oh, gods no. Well," he's suddenly stumbling over himself. "I didn't call you in here to sleep with you. Not tonight. I want to know you a bit more. That's all. I can't help but believe that I've been the poor one. You've moved from your home, everything you know. I have not even tried to help you adapt. Even after your kindness to my house… our house."

"Our house?"

"Aye. Our house."

"I do like that… our house."

Something jumps in his heart when you smile at him. 

He didn't think such a thing would affect him. But he finds himself nervous like a young boy again, wanting to keep that joy on your face. 

"It's quite late, my lord. Perhaps I should return to my chambers. If I may."

He takes a deep breath. "Of course. Sleep well, my sweet lady."

The walk back to your room leaves you with a lot to think about. Cregan… intimidating Cregan… finally extended a hand to you. He wants to know you. It feels a bit late, but better he wants to know you at all, even late. 

But something about him was still a bit frightening. You'd heard rumors of things he'd done as Warden. Like any hardened Stark, he'd killed men. He'd done horrid things, won battles. His hands were far from soft. 

Could his grip be gentle enough, despite callused palms? You weren't sure you wanted to find out. 

Still, there was something about him that you loved. 

You told yourself it was because Rickon shared his eyes. 

…

There you were in Rickon's little chamber, playing on the ground with him.

Rickon was not a spoiled child, despite what you were sure many northerners believed. Cregan kept a strict house, teaching Rickon from a young age to not take things for granted. 

No, Rickon had only a few toys. But even those, he was eternally grateful for. His father carved a new one for his every name day. Most of his toys were the gifts from his name days, where other lords would bring various things for him. 

His favorite was the wooden wolf Cregan had carved. It was a hardy thing, smoothed to perfection. The snout was broad, paws large. A male dire wolf. 

Rickon loved it very much. 

He would hand you one of his other toys so that you could play alongside him. Today's was a hare. 

You gigged at him. "Am I to be prey?"

He giggled back, answering you with a firm nod. 

"I suppose I must be quick, then?"

On the rug you played for far too long. His direwolf would catch your hare with ease. He'd growl like he believed the animal would, then restart the hunt all over again. 

If you ever had any question that he was a Stark, this answered it. 

After catching your hare for the fifth time, you heard Cregan's presence in the doorway. You cocked your head back but said nothing. 

His eyes moved from you to the 'violent' scene of Rickon pretending to eat your hare. His brows raised. "He's not giving you a fair chance, is he?"

"I'm a hare against a direwolf, Lord Stark. It's only truthful."

"I dunno." He steps in, his frame taking up more space in the room than you thought. He bent down on his knees. "Easy, son." He interferes, saving your hare. "Hares are quick, don't you know? It's hard to catch something so delicate." His eyes flicker to you before going right back to the mission at hand. "They can be too fast if you're not careful. Sometimes you have to decide if they're worth the hunt."

Rickon half listens, his eyes on each toy as his father holds them up. "Sometimes, direwolves must soften, be merciful. What if, this time, you let the hare get away?"

The toy is pressed to your palm, a glimmer in Cregan's eyes that you didn't notice before. 

The scenario plays again, and Rickon let the hare go. Both you and the boy look to the Warden to seek approval. 

Cregan smiles at his son. "Good. That was good."

Rickon just as quickly hands the direwolf to his father and moves to entertain himself with something else. 

He twirls the wood in his hand, looking over every detail, but not truly seeing it. 

The hare in your own stills. "How do you know which hares are worth chasing, my lord?"

He thought for a moment, before he pushed back a smile. "I only chase hares that are kind enough to let young direwolves win the hunt every time."

Your cheeks warm. 

"Tell me, my lady, would you let an older wolf win the chase as well?"

Your thumb runs over the face of the little toy. "He must run fast but… perhaps."

A sudden red comes up his neck. You made the Warden blush. 

The man whose hands were metaphorically painted in red blood. No, you reddened his skin in an entirely different way with a mere tease. 

