darlin’

The clubhouse looks exactly the same.

You stand in the parking lot for a moment, taking it in. The bikes lined up like soldiers, the worn wooden exterior, the SAMCRO banner hanging proudly above the entrance. It's like stepping into a time capsule, except you're not seventeen anymore, and the world has kept spinning without you.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you push open the door.

This is a mistake, you think, even as your feet carry you forward. You should've stayed away. You should've built your new life back in Charming without looking back at the old one.

But you've never been good at staying away from the things that could hurt you.

The noise hits you first, the sounds of laughter, the crack of pool balls, classic rock bleeding from the jukebox. Then the smell: leather, motor oil, cigarette smoke, and beer. It's intoxicating in its familiarity, and for a moment, you're frozen in the doorway, overwhelmed by the weight of memory.

How many nights did you spend here as a teenager? How many times did Jax sneak you in through the back door, his hand warm in yours, his smile promising trouble?

"Holy shite."

The voice comes from Chibs, who's standing by the bar with a beer halfway to his lips. His eyes go wide, and then his face splits into a grin that could light up the whole damn room.

"Lads! You're not gonna believe this!"

Heads turn as conversations quickly die out, and then it's chaos.

"No fuckin' way!" Tig practically vaults over the couch, his arms open wide as he barrels toward you, still as overly touchy as you remember and just as crazy looking. "Look who came back to Charming!"

You laugh as he sweeps you into a hug that lifts you off your feet, spinning you around like you weigh nothing. "Tig, Jesus... put me down!"

"Not a chance, sweetheart. We gotta make sure you're real."

"She's real, you idiot," Opie deadpans from his spot at the poker table, but even he's smiling. A rare, genuine smile that makes your chest tighten, past memories of you, him, and Jax getting up to no good.

Chibs is next, pulling you into a hug that smells like whiskey and Old Spice. "Missed ye, lass. Charming hasn't been the same without ye."

"Missed you too, Chibs."

Juice appears at your elbow, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. "Dude, you look amazing. When did you get back?"

"Just a few days ago," you tell them, your voice a little breathless from all the attention. "I'm still unpacking, but I thought I'd stop by and—"

"And grace us with your presence," a familiar voice cuts in, smooth and warm and unmistakably Gemma.

You turn, and there she is, Gemma Teller Morrow in all her glory, striding toward you with her arms outstretched and a smile that could melt steel. She's wearing her usual tight jeans, a low-cut top, and enough jewelry to fund a small country, and she looks every bit the queen she's always been.

"Come here, baby," she says, pulling you into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and cigarettes. She holds you at arm's length, her dark eyes scanning you from head to toe. "Look at you. Jesus Christ, you're gorgeous. Isn't she gorgeous?"

The question is directed at the room, but her gaze flicks pointedly toward the corner where Tara Knowles is standing, a glass of wine in her hand and a tight smile on her face.

"Absolutely stunning," Gemma continues, her voice dripping with approval. "I always told Jax you'd grow up to be a knockout, and look at you now. I was right."

Tara's smile doesn't reach her eyes.

You feel the tension immediately, but before you can say anything, Gemma's arm is around your shoulders, steering you toward the bar. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you a drink. You're family, and family doesn't stand around like strangers."

Family. The word lands heavy, deliberate. You catch the way Tara's jaw tightens, the way her fingers grip her wine glass just a little too hard.

You shouldn't be here, the voice in your head whispers. You're walking into something messy, something that's going to hurt people.

But then you see him.

Jax.

He's standing near the pool table, a cue stick in one hand, and he's staring at you like he's seen a ghost. His blue eyes are wide, his lips parted slightly, and for a moment, the entire room fades away. It's just you, him, and the weight of everything left behind.

He looks good, too good. The years have been kind to him—his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader, his hair still that perfect shade of golden blonde that used to drive you crazy. He's wearing his kutte, jeans that hang low on his hips, and a white shirt that clings to his chest in all the right ways.

Your mouth goes dry.

This was a mistake. This was absolutely a mistake.

But you can't look away.

"Jax," Gemma calls, her voice cutting through the moment like a knife. "You gonna say hi, or are you just gonna stand there with your mouth open?"

That snaps him out of it, and he sets the cue stick down, his movements slow and deliberate, and then he's walking toward you. Every step feels like an eternity, and you're acutely aware of every pair of eyes in the room watching this unfold.

"Hey," he mumbles when he finally reaches you, and his voice is rougher than you remember, deeper. It sends a shiver down your spine, you remember the way it used to sound in breaths next to your ear.

"Hey," you reply, and you hate how breathless you sound.

His eyes roam over you, taking in every detail, from your hair, your face, the way your jeans hug your hips, to the curve of your neck. It's not subtle, it's hungry.

"You're back," he says, and there's something in his voice that sounds like disbelief, maybe hope?

"I'm back," you confirm, and you can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

Gemma claps her hands together, breaking the moment. "Alright, enough staring. Let's get this girl a drink and catch up properly. Tig, move your ass. Chibs, grab her a beer. Juice, stop looking like a lovesick puppy."

The guys laugh, the tension breaking as they scramble to follow Gemma's orders. You're swept up in the chaos, pulled into conversations, hugs, and stories that make you laugh until your sides hurt.

But the whole time, you feel Jax's eyes on you, and across the room, Tara watches.

The night wears on, and the clubhouse fills with noise and laughter. Piney shows up and nearly crushes you in a bear hug, telling you how good it is to see you. Bobby gives you a kiss on the cheek and jokes that you're still too good for this place. Even Clay makes an appearance, gruff as ever but with a nod of approval that feels like a blessing.

Gemma holds court at the bar, regaling everyone with stories about you and Jax as teenagers. "You should've seen these two," she grins, her voice loud enough for the whole room to hear. "Thick as thieves. Couldn't keep 'em apart if you tried."