"Perhaps," he whispered like a promise. "Perhaps he will."

"He sounds determined. I heard predators give up if the chase is too difficult."

"Aye, most would. Is that why you haven't been caught yet?" He placed the toy down, leaning into you with a lower voice. "I'm an efficient hunter, my lady, should you decide you want to be hunted."

Your eyes flit to him, finding him not far now. His gaze is purely on you, drifting down to your lips once. 

You nervously turn away, unsure how to answer.

He chews at his bottom lip, accepting the way you did not jump at the opportunity. No matter. He's patient, and you will come when you are ready. 

He stands, clearing his throat. "I originally came to ask if you wished to attend petitions with me. But it seems you're quite busy here."

"It is important work, but I would like to attend. Since you invited me. I'm sure Rickon could be entertained by his nursemaid for a while."

He extends a hand to you, helping you up from the floor. You don't remember him being so careful natured. As soon as you're up, you pull away. 

"Rickon could attend as well," he suggests. 

"He could? It would be distracting enough to have me there, much less a boy. I don't want you to feel as if—"

"As if what?" He asks, tone suddenly hardened. 

"I…"

"No. Tell me. Tell me why you and Rickon would be a burden to me. And I will tell you why you are wrong."

When you don't respond, he softens. "You are no burden to me." He takes your hand in his own, bringing it to his lips. "Never. Rickon is a part of me, as are you now." He kisses your knuckles so softly, you barely feel it. But his eyes stay on you. "Tell me again. Would you like to come to petitions with me?"

You only nod. And soon, Rickon is scooped in one of his arms, his other hand wrapped around your own. 

Any lord that is surprised to see the three of you enter together quickly covers it. 

Rickon stays on Cregan's lap most of the time, content with the direwolf in his hand. He bangs it on the table, even growls a few times. 

He growled once at a lord he didn't like, and Cregan did nothing to stop him. He didn't like the lord either. 

Petitions ran long, and soon Rickon was growing tired. He reached for you. 

You naturally took him without question. It made Cregan warm. 

Rickon curled up with ease, nose tucked into your shoulder. And with just a few squirms, he was fast asleep. 

Towards the end, Cregan reached out for your hand. You let him intertwine his fingers with your own.

And it felt natural. 

…

Time with Cregan became more common. You'd walk outdoors together, play with Rickon. Even silence in the library was nice, for it was still together.

And finally, you'd decided that yes, you did want the Wolf of the North. You wanted him to chase you. To want you. To have you in the proper way a husband should.

One night, when the two of you had spent long hours in the library (because neither of you wanted to part), you made the first move. 

You closed the tome you were reading from, choosing instead to move to Cregan's side of the table. 

He watches you, though pretends not to. 

"I'm tired of this," you declare to him. 

He finally looks up at you, brows furrowed. "Aye? Of what exactly?"

"Of… well, I'm not sure." You pull out the chair next to him, sitting down. 

He turns to you, giving his full attention. "You're tired, but have no knowledge of what or why?"

"I am tired of… Do you remember what you said, a few weeks ago? With those toys with Rickon?"

"I do," he answers with ease. It had been at the forefront of his mind since it had happened. 

"I want that. You and I… I think."

Something lit behind his eyes. There was no indication that he heard you besides the small turn of his head. "Aye?"

"If that's alright. If you are still offering it—"

"Can I kiss you?"

You still. "You've kissed me before Cregan. You need not ask."

"I do," he insisted. "Those… they were not like this. Not like what I want with you. Can I kiss you, my girl?"

You nod, cut short by his hands on you suddenly. He pulls you to him, lips capturing your own. 

You all but melt into his hold. He'd held you a bit. Kissed you just a bit. But he was right. Not like this. 

The kisses before— they were meaningless, a mere guilty habit between two political figures that were expected to produce heirs. 

This one was hungry, filled with something you couldn't explain. A final climax to a building tension of months. It was warm and purposeful, not to ease guilt, but to prove something else instead— that he loved you. A hand cups your cheek, the other at your arm to pull you closer.