"Remember that time they got caught sneaking into the high school pool at midnight?" Tig chimes in, grinning. "Cops showed up, and Jax tried to play it cool, but this one—" he points at you, "she jumped the fence in her bra and panties and ran like hell."

The room erupts in laughter, and you bury your face in your hands, groaning. "Oh my God, I forgot about that."

"I didn't," Jax admits and when you look up, he's smiling, like really smiling. The kind of smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

Gemma leans in, her voice dropping just enough to be pointed. "They were perfect together. Everyone knew it. Some things are just meant to be, you know?"

Her eyes flick to Tara, who's standing near the doorway, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable; she hasn't said a word the whole time you were here.

You shift uncomfortably, suddenly feeling like a pawn in a game you didn't sign up for. "Gemma-"

"What? I'm just saying." She shrugs, all innocence, but there's a glint in her eye that says she knows exactly what she's doing. "If your parents hadn't left Charming and taken you with them, who knows where you and Jax would be right now. Given me some grandbabies-"

The air in the room feels too thick, too warm. You need a moment to breathe, to think, to process the fact that you're back in Charming and everything is exactly the same and completely different all at once.

"I'm gonna get some air," you say, setting your beer down and heading for the door.

No one stops you as they all awkwardly look at each other, sipping their drinks.

The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the heat of the clubhouse. You lean against the wall, tilting your head back and closing your eyes, letting the sounds of the night wash over you—crickets, distant traffic, the low hum of music from inside.

"You really came back."

You don't have to open your eyes to know it's Jax. His voice is soft, almost disbelieving, and when you look at him, he's leaning against the wall beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again," he continues, his gaze fixed on you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.

"I didn't think I'd be back either," you admit, your heart pounding. "But here I am."

He steps closer, and the air between you shifts, charged with something electric. His hand grazes yours, and the touch sends a jolt through you, waking up parts of you that have been dormant for years.

"You look…" He trails off, shaking his head like he can't find the words. "Fuck, you look good. More than good. You're fuckin' gorgeous."

Your breath catches at his tone. He's so close now that his body heat is radiating against you, and you can see the desire in his eyes. It's the same desire you feel echoing in your chest.

"You're not so bad yourself, Teller," your voice teasing, but there's an edge to it like a vulnerability you can't quite hide.

He chuckles, low and deep, and the sound vibrates through you. "You have no idea what you're still doing to me," he murmurs, his hand settling on your waist, pulling you closer.

The world narrows to this, his hand on your waist and his eyes locked on yours, the way his thumb brushes against your hip in slow, deliberate circles. You should step back and remind him that he's with Tara, that this is messy, complicated, and wrong.

But you don't, you can't.

"Jax…" you start, but the words die in your throat when he leans in, his forehead resting against yours.

"I missed you," he whispers, and the rawness in his voice nearly breaks you. "Every fuckin' day, I missed you."

You close your eyes, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat beneath your palms, fast and erratic, matching your own.

"I missed you too," you tell him, and it feels like a confession, like opening a door you've kept locked for years.

For a moment, you just stand there, breathing each other in, the world fading away. And then you hear it, a door opening and then footsteps on gravel.

You pull back, and when you look across the lot, Tara is standing there, her expression unreadable but her posture tense. She knows. She's always known. Jax was never entirely hers, not in the way he was yours.

Jax doesn't move. His hand is still on your waist, his body still angled toward you, and when you glance at him, you see it—the conflict in his eyes, the yearning, the inevitability of what's happening between you.

"Jax," Tara calls, her voice tight.

He doesn't answer right away. His gaze stays locked on you, his fingers tensing on your waist like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

"I should go," you say softly, even though every part of you wants to stay.

"Don't," he pleads, and the desperation in his voice nearly undoes you. Those blue eyes that haven't changed a bit except for the grief that wasn't there before.

But you step back, putting space between you, and the loss of his touch feels like a physical ache.

"Goodnight, Jax," you whisper softly, and then you're walking away, your heart pounding and mind racing.

Behind you, you hear Tara's voice, sharp and accusing; you know she's worried, and she has every reason to be.

Because tonight, Jax wasn't hers. Not entirely. Not when his fingers had tightened on your waist after hearing her voice, and you knew this was only the beginning.

Three days.

It's been three days since you walked into the clubhouse, three days since Jax's hand was on your waist, three days since you felt the weight of his gaze following you across the parking lot.

Three days of unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, and pretending you're not thinking about him every single second.

You're in your apartment, surrounded by the chaos of moving half-empty boxes, clothes draped over chairs, books stacked on the floor. You've been trying to make this place feel like home, but it's hard when your mind keeps drifting back to blue eyes and a voice that makes your knees weak.

The knock on the door makes you jump.

You're not expecting anyone. For a moment, you consider ignoring it, but then it comes again, three sharp, impatient raps that echo through the small space.

When you open the door, Jax is standing there wearing jeans and a plain black t-shirt, his kutte absent for once, and his hair is slightly messy like he's been running his hands through it. His eyes are dark, intense, and when they lock on yours, you feel your breath catch.

"Jax," you whisper, and you hate how his name sounds on your lips, all breathless and wanting. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you," he states, his voice rough. He steps forward, and you instinctively step back, letting him into your apartment. He closes the door behind him, and suddenly the space feels too small, too intimate.

"How did you even know where I live?"

"Gemma," he explains simply, and of course. Obviously, Gemma would tell him it's easy to see where she lies in all of this. Her pointed words and knowing looks toward Tara.

You cross your arms over your chest, trying to create some kind of barrier between you and him, "You shouldn't be here."

"I know," he says, but he doesn't move to leave. Instead, he takes another step closer, and you can smell him, the same leather, soap, and something uniquely Jax that makes your head spin. "I tried to stay away. I really fuckin' tried."

"Jax-"

"I can't stop thinking about you," the words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them in for too long. "Since the moment you walked back into that clubhouse, I can't think about anything else. You're all I see. You're all I want."

Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. "You're with Tara."