You kissed back just as quickly. Your own hand goes to his wrist, obeying his plea to have you near. 

It doesn't take long for you to find yourself in his lap. 

Your fingers find the hair at the back of his neck and experimentally pull, earning a growl from your wolf's throat. 

His lips part from yours to start kissing down your neck. You let him, hands tightening your grip. "I'd have ya if you let me," he huffs against your skin. "Clear this fucking table and have my way with you, hm? Show you how often I think of ya."

You groan in satisfaction when he nips a soft spot. "Kiss me."

No hesitation, he returns his mouth to your own, his tongue moving across your bottom lip. "Love you," he tries to speak between kisses, though muffled. "I love you so fucking much. My girl, aren't you?"

"Just wanna kiss you," you whine. 

He pulls back just enough to be teasing. He looks into your eyes, hazy with intent. "As my lady wants," he purrs. 

His hands roam over your lower back, arms wrapped around you to keep you against him. 

His lips connect with yours again, sweeter and slower. 

…

The next day, as you go to Rickon's room, you find Cregan already there. He's speaking lowly to him, as he tends to do when teaching him things. 

"It's important to respect a she-wolf. This one is a match for your direwolf." In his hand is a new toy, the she-wolf in question. It's a bit smaller, with more narrow shoulders. "They work together, yes? The direwolf here, he loves the she-wolf. When he hunts, he hunts for her. He cares for her. Understand?" When Rickon nods, he's satisfied. "Good. Go play now."

Cregan stands, leaving the boy to his devices. His back straightens, large and imposing. Then he freezes, chin up. You hear it, the way he takes a deep inhale. Then he begins to chuckle. "Knew I smelled a sweet scent." He turns, eyes on you with a grin. "What are you doing here?"

"I was merely being curious of your lessons. A new carving?" You see how he shies, giving a small shrug. "It looks nice. He seems to love it."

Rickon peers up, quickly running to you and extending the toy out towards you for you to see. You bend to his level, taking it from his pudgy hands. "Ah, how beautiful," you coo. "She seems quite fierce. Is she a kind wolf?"

Rickon thinks over it for a moment before looking to Cregan for the answer. 

Cregan shrugs. "Is your mother a kind wolf?" He asks the boy.

You gawk, looking back to see that he's gesturing at you. 

Mother. It tastes odd on your tongue. 

"I believe you need a pup next to complete the set," you finally speak. "Papa, mama, and baby?"

Rickon agrees, taking the toy and moving to play once again. 

You don't move for a while. 

Mother. 

Cregan said it so naturally. 

"Is that alright?" He asks from behind you. 

You look up at him, tears brimming in your eyes. "Yes. Gods, yes. I didn't… Thank you."

"Oh, my girl," he coos, pulling you up. He pulls you in and you utterly collapse against his chest. He kisses the crown of your head. "You needn't thank me. Not for this. This was all your doing."

When your tears begin to dry, he pulls you away enough to examine your face. His eyes move down your nose, across your red cheeks. "So beautiful. What a beautiful mother you are."

You push yourself up on the tips of your toes to meet his lips. 

Being Lady Stark was a difficult task. But being Cregan's wife and Rickon's mother? That was the easiest thing you'd ever done.

...................................................................................

₊˚⊹ ୨୧ andrew "pope" cody ୨୧ ⊹˚₊

one shots —for standalone fics (whether they were inspired by a request or not), typically 2k–5k+ words, fully fleshed out

✧ godless things · ❤︎ ꩜

✧ nsfw alphabet · ❤︎

✧ the house she left you · ❤︎ ꩜

₊˚⊹ ୨୧ jack abbot ୨୧ ⊹˚₊

one shots —for standalone fics (whether they were inspired by a request or not), typically 2k–5k+ words, fully fleshed out