"I know," he expresses, and there's pain in his voice, conflict. "I know I am. But it doesn't change how I feel about you. It never has."

He's so close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the way his jaw tightens like he's fighting some internal battle.

"This is wrong," you whisper, but even as you say it, you're leaning toward him, drawn by some invisible force you can't resist.

"I don't care," he declares, and then his hand is cupping your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "Tell me you don't feel this. Tell me I'm crazy, and I'll walk out that door right now."

You should tell him exactly that. You should push him away, remind him of Tara, and protect yourself from the inevitable heartbreak.

But you can't.

"I feel it," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "God, Jax, I feel it, I never stopped."

That's all the permission he needs.

He closes the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that's desperate and hungry and years in the making. You gasp against his mouth, and he takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours as his other hand tangles in your hair.

It's not gentle. It's not sweet. It's raw and needy and everything you've been denying yourself for three days.

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. His body presses against yours, backing you up until you hit the wall, and then his hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up your sides.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark with desire, his breathing ragged. "I've wanted to do that since the moment I saw you again."

"Jax," you whisper, and you're not sure if it's a plea or a prayer.

He kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense. His lips move against yours like he's memorizing the taste of you, the feel of you, and you melt into him, your body fitting against his like it was made to be there.

His hand slides under your shirt, his palm warm against your skin, and that's when reality crashes back in.

"Wait," you gasp, pulling back. "Wait, we can't—"

"Why not?" His voice is rough, his forehead resting against yours.

"Because you're with Tara," you say, and saying her name out loud feels like a bucket of cold water. "Because this is wrong. Because I can't be the other woman, Jax. I can't."

"You're not the other woman," he says fiercely, his hands framing your face. "You've never been the other woman. She's—"

"She's your girlfriend," you interrupt, stepping out of his embrace. The loss of his touch feels like a physical ache, but you force yourself to put distance between you. "She's your girlfriend, and I'm not going to be the reason you cheat on her."

"I don't want her," he says, and there's desperation in his voice now. "I want you. It's always been you."

"If you really want me, if this is real, then end it with her first. But I can't do this, Jax. I can't be with you while you're with someone else." Your voice cracks on the words, and as much as you want to say 'fuck it' and lead him to your bed like all those years ago as fumbling teens, you can't.

He stares at you, conflict written all over his face, and for a moment, you think he's going to argue. But then his shoulders slump, and he runs a hand through his hair.

"Fuck," he mutters, and the word is heavy with frustration.

"You need to go," you say softly, even though every part of you is screaming at you to take it back, to pull him close and damn the consequences.

"I don't want to go," he states, his eyes locked on yours.

"I know," you whisper. "But you have to."

For a long moment, he just looks at you, and you can see the war raging behind his eyes. Then, finally, he nods.

He crosses to the door, his hand on the knob, but he pauses before opening it. "This isn't over," he says, looking back at you. "You and me, this isn't over. It was never over."

"Jax-" you breathe, voice pleading.

"I'm gonna fix this," he tells you, voice firm. "I'm gonna make this right. And then I'm coming back for you."

Before you can respond, he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

You slide down the wall, your legs giving out, and you bury your face in your hands. You can still taste him on your lips, still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin.

What the hell have you done?

The universe, you decide, has a sick sense of humor because over the next three days, you run into Jax everywhere.

Day One: The Grocery Store

You're in the cereal aisle, debating between two brands, when you feel that prickle of awareness that tells you you're being watched. You turn, and there he is, leaning against his shopping cart at the end of the aisle, a small smile playing at his lips.

"Stalking me, Teller?" you call out, trying to keep your voice light even though your heart is racing.

"Just shopping," he shrugs, pushing his cart toward you. "Didn't know you'd be here."

"Liar," you say, but you're smiling despite yourself.

He stops beside you, close enough that you can smell his cologne, and peers into your cart. "Frozen dinners and wine. That's sad, babe."

"I'm still settling in," you defend, even though he's right. You haven't had the energy to cook real meals.

"Let me cook for you. As friends," he adds quickly, and the offer is so casual, so domestic, that it makes your chest ache. Though the look in his eyes says there's nothing friendly about what he's feeling. "Just… let me take care of you. Please."

You should say no. You should maintain your boundaries and keep your distance until he sorts out his situation with Tara.

"Okay," you hear yourself say instead.

His smile is blinding, and your stomach tightens remembering that same excited smile from when he'd see you sneaking out to his bike after midnight. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, and you're rewarded with a look of such pure happiness that it makes your knees weak.

His hand brushes yours as he reaches past you for a box of cereal, and the touch sends electricity shooting up your arm. His eyes darken, and you know he felt it too.

"Saturday night," he says, his voice low. "I'll bring everything. You just have to show up."

"It's my apartment, Jax. I kind of have to show up."

He grins, nudging you as if he'd missed your brand of brattiness. "Smart ass."

You watch him walk away, and you can't help but notice the way his jeans hug his ass, the confident swagger in his step. When he reaches the end of the aisle, he looks back, catching you staring, and his grin turns wicked.

You're in so much trouble.

Day Two: The Gas Station

You're pumping gas, lost in thought, when a motorcycle rumbles up to the pump across from you. You don't have to look to know it's him; you'd recognize the sound of his bike anywhere.

"We've gotta stop meeting like this," Jax grins, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his hair.

"You're the one who keeps showing up wherever I am," you point out, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at the sight of him.

"Charming's a small town," he says with a shrug, but there's mischief in his eyes.

He starts pumping his gas, and for a moment, you both just stand there in comfortable silence. But then he speaks again, his voice softer.

"I've been thinking about that kiss."

Your breath catches as your eyes widen as you look around in case anyone's listening. "Jax. We can't just-"

"Can't help it," he admits, his eyes locked on yours across the pumps. "I close my eyes, and I'm right back there, with you against that wall, your hands in my hair…"

"Stop," you whine, but there's no force behind it.