✧ built for battle, never for me · ❤︎꩜

✧ nsfw alphabet · ❤︎

✧ i can't protect you from everything · ꩜ ❤︎

✧ don’t make me someone you can’t have · ꩜ ❤︎

✧ wounds unhealed · ꩜

✧ overtime (+ robby) · ❤︎

✧ the handoff · ✿︎

✧ wearing war · ❤︎

✧ you knocked, I let you in · ❤︎

✧ just passing through · ꩜

✧ she wants to move · ❤︎

✧ haunted · ❤︎

✧ america's sweetheart · ꩜ ❤︎

mini-fics —for anything short, under ~2k

✧ he's away at a conference, so you call him · ❤︎

✧ jack is an ass man · ❤︎

✧ when he breaks · ❤︎

✧ when you call him 'sir' · ❤︎

✧ below the surface · ❤︎ ✿︎

✧ message received · ❤︎

✧ put him on speaker· ❤︎

series

✧ the life we grew series · ❤︎ ✿︎

✧ the art of losing control · ❤︎ ✿︎꩜

₊˚⊹ ୨୧ michael robinavitch ୨୧ ⊹˚₊

one shots —for standalone fics (whether they were inspired by a request or not), typically 2k–5k+ words, fully fleshed out

✧ nsfw alphabet · ❤︎

✧ overtime (+ abbot) · ❤︎

✧ whatever you say, fruitcake · ✿︎

✧ booked for one · ❤︎

✧ and you came back to me · ꩜

mini-fics —for anything short, under ~2k

✧ robby is a boobs man · ❤︎

✧ message received · ❤︎

₊˚⊹ ୨୧ frank langdon ୨୧ ⊹˚₊

one shots —for standalone fics (whether they were inspired by a request or not), typically 2k–5k+ words, fully fleshed out

The garage at Teller-Morrow Automotive hummed with the familiar rhythm of air tools and classic rock spilling from the old stereo. You wiped grease from your hands on the rag tucked into your back pocket, glancing up as the low rumble of a Harley announced his arrival before you even saw him.

Chibs pulled in slowly, easing his bike into its usual spot near the bay doors. He killed the engine, swung a long leg over, and tugged off his helmet, shaking out that silver-streaked hair he never quite bothered to tame. The scar across his cheek caught the afternoon light—jagged, familiar, part of him like the leather kutte or the faint Glasgow burr that still colored every word.

“Afternoon, love,” he called, voice warm and rough around the edges as he strode over. “Ye still here keepin’ these lazy bastards in line?”

You smirked, leaning against the workbench. “Someone has to. Jax is off playing president, Tig’s probably causing trouble somewhere, and Happy’s… being Happy. Leaves me to make sure the books don’t catch fire.”

He chuckled, low and easy, stepping close enough that you caught the scent of leather, motor oil, and whatever cheap-but-good cologne he wore when he bothered. “Aye, ye’re the real power round here. Always have been.”

It was the same comfortable dance you’d done for years. You’d started at Teller-Morrow right after community college, handling parts orders, invoices, the occasional tow-truck run when the guys were too hungover or too busy with club business.

Gemma had taken one look at you, declared you “useful,” and that was that. You’d been around the club long enough to know the rules, the rhythms, the way danger hovered like smoke but never quite choked the air out of the room.

And Chibs… Chibs had always been there. Flirting in that careful, teasing way of his—never crossing the line, always pulling back just when it started to feel like something more. A compliment on your smile, a lingering look when you bent over an engine block, a brush of fingers when he handed you a coffee. But nothing else. Ever.

Today felt different, though. Maybe it was the way his eyes lingered a beat too long, or how he didn’t step back right away.

“You eat yet?” he asked, nodding toward the break room.

You shook your head. “Been buried in receipts since morning. Why, you offering to share your lunch?”

He snorted. “More like I’m offerin’ to save ye from starvation. C’mon.”

You followed him inside, the door creaking shut behind you. The small room was quiet, empty except for the hum of the fridge and the faint smell of yesterday’s pizza. He pulled two wrapped sandwiches from the cooler, slid one across the table to you, and dropped into the chair opposite.