"Tell me you haven't been thinking about it too," he challenges, and you almost think he's going to grab you and kiss you right here.

You can't because you have been thinking about it constantly, obsessively, to the point where you can barely sleep, and when you do sleep, you dream of him...

"That's what I thought," he states smugly with satisfaction in his voice.

Your pump clicks off, and you busy yourself with replacing the nozzle, needing something to do with your hands. When you turn back, Jax is right there, having crossed the space between the pumps.

"I'm working on it," he comments quietly, and you know exactly what he means. "The thing with Tara. I'm working on it."

"Okay," you nod slowly, because what else can you say?

His hand comes up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and the gesture is so tender it makes your throat tight. "I meant what I said. I'm coming back for you."

Then he's gone, swinging his leg over his bike and roaring off into the afternoon, leaving you standing there with your heart in your throat.

Day Three: Main Street

You're walking out of the hardware store, carrying a bag of supplies for your apartment, when you literally collide with someone.

Strong hands grip your arms, steadying you, and you look up into familiar blue eyes.

"Jesus, we really need to stop meeting like this," you state, echoing his words from yesterday.

"I'm starting to think fate's trying to tell us something," Jax says, and he hasn't let go of your arms yet.

You're standing in the middle of the sidewalk, people flowing around you, but it feels like you're in a bubble, just you and him and the electric current running between you.

"How's the apartment coming?" he asks, nodding to your bag.

"Slowly," you admit. "Turns out I'm not very handy."

"I could help," he offers immediately. "I'm good with my hands. You remember that, right?"

The innuendo is clear, and you feel heat rise to your cheeks. "Jax."

"What?" He grins, all innocence. "I meant fixing things. What did you think I meant?"

"You're impossible."

"You love it," he says, and the word love hangs between you, heavy with meaning.

His thumb is stroking your arm through your shirt, a small, unconscious gesture that's driving you crazy. You should step back and put some distance between you, but you can't seem to make yourself move.

"Dinner's still on for tonight, right?" he asks.

"You're really going to cook for me? I didn't know you could cook. Last I remember, you and Ope used to microwave hot dogs from the garage and call it gourmet."

"I'm a changed man. I know how to cook... now, and if you're lucky, I won't even burn it," he teases, flashing those charmingly pearly whites. "Seven o'clock?"

"Seven o'clock," you confirm.

He leans in, and once again, for a heart-stopping moment, you think he's going to kiss you right there. But instead, his lips brush against your ear as he whispers, "Can't wait."

Then he's stepping back, his hands sliding away from your arms, and you immediately miss his touch.

"See you tonight, darlin'," he smirks knowingly, and then he's walking away, leaving you standing there trying to remember how to breathe.

That night, you change your outfit three times before he arrives. Too bold, too casual, too... 'this might lead to sex if we're not careful'. So you settle on a simple dress.

When the knock comes at seven on the dot, you take a deep breath and open the door.

Jax is standing there with two bags of groceries, wearing jeans and a grey henley that makes his eyes look impossibly blue. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and he smells incredible.

"Hey," he greets as his eyes roam over you appreciatively. "You look beautiful."

"You brought a lot of food," you say, trying to deflect from the compliment.

"I'm making my mom's pot roast recipe," he says, stepping inside. "It's kind of involved."

You follow him to your small kitchen, watching as he starts unpacking ingredients. There's something surreal about having Jax Teller in your kitchen, domestic and comfortable, like this is something you do all the time.

"Can I help?" you offer, standing behind him a little awkwardly, not knowing what to do with yourself.

"You can keep me company," he tells you, shooting a smile over his shoulder. "And maybe open that wine I brought."

You do, pouring two glasses and settling onto a barstool to watch him work. He moves around your kitchen with surprising confidence, chopping vegetables and seasoning meat. You find yourself mesmerized by his hands—the way they handle the knife, the sureness of his movements.

"You're staring," he says without looking up, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

"You're in my kitchen," you counter. "I'm allowed to stare. I'm also still in shock that you can cook, and it's not dollar store ramen with little hot dogs in it."

He glances at you then, and the heat in his eyes makes your stomach flip. "Stare all you want, darlin'."

As he cooks, you talk—about everything and nothing. He tells you about the club, about the garage, about his boys. You tell him about where you've been, what you've been doing, carefully skirting around the question of why you came back.

But eventually, he asks.

"Why did you come back?" He's standing at the stove, stirring something, but his eyes are on you. "To Charming, I mean. After all this time."

You take a sip of wine, considering your answer. "I don't know," you express finally. "Maybe I was running from something. Or maybe I was running toward something."

"Toward what?"

You meet his eyes. "I'm still figuring that out."

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and you can see the question in his eyes.

Was it me? Did you come back for me?

But he doesn't ask, and you don't answer.

Dinner is incredible—the pot roast tender and flavorful, the vegetables perfectly cooked. You eat at your small table, knees bumping underneath, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Finally, you reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. "Thank you for this. For cooking for me."

He turns his hand over, lacing his fingers with yours. "Thank you for letting me."

The moment stretches between you, charged and intimate, and then his thumb is stroking across your knuckles, and you're leaning forward, and he's leaning forward, and-

Your phone buzzes on the table, shattering the moment.

You pull back, grabbing it, and your stomach drops when you see the name on the screen.

Gemma.

"It's your mom, I should-" you start, but Jax nods, not a look of disappointment on his face as much as knowing.

"Answer it."

You do, and Gemma's voice fills your ear, warm and commanding. "Hey, baby, I'm just calling to check on you. You settling in okay?"

"Yeah, Gemma. Everything's good." You don't tell her that her son is sitting at your table after having cooked you the best meal you've had for a long time.

"Good, good. Listen, we're having another family dinner at the clubhouse this weekend. You better be there."

You glance at Jax, who's watching you with an unreadable expression. "I'll be there," you promise as you watch him to see if he gives anything away.