For a minute, you just ate in companionable silence, the kind that had grown between you over countless shifts and late-night beer runs. Then he spoke, quieter than usual.

“Ye ever think about gettin’ out of this place? Doin’ somethin’… safer?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Safer than working for an outlaw motorcycle club? Like what, accounting in a cubicle?”

He gave a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Ye’re young. Smart. Pretty as hell. Ye could have a life that doesn’t involve waitin’ for the other shoe to drop every time the phones go quiet.”

There it was—the thing he never said outright. The reason he always stopped short.

You set your sandwich down, meeting his gaze steadily. “You think I don’t know what I’m choosing? I’ve been here years, Chibs. I see it all. The good days, the bad ones. The blood. And I’m still here.”

He looked away first, jaw working. “Doesn’t mean ye should settle for this. For someone like me.”

“Someone like you,” you echoed softly. “You mean the guy who patches up the prospects when they do something stupid? Who makes sure I get home safe after closing? Who remembers my coffee order even when I change it every other week?”

He huffed a laugh, but it sounded pained. “I’m old enough to be—”

“Don’t.” You cut him off, gentle but firm. “Don’t do the math for me. I know the years. I also know you.”

Silence stretched. He rubbed a hand over his beard, the silver catching the light again.

“I’ve spent too many years ruinin’ things for the people I care about,” he said finally, voice rough. “Lost my family once. Nearly lost the club more times than I can count. Ye deserve better than gettin’ tangled up in that.”

You reached across the table, covering his scarred hand with yours. He didn’t pull away.

“Maybe I decide what I deserve,” you said. “Maybe I’ve been waiting for you to stop treating me like I’m fragile. Or like I don’t know exactly who I’m looking at.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles—slow, tentative, like he was testing if it would burn. “Ye’re sure?”

“I’ve been sure for a while,” you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re the one who’s been slow on the uptake, old man.”

That earned you a real laugh—deep, relieved, the sound you loved most. He turned his hand, lacing his fingers through yours properly this time.

“Aye, well,” he murmured, eyes softening in a way that made your chest ache, “reckon I’ve got some makin’ up to do then.”

He stood, tugging you gently to your feet. You let him pull you close, close enough to feel the steady thump of his heart under the leather. His free hand came up, cupping your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw like he was memorizing it.

“Gonna kiss ye now,” he warned, voice dropping to that gravelly whisper that always sent a shiver through you. “And if ye change yer mind—”

“I won’t.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull back. You didn’t.

The kiss was soft at first—careful, almost reverent. Then, deeper, hungrier years of held-back want spilling out in the press of his mouth, the way his fingers slid into your hair. He tasted like coffee and smoke and everything familiar you’d been craving.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, he let out a shaky breath.

“Christ, lass,” he muttered. “Should’ve done that ages ago.”

You smiled against his lips. “Better late than never.”

He kissed you again, quicker this time, playful. “Dinner tonight. My place. No club business. Just us.”

“Deal,” you said, stealing one more kiss before stepping back. “But you’re cooking. I’ve seen your attempt at ordering takeout.”

He grinned, that crooked, scarred smile that had always made your heart skip. “Bossy already. I like it.”

You laughed, shoving him lightly toward the door. “Back to work, Telford. We’ve got bikes to fix.”

He lingered in the doorway a second longer, watching you with something soft and unguarded in his eyes, something that looked a lot like hope.

Today was one of the few days you did not wake up with Baelor at your side. It was tradition for a wife to live in separate chambers from her husband when she became with child. You decided to follow tradition, mostly in hopes of letting your husband get sleep. But when you had done so, Baelor simply followed you. And now your small room held both of you in it most nights. 

But last night, Baelor had been up late. And when he'd finished his work, he knew you would be asleep already. Rather than disturbing you, he spent the night in his own chambers. 

And as you sat on the chair he insisted was taken to your balcony for you to rest in, you saw a perfect view of the courtyard. 