"Perfect. And honey? Don't be a stranger. You're still family. If you need anything, we can send a prospect around," Gemma states, and you realize this is more than just coming home, this is family, this is the club.

When you hang up, Jax is smiling softly. "She really has adopted you again, hasn't she?"

"Apparently," you muse, putting the phone down, you'd always gotten on well with Gemma, even when you were a teenager getting caught by police on the back of Jax's bike at 3am. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"No," he states, and there's something fierce in his voice. "It's not a problem at all."

After dinner, he helps you clean up, and the domesticity of it—washing dishes side by side, his arm brushing yours—feels almost more intimate than the kiss you shared days ago.

When everything is clean and put away, you both linger in the kitchen, neither wanting the night to end.

"I should go," Jax whispers finally, but he doesn't move. Almost like if you'd asked him to stay, he would have.

"Yeah," you agree, but you don't move either.

He steps closer, his hand coming up to cup your face. "I'm working on it," he tells you again. "I promise."

"I know," you whisper.

He leans in, and this time his lips brush against your forehead, a gesture so tender it makes your chest ache. "Goodnight, darlin'."

"Goodnight, Jax."

After he leaves, you lean against the closed door, your heart full and aching at the same time.

This is dangerous, you think. This is so dangerous.

But you can't seem to stop.

You tell yourself you're not going back to the clubhouse.

You spend the day of Gemma's dinner trying to convince yourself to text her with an excuse—you're not feeling well, you have plans, anything to avoid the inevitable tension of being in the same room as Jax and Tara.

But by the time the sun sets, you're pulling on your favorite jeans and touching up your makeup, because you've never been good at denying Gemma Teller anything.

The clubhouse is already buzzing when you arrive. The guys are gathered around the bar, beers in hand, and the smell of grilled meat wafts from the kitchen. Gemma spots you immediately, her face lighting up like you're the prodigal daughter returned.

"There she is!" she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear. She pulls you into a hug, then holds you at arm's length, her eyes scanning you approvingly. "Look at you. Stunning, as always."

"Thanks, Gemma," you say, smiling despite yourself.

"Come on, baby. Sit with me." She loops her arm through yours and guides you to the bar, where she's already claimed two stools. "You're family, and family sits at the head of the table."

The pointed emphasis on family isn't lost on anyone, least of all Tara, who's sitting at a table in the corner with Jax. Her jaw tightens, and she takes a long sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving you.

Jax, for his part, looks like he's been hit by a truck. His gaze locks on you the moment you walk in, and it doesn't waver. He's wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his chest, his kutte draped over the back of his chair, and his hair is slightly messy.

The way he's looking at you like you're the only person in the room, like Tara doesn't even exist, makes your stomach flip.

"Alright, everyone, listen up!" Gemma calls, clapping her hands together. "We've got our girl back, and I think that calls for a celebration. Let's hear some stories. Tig, you start."

You let out a whiny groan, knowing this could be bad.

Tig grins, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, I got a good one. Remember that time these two-" he gestures to you and Jax, "decided to 'borrow' Clay's bike and take it for a joyride?"

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "Oh God, not this story. I blame Jax-"

"Yes, this story," Tig insists, his grin widening. "They made it about ten miles before the engine started smoking. Clay was pissed. But this one-" he points at you, "she looked him dead in the eye and said, 'At least we didn't crash it.'"

The room erupts in laughter, and even you can't help but smile at the memory.

"She had balls," Chibs states, raising his beer in a toast. "Still does, I reckon."

"Damn right," Gemma agrees, her eyes gleaming. "She's always been a firecracker. Jax knew how to pick 'em back then."

The comment hangs in the air, heavy and deliberate. Tara shifts in her seat, her expression tight.

"What about the cop story?" Juice pipes up, grinning. "That one's legendary."

"Oh, Jesus," you mutter, but you're laughing now, the memories flooding back.

"Alright, alright," Jax speaks for the first time since you arrived. His voice is low and warm, and it sends a shiver down your spine. "I'll tell it."

He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and his eyes find yours across the room. "We were seventeen. I'd just gotten my bike, and we were cruising around town, being stupid kids. Cop pulled us over for a busted taillight, and he was being a dick about it, threatening to impound the bike."

"And then?" Juice prompts, even though everyone in the room already knows the story.

Jax's lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. "And then this princess..." he nods toward you, "she gets off the bike, walks up to the cop, and lifts her shirt."

The room explodes with laughter and wolf whistles, and you cover your face, laughing so hard your sides hurt.

"She flashed him," Jax continues, his voice full of admiration. "Just like that. Cop didn't know what the fuck to do. He stammered something about a warning and let us go."

"Best distraction he's probably ever seen," Tig cackles, wiping tears from his eyes.

Gemma leans in, her voice dropping just enough to be pointed. "See, that's what I'm talking about. They were chaos together, but they worked. Some people are just meant to be, you know?"

Her gaze flicks to Tara, who's staring down at her wine glass, her knuckles white.

You feel a pang of guilt, but before you can say anything, Gemma's already moving on, launching into another story about the time you and Jax got caught sneaking into a drive-in movie.

The night wears on, and the stories keep coming. Bobby tells the one about you beating Tig at pool and winning fifty bucks. Opie reminisces about the time you helped them fix a bike when you were sixteen, your hands covered in grease and a smile on your face. Even Clay contributes, mentioning how you once punched a guy who was hassling you before Jax stepped in.

"She's always been one of us," Chibs nods, raising his beer. "Welcome home, lass."

"Welcome home," the others echo, and the warmth in their voices makes your chest tight.

But every time you glance at Jax, he's already looking at you, and the heat in his eyes is unmistakable.

Eventually, you excuse yourself to find the bathroom. The hallway is dimly lit and quiet, a stark contrast to the noise of the main room. You're just about to push open the bathroom door when you hear footsteps behind you.