Baelor did not spar very often. He was an older man now, with no need to prove himself amongst the others. He'd done enough of that. But today, somehow, Valarr had managed to persuade the crown prince from his royal duties for just a few hours. 

It was an odd yet heartwarming sight, seeing the two spar. Valarr, though far the younger, was still well trained. His moves were quick and agile, form maintained perfectly and his steps counted. 

Baelor, however, was still the superior. The elder prince moved with precision as if habit. Each step was well suited to defend himself, but it seemed as if he was hardly trying. 

His voice was raised, uncommonly so, just enough for Valarr to hear him. "Keep your sword up. I'm not your father on the field, remember that." Valarr swung again, and Baelor's pride grew. "Good. Again."

And you watched contently, hand resting naturally over the swell of your womb. 

Watching him now, you realized just how well suited Baelor was to be a father. It came to him so naturally. Valarr was a perfect copy of his father in all ways— brave, empathetic, compassionate and wise. Matarys was becoming that was as well. And the next child will surely be just the same. 

If Baelor asked you to give him a small army of his carbon copies, you fear you'd do so without batting an eye. 

But the pregnancy was far from easy. And with it, came the fears that whispered into your ear late at night when you were finally trying to rest. 

The ones that told you that you couldn't do it. 

Your mother had troubling pregnancies. It was a miracle that you had come. And your father was greedy enough to want another child— a boy. But upon your mother's second pregnancy, she was lost and the child as well.

You didn't mention it often. Baelor knew the broad strokes, but not the truth— that your father had chosen an unborn child and a hope for a son over the woman he had promised to protect and love. 

And your Baelor was a good man. He wouldn't make the same choices. 

Those thoughts had plagued you for nearly two moons now. But you kept them to yourself. There was no need to worry Baelor. They were all for naught. And voicing them would only bring cause more issues. 

Instead, you let yourself enjoy this time. Each moment that you had with your Baelor before another voice would join your family. 

Valarr muttered something lowly to his father, the way the two always communicated. And soon, Baelor turned and look right up at you. It was hard to tell from such a distance, but you were fairly certain that he smiled. 

You gave a small wave, warmth rushing up your cheeks at the thought of disrupting them. 

But they soon turned away again, continuing as they were before. 

"Is she not due soon, father?" Valarr asked, swinging his sword with a little less gusto. 

Baelor blocked it. "Within the week, the maester believes. But the little one is restless. I'd wager the next few days."

"Are you nervous?"

The question stunned Baelor, making him almost forget to block Valarr's next swing. "I suppose so. Childbirth is no easy matter."

"You're not worried it'll be a girl?"

To that, Baelor began to laugh. "I am blessed with anything the gods grant me. For I already have you and Matarys. A third now, I'm just being greedy."

"It will be nice," Valarr remarked. "Having a younger voice in the Keep again. I'm sure you've missed it."

"You've no idea."

…

Baelor sought you out the moment his last meeting ended. He'd stepped into your room, letting out a soft sigh that signified all the burdens he shed in the doorway. "What a sight for my weariness," he smiled, eyes set upon you.

You sat in bed, your stitching in hand, well— more resting on your shelf of a stomach. You had been working on embroidering the babe's blanket, and you were nearly finished. 

He began to shed his clothes, unbuttoning his surcoat with rough fingers. He saw you begin to get up, and he holds a hand out to stop you. "Don't move on my account, my love. The sentiment is sweet. But I would rather keep you from being jostled."

You huff. "I am perfectly capable of standing."

He gave you a knowing look, his head tipping to the side. "Humor me. I'd rather you rest."

You gave in, resting against the headboard once more. 

You watched as he pulled off his surcoat, setting it aside. Then went his tunic. He stretched, and you let yourself admire his bare chest— sprinkled with greying hairs and firm from years of using a sword. 

He catches your eye and smiles. "Does my lady require something of me?"

You only hum. 

His gaze heats up as he rounds the bed to your side. He leans over you and tilts your chin up. His mouth brush over yours. "I've missed you. All day, you plagued my thoughts. You always do." And following it, he presses a searing kiss to your lips. 

You reach up, trying to pull him down. But Baelor is a wall of iron, not giving into your unspoken whims. He pulls away, moving back to the  wardrobe to finish readying himself for bed. 

Your stomach jolts, the babe clearly gleeful to hear their father's voice. 

He notices the displeased look on your face. "Is everything alright?"

But it's more than a jolt. It's a pinch. A pain. You try to ignore it. "Just a bit uncomfortable."

He crosses back over to you quickly, adjusting the pillows behind you in hopes it fixes the problem. It doesn't, but you give him a grateful smile anyway. 

He rushes now, pulling his boots off and tucking them away (he was always extra careful not to leave tripping hazards out for you, the considerate man), and joining you in bed. 

You're grateful for his steady touch. His hand rests over the babe you've grown, warm and stable. 

But this pinching feeling. Nothing quite helps it. 

And with it, comes those hazardous thoughts. The ones that damned you. 

He watched closely. "Tired?" He tries to guess.

You nod, not having the energy or effort to explain it to him. Not tonight. Perhaps after it passes, you will. 

So he helps you lay down, poking and prodding the pillows until you're satisfied. And he holds you close. His breath tickles your neck, but comforts you all the same. 

"I love you," he breathes, barely heard. 

Your eyes close, and you're soon asleep. 

Baelor lets out a content sigh, following suit knowing you're safe.

…

You wake up in a whimper. 

Your thighs ache. It feels as if waves are running through your lower back muscles. Everything hurts, like a heavy menstrual cramp. 

You curl up in pain, trying to let it pass. Baelor's sleepy form naturally pulls you closer. 

It lasts longer than you liked. 

But finally, it stops, leaving behind a dull ache. The relief is phenomenal. Only thinking it's a cramp that needs stretched, you try to wiggle out of bed. 

But it's a hard task, considering (1) your husband's arm is wrapped around you and (2) you're massive with child. 

You pick up his arm by the wrist and manage to get free. Your movements are slow and steady. Well, as steady as you can be. Your arms feel a bit shaky. 

But you manage to sit up on the edge of the bed when the cramps came back. And just as easily, the panic returns as well. 

You stand up in a rush, trying to walk it off. You right your shift, straightening the fabric over your stomach. Your legs shake as you quietly pace the room in the dark. You silently thanked Baelor for not setting his boots out on the floor. 

You tried to reach down past your stomach, and that's when you realized the bottom half of your shift was wet.

Your hand paused there. Your water broke in your sleep. 

Your hands shake violently. You're not ready. You can't do this. You weren't prepared. 

Your hand clasped over your mouth, holding in a small cry. And there, your legs gave out. You fell at the foot of the bed, resting your back there. The floor was cold and firm, but was enough to ground you. 

You weren't sure how long you sat there. But two more of these waves of pain had passed and they were growing nearer in time.

Baelor shifted. His hand came up to his eyes, rubbing the sleep from them. He shivered. And when he moved the covers, he realized they were wet, cold from the air. And you weren't there. 

He sat up quickly, throwing the furs and sheets to the side. For such a calm man, he was utterly panicked. He stood, swaying from the lack of muscle coordination at such a late time in the night. His eyes were adjusted enough to see the path to the door. 

But a sniffle stopped him.

He froze, looking down to the foot of the bed, where his wife sat in a heap. 

He was relieved to see her, but the panic was far from over. He quickly knelt to her side. "Gods. What hurts? Speak to me, my girl. Tell me."

You only cried harder. 

He tried to get you to look at him. His hand ran down your back, still nothing. "You must look at me. Please."

A full sob broke from your lips, hot tears following in rapid succession. 

Baelor had finally had gathered his thoughts. He grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. His heart broke at the your puffy eyes. "Your body is ready to have the baby, my love." It wasn't a question, but a statement. He felt the need to convince you so. 

You grasped at his wrist. "Please don't make me."