"It's down there." You turn, and Jax is standing there, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

"I know where the bathroom is, Jax," you say, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

"Right." He steps closer, and suddenly the hallway feels too small, too intimate. "Just wanted to make sure you didn't get lost."

"I've been here a hundred times," you remind him, but you don't move away.

"Yeah," he says, his voice dropping. "I remember."

The air between you crackles, charged with something you can't name. His eyes roam over your face, lingering on your lips, and you feel your pulse quicken.

"You having a good time?" he asks, stepping even closer, and you can feel the warmth coming off him.

"Yeah," you manage as you look up at his face. "The guys are great. It's like I never left."

"You shouldn't have left," he states, and there's an edge to his voice now, something raw and honest. "You should've stayed. With me."

"Jax, it wasn't my choice, my parents-" you start, and then huff, "Plus, you're still with-"

"I know, I know. I'm with Tara." He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "But fuck, you're making it really hard to remember that."

"I'm not doing anything," you protest weakly.

"You're breathing." he's so close now you can feel his minty breath. "You're existing. You're here, and you're beautiful, and you're everything I've wanted for years, and I can't-" He breaks off, his jaw clenching.

"Can't what?" you whisper.

"Can't stop thinking about you," he says, his voice rough. "You look good tonight. You always look good, but tonight… fuck."

The words hang between you, a reminder of the line you're both toeing.

"You're all I can think about," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers linger on your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. "Since the moment you walked back into that clubhouse, you're all I can fuckin' think about. When I wake up, when I go to sleep, when I'm at the garage. Even when I'm with her... it's always you."

You should step back. You should remind him that this is wrong, that he's with someone else, that you can't do this.

But you don't.

Instead, you lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment, it's just the two of you in the dim hallway, the rest of the world fading away.

"This is a bad idea," you whisper, but even as you say it, you know you don't mean it.

"Probably," he agrees, his forehead resting against yours. "But I don't care."

His hand slides to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, and you feel the tension coiling between you, tight and electric. Your hands come up to rest on his chest, and you can feel his heart pounding beneath your palms.

"I'm ending it," he says suddenly, his voice fierce. "With Tara. I'm ending it. I just need to find the right time, the right way. But I'm done pretending she's what I want when you're right here."

"Jax," you breathe, and you're not sure if it's a warning or an encouragement.

He leans in, his lips hovering just above yours, and you can feel his breath on your skin. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, once again giving you the chance to stop him. To walk away from this.

But you can't; the words won't come.

And then, from the end of the hallway, you hear Tara's voice.

"Jax?"

He pulls back, his jaw tightening, and when you open your eyes, you see the conflict written all over his face. But there's something else there too, determination.

"I'm just gonna-," you say, motioning away as your voice shakes.

"Wait," he breathes, his hand catching yours. "I meant what I said. I'm ending it. Soon."

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and then you're slipping past him, your heart pounding, your mind racing. As you walk back into the main room, you feel Tara's eyes on you, sharp and accusing.

And you know, without a doubt, that everything is about to change.

You're standing outside the clubhouse, getting some air, when you hear the door open behind you. Tara. You can feel her presence, sharp and cold, like a blade against your back.

"We need to talk," she asserts, her voice tight and controlled.

You turn slowly, and she's standing there with her arms crossed, her expression hard. She's beautiful—you can see why Jax was attracted to her—but there's something brittle about her right now, something fragile beneath the anger.

"Okay," you say carefully, not knowing exactly what she was going to say or accuse you of, but she had every right to.

"Are you happy?" she asks, and the question catches you off guard.

"What?"

"Are you happy?" she repeats, stepping closer. "Breaking up my relationship? Coming back here and stirring up all this shit?"

"I'm not trying to break up anything," you say, but the words sound weak even to your own ears.

"Bullshit," she snaps, her eyes narrowing on you. "I see the way you look at him. I see the way he looks at you, how everyone clearly thinks you're 'great' together. You think I'm stupid?"

"No," you say quickly. "I don't think you're stupid."

"Then don't treat me like I am," she states, and there's pain in her voice now, beneath the anger. "I know what's happening here. I've known since the moment you walked back into that clubhouse."

You don't know what to say. Part of you wants to deny it, to tell her she's wrong, but you can't. She's not wrong. You knew from the time you and Jax set eyes on each other again that it would lead here.

"I didn't come back here to cause problems," you say finally. "I didn't even know if I'd see him again."

"But you did," she states firmly, as if your moving back to Charming was something you'd done to spite her. "And now everything's falling apart."

"Tara, I-"

"Do you know what it's like?" she interrupts, her voice rising. "To watch the man you love look at someone else the way he looks at you? To know that you were always the second choice, that you were just a placeholder until the real thing came back?"

The words hit you like a physical blow. "I'm sorry," you whisper, and you mean it. "I'm so sorry."

You knew Tara had chased Jax in high school, even when you were just friends messing around, but Jax had never been able to see anyone but you. Not any of the girls who used to giggle and flutter their lashes, but the best friend who'd flip off cops as they outran them.

"Sorry doesn't fix this," she says, and there are tears in her eyes now. "Sorry doesn't change the fact that he's never been mine. Not really. He's always been yours."

You feel tears prick at your own eyes. "I didn't ask for this."

"Neither did I," she states almost angrily, at you? At Jax? For falling for a man whose heart was already taken? "But here we are."

For a moment, you both just stand there, two women caught in the orbit of the same man, and you feel a strange kinship with her—a shared understanding of what it means to love Jax Teller.

"He's going to choose you," she expresses finally, her voice flat. "You know that, right? He's going to choose you, and I'm going to be left with nothing. He'll always choose you."

"You don't know that," you say, but even as the words leave your mouth, you know they're a lie.

"Yes, I do," she nods with a sad sigh. "I've always known. I just didn't want to admit it."

She takes a step back, wrapping her arms around herself like she's trying to hold herself together. "You should know something," she says. "About Jax. About this life."

"What?"

"SAMCRO is his priority. It always will be. The club comes first, before everything—before you, before me, before anyone. If you think you're going to ride off into the sunset with him, you're deluding yourself."

"I know what I'm getting into," you tell her, but she shakes her head.

"No, you don't. You think you do because you knew him when we were teens, but this life—it's dangerous. It's violent. It's messy. And it will consume you if you let it."

"I can handle it," you declare, and there's more confidence in your voice than you feel.

She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's what I thought too. But you can't handle it. No one can. This life breaks people."

"Then why are you with him?" you challenge. You knew Gemma wasn't exactly welcoming to Tara; she kicked the doc down more times than you agreed with, but it wasn't your place.

"Because I love him," she states simply with a small shrug of her thin shoulders. "And love makes you stupid."

You don't have a response to that.

She wipes at her eyes, composing herself. "I'm not going to fight for him," she tells you. "I'm not going to beg him to stay or make a scene. But I want you to know what you're getting into. I want you to know that this won't be easy, and it won't be pretty, and there's a good chance it will break your heart."

"I know," you say softly.

"Do you?" she asks, and there's genuine curiosity in her voice now. "Do you really know? Or are you just caught up in the romance of it all, the bad boy biker and his long-lost love?"

"I know him," you state firmly. "I've always known him. And I know he'd choose me over anything, even the club."

She stares at you for a long moment, and then she nods slowly. "Maybe you're right," she says. "Maybe he would. And maybe that's what scares me the most."

She turns to go, but pauses for a moment, having more grace than you probably would have. "For what it's worth," she speaks without looking back, "I hope you make him happy. I hope you give him whatever it is I couldn't."

Then she's gone, disappearing back into the clubhouse, and you're left standing alone in the dark, your heart heavy with guilt and anticipation and fear.

Because she's right about one thing, this won't be easy.

But as you think about Jax, about the way he looks at you, about the way his touch sets your skin on fire, you know you're willing to risk it.

You're willing to risk everything.

The rain starts just after midnight.

You're in your apartment, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and the faint smell of cardboard and dust. The place is a mess—clothes draped over chairs, books stacked haphazardly on the floor, your bed barely made. You've been here for a few weeks, and already it feels like you're drowning.

You pour yourself a glass of wine and sink onto the couch, staring out the window at the rain streaking down the glass. The storm matches your mood—restless, chaotic, unrelenting.

You can't stop thinking about this afternoon. The way you and Jax seem to orbit each other, the look on Tara's face when she caught you together again, the conversation outside the clubhouse.

But now, alone in your apartment with the rain pounding against the windows, doubt creeps in.

What have you done?

You've upended Jax's relationship. You've inserted yourself back into his life after years away. You've let yourself fall back into old patterns and feelings without thinking about the consequences.

And what about Tara? Despite everything, you feel guilty. She loves him, and you've taken him away from her.

But he chose you, a voice in your head reminds you. He's ending it with her. He chose you.

You take a long sip of wine, trying to quiet the warring voices in your head.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, and your heart leaps when you see Jax's name.

Jax: You okay?

You stare at the message for a long moment before responding.

You: Yeah. Just thinking.

Jax: About?

You: Everything. Us. How fast this is all moving.

There's a pause, and then your phone rings. You answer on the second ring.

"Hey," you say softly.

"Hey," he replies, and just the sound of his voice makes you feel calmer. "Talk to me. What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

"I don't know," you admit. "I just… this is all happening so fast. At first I was just moving back to town, and now…"

"Now you're mine again," he finishes, and there's satisfaction in his voice.

"Yeah," you whisper, holding the phone to your ear as you picture the smug grin on his face. "Now I'm yours."

"You having second thoughts?" he asks, and there's an edge to his voice now, something vulnerable. Like he's worried that you've changed your mind, and you'll leave again.

"No," you say quickly. "No, it's not that. I just… I feel guilty. About Tara. About how this all went down."

"Don't," he says firmly. "Don't feel guilty. What happened with Tara was on me. I should've ended it a long time ago. I should've ended it the moment I realized I was still in love with you."

"When did you realize that?" you ask.

"Honestly, I don't think there was a time I didn't know," he says simply. "I've been in love with you since we were kids, and I never stopped. Not for a single day."

Your throat tightens with emotion. "Baby-"

"I know this is fast," he continues. "I know it's messy. But I don't care. I've wasted enough time pretending I could be happy with someone else. I'm not wasting any more."

"I'm scared," you admit in a whisper.

"Of what?" he asks gently, a sound most wouldn't know Jax was capable of making.

"Of this. Of us. Of how much I feel for you." You take a shaky breath. "What if it doesn't work? What if we're better as a memory than as reality?"

"We're not," he says with absolute certainty. "We're better together. We always have been."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know you," he expresses. "I know the way you laugh when you're really happy. I know the way you bite your lip when you're thinking. I know the way you look at me like I'm the only person in the world. And I know that what we have—it's real. It's always been real."

Tears prick at your eyes; he's right. He always is. You remember the heartbreak from when your parents told you that you were moving, the despair of having to leave him behind, "I love you."

"I love you too," he mirrors with a loving whisper, the sound only a person regaining their love can make. "And I'm coming over."

"What? Jax, it's late, and it's pouring-"

"I don't care," he says. "I need to see you. I need to hold you and remind you that this is right."

You try to call out his name and stop him, you didn't want him out there on his bike in this weather, but he's already hung up.

You set your phone down, your heart racing. Part of you wants to tell him not to come, to give yourself space to think, to process everything that's happened.

But a bigger part of you, the part that's been in love with him since you were teenagers, wants nothing more than to have him here, in your space, holding you and making all the doubts disappear.

You stand up, pacing the small living room, your mind racing. The rain continues to pound against the windows, and you wrap your arms around yourself.

This is happening; this is really happening.

And despite the fear, despite the guilt, despite everything, you want it.

You want him.

You've always wanted him.