He sat on the ground next to you, pressing himself close. "You know that's not possible. Your body is ready for it. Let me help you to the bed."

"Baelor, please!" You wail. 

He pauses, realizing this is more than just the pain. His grip softened. 

"I… I'm not ready," you admit through sporadic breaths. "I can't. I…"

"You're scared," he finishes, soft and warm. "Let's get you on the bed, and we'll talk this over."

You don't have any fight in you when he holds you up by your biceps and guides you to the bed. In fact, the soft mattress is rather welcoming, even if it's wet like the rest of you. 

The next contraction hit, and you gasp. 

Baelor's there, sitting at your side. He holds your hand and runs the other one over your forehead. "Breathe deeply. I have you, sweet girl."

You try. Gods, you try. But the ripple of pain truly takes your breath straight from your lungs. 

He waits for it to pass. Ever the quiet prince. Patient and assuring. 

Finally, when he sees your glaze of your eyes pass, he speaks again. "Tell me your fears. The pain?"

You shake your head, letting him wipe the last of your tears from your cheek. 

"Then what?"

"It… It's complicated."

He smiles sweetly. "Everything seems to be these days. But I assure you, I will follow along."

And you finally tell him of the unfortunate circumstances of your mother's death. You rush it out, parts a bit unexplained and confusing, but you only want it out before the next contractions comes. 

He listens diligently, carefully, hanging on every word and nodding every time you became unsure of yourself. 

When the next contraction comes, Baelor stews on all of it. You never stated 'I'm worried you'd choose the child over me,' but he comes to the conclusion all the same. 

Finally, he leans over you and kisses your cheek. He stops there, speaking lowly in your ear. A promise. "I chose you as my wife. In every lifetime, I would do so again. You'll live today, my brave wife. Strong, and beautiful all the same."

His words wash over you like cool water, refreshing. 

And you gained just enough strength. "Get the maester."

… 

Baelor doesn't stray from you when the labors begin. He'd seen the fear in your eyes when the maester suggested he wait outside. How you worried they'd overlook you when he was away. 

Thus, he stayed. 

He held your hand tightly, helped shift you when you were uncomfortable, and whispered sweet words into your ear when you were losing strength. 

Each contraction was painful, and you loudly said so. 

But his voice never raised and never wavered. He stayed steadfast to your side, watching each move of the maester and midwives because he knew you couldn't. 

All births have complications, but this one was one of the easiest, according to the maester. 

You were spent, body worn and limp. Your eyes were glazed over and tired. And sweat made your hair cling to your forehead. Baelor smiled, kissing your hand.

"A girl, your grace."

You let out a surprised chirp, squeezing Baelor's hand tightly with the little strength you had. 

"A girl," he mused. "You've given me a sweet, baby girl. How perfect."

When you were cleaned enough, you insisted he lay by your side. And then, the child was brought to you. 

She was tiny, with lungs far too powerful for such a little thing. She wailed loudly, despite your insistent cooing. 

You were growing frustrated, unsure what to do with her, when Baelor reached for her. Upon settling in his arms, his hand cradling her small head, she calmed. He chuckled at that. "There we are. Seems my girls just need reassurances of my love, is all."

The maester and midwives take their leave, letting the two of you, now three, rest. Baelor is attentive, as he always is, holding the babe so you may perfectly see her scrunched up face. 

"Her hair is dark," he says, looking over it. "Her eyes. Shall we guess before she opens them?"

You rest your head against his arm. "I just hope they work."

"Of course they'll work. You made them."

He says it so casually. So sure. It makes your head spin. "But what if I messed something up?"

"You've yet to ruin a thing," came his steady answer. He gives you his full attention now. "You're not capable of ruining things, my love. You could try and still fail."

The two of you wait in silence until finally, her eyes open. Mismatched, just like her father.

"She doesn't even look like me," you huff. "They'll doubt I even had a hand in making her."

"What they think does not matter. I am aware of just how much sacrifice you've given for her. That matters more than anything else."

And for once, you finally believe it.

...................................................................................