The knock comes twenty minutes later, knuckles rapping impatiently upon the wood. You cross to the door, your heart pounding, and when you open it, there he is.

Jax.

He's soaked from the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead, his white t-shirt clinging to his chest. His eyes are wild, desperate, and when he looks at you, it's like he's seeing you for the first time.

"I can't do this anymore," he says, his voice rough and urgent. He steps inside, forcing you to back up, and he kicks the door shut behind him. "I can't stay away from you. I tried. I fuckin' tried, but I can't."

Your breath catches. "What are you-"

"I don't want Tara," he says, and the words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them in for too long. "I don't want her. I never did. She was… she was a distraction, a way to forget you, but it didn't work. Nothing worked."

He steps closer, and you can see the rain dripping from his hair, the way his chest heaves with every breath.

"I talked to her," he admits as he watches your expression. "I ended it. I told her it was over. That I couldn't keep pretending when all I wanted was you."

"Jax," you whisper, and you're not sure if you're relieved or terrified or both.

"You're all I want," he says, his voice breaking. "You've always been all I want. And I know this is fucked up, I know it's messy, but I don't care. I can't keep pretending."

Your heart is racing, your mind spinning. You should tell him you need time. You should remind him that this is complicated. Instead, you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek, and you whisper, "Then don't."

That's all it takes.

He closes the distance between you in an instant, his hands gripping your waist as his lips crash against yours. The kiss is desperate, hungry, years of pent-up need and longing pouring out all at once. You gasp against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, and he groans, the sound vibrating through you.

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, and he carries you deeper into the apartment, his lips never leaving yours. You crash into a stack of boxes, sending them tumbling to the floor, but neither of you cares.

"Bedroom," you manage to gasp between kisses, and he nods, his grip on you tightening.

He navigates the chaos of your apartment, his mouth trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes you shiver. When he finally reaches the bedroom, he lays you down on the bed, his body covering yours, and for a moment, he just looks at you.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful," he murmurs, his hand cupping your face. "I've dreamed about this. About you."

"Jax," you whisper, your hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the hard planes of his chest. "I need you."

That's all the permission he needs.

He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and then his hands are on you, tugging at your clothes with an urgency that makes your head spin. Your shirt comes off, then your jeans, and soon you're both bare, skin against skin, the heat between you almost unbearable.

His hands roam over your body, mapping every curve, every inch of skin he's been denied for so long. His lips follow, trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. When his mouth closes around your nipple, you arch into him, a moan escaping your lips.

"Fuck, I missed you," he murmurs against your skin, his hand sliding between your thighs. When his fingers find you, slick and ready, he groans. "So wet for me already."

"Jax, please," you gasp, your hips bucking against his hand.

He doesn't make you wait. He positions himself between your legs, his eyes locked on yours, and then he's pushing inside you, slow and deep, filling you completely.

You both moan at the sensation, your bodies fitting together like they were made for this, for each other. He stills for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he whispers, his voice strained.

"Move," you beg, your nails digging into his back. "Please, Jax, move."

He pulls out almost completely, then thrusts back in, hard and deep, and you cry out, your body arching beneath him. He sets a relentless pace, his hips driving into you with a desperation that matches your own. Every thrust sends sparks of pleasure through you, building and building until you're teetering on the edge.

"Look at me," he commands, his hand gripping your chin. "I want to see you when you come."

You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his blue eyes nearly undoes you.

"That's it," he murmurs, his thumb finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel you."

The combination of his words, his touch, the way he's filling you, it's too much. You shatter as your orgasm crashes over you in waves, and you cry out his name, your body trembling beneath him.

"Fuck, yes-," he groans, and his rhythm falters. But he doesn't stop, doesn't let up, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling beneath him.

Finally, he pulls out, and you whimper at the loss. But then he's flipping you over, pulling your hips up, and he's sliding back inside you from behind.

The new angle is deeper, more intense, and you bury your face in the pillow, muffling your cries as he pounds into you. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and you love it, love the way he's claiming you, marking you as his.

"Mine," he growls, and the possessiveness in his voice sends another wave of pleasure through you. "You're mine."

"Yours," you gasp. "I'm yours, Jax."

He reaches around, his fingers finding your clit again, and you're coming again before you can even process it, your body shaking with the force of it.

"Fuck, I'm gonna-" he starts, and then he's coming too, his body tensing as he spills inside you, your name a broken prayer on his lips.

He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard, and for a long moment, you just lie there, tangled together, your hearts racing in sync.

Eventually, he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him so you're tucked against his chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, and you close your eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull you into a sense of peace.

"I meant what I said," he murmurs after a long silence. "I don't want Tara. I want you. I should've done it sooner. I should've done it years ago, before I ever got involved with her."

"You couldn't have known I'd come back," you say.

"Doesn't matter," he says firmly. "You were always the one. Even when you were gone, even when I thought I'd never see you again, you were always the one."

Your throat tightens with emotion, and you lean in, kissing him softly. "I love you," you whisper against his lips. "I've always loved you."

"I love you too," he says, and then he's kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring everything he feels into it.

When you finally break apart, he's smiling. "You're mine," he says, his voice firm, possessive. "You've always been mine. And I want everyone to know it. I'm not letting you go again."

Tears prick at your eyes, and you lean in, kissing him softly.

He smiles against your lips, and for the first time in years, you feel like you're exactly where you're supposed to be. He pulls you closer, his hand sliding down to rest on your hip, and you can feel him already starting to harden again against your thigh.

"Again?" you ask, breathless with laughter.

"I've got years to make up for," he says, rolling you onto your back and settling between your legs. "And I plan on making up for every single one of them."

This time, he takes his time—kissing every inch of your skin, learning your body all over again, making you come twice before he finally slides inside you. And when you finally fall asleep hours later, tangled together in your bed, you know that this is just the beginning.

This is your new life.

This is your future.

And it's everything you've ever wanted.