Author note: I don’t have any one to beta read my content. As stated I've tried to make everything I’ve wrote gender neutral but If I have slipped up somewhere please just let me know and I’ll fix it asap. <3
Triple Frontier Boys :
Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales
Do you want to know a secret? (Gender Neutral)
Oh My love.. My darling (Gender Neutral)
Will Miller
Hello Nurse (Gender Neutral)
Benny Miller
You are my sunshine (Gender Neutral)
Waking up in Vegas (Gender Neutral)
Santiage ‘Pope’ Garcia
Hey Brother (Platonic x Triple Frontier boys)
Yelena Belova:
To make her smile: (Ace!Yelena Belova x Gender Neutral Reader)
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Chibs get's genuinely offended when you tell him you don't want to bother him with something. He actually doesn't think he's ever been more offended in his life.
You hadn't even meant anything by it.
It was such a small sentence, tossed out absentmindedly while you sat on the battered leather couch in the clubhouse office with an ice pack wrapped around your ankle after managing to trip over absolutely nothing outside the garage, and Chibs was kneeling in front of you with one weathered hand carefully supporting your foot while he inspected the swelling with the same concentration he usually reserved for dismantling firearms or patching up club members after fights, muttering about how you should have told him sooner.
You'd laughed a little, embarrassed more than anything.
"It's alright," you'd murmured. "I didn't want to bother you."
His hands stopped, completely.
For several long seconds, the room was silent except for the muffled sounds of laughter drifting in from the main bar.
Slowly, very slowly, Chibs looked up.
His expression wasn't angry or annoyed. He looked...offended. Deeply. Personally. As though you'd just insulted his mother, his motorcycle, Scotland, and whisky in one spectacular sentence.
"...Bother me?"
You blinked. "...Yeah?"
He stared at you.
"Bother me."
You frowned. "...I mean..."
"Bother me."
"...Why do you keep repeating it?"
"'Cause I'm trying tae figure out if I heard ye correctly."
"I just meant—"
"I know what ye meant."
"..."
"And it's the daftest thing I've heard all year."
You actually looked around the room, half expecting someone else to be involved in this conversation because surely there had been some misunderstanding somewhere, but there was nobody else, just Chibs still kneeling in front of you, looking more personally affronted than he'd looked when Tig had accidentally backed into his motorcycle six months ago.
"You...look really offended."
"I am offended."
"I wasn't insulting you."
"Aye, ye were."
"What?"
"Ye just told me ye didn't want tae bother me."
"...That's not an insult."
"It bloody well is."
You couldn't help laughing.
"It isn't."
"It says ye think helping ye is an inconvenience."
"I never said that."
"It's what ye meant."
"No, it isn't."
"It's exactly what ye meant."
"I meant you have other things to do."
He actually scoffed.
Scoffed.
"As opposed tae helping the woman I—"
He stopped himself so abruptly his jaw clicked shut.
You caught it. "The woman you...?"
He cleared his throat.
"The woman...that's important tae the club."
Your smile grew.
"That sounded edited."
"It was."
"You changed the sentence halfway through."
"I did."
"...Were you about to say something else?"
"No."
"You hesitated."
"I did."
"...Interesting."
He pointed a finger at you, "Don't get distracted."
"I'm not distracted."
"Ye're smiling."
"Because you're adorable when you're offended."
His entire face froze. "...Adorable?"
"A little."
He looked horrified.
"I've never been called adorable."
"First time for everything."
"I've stabbed people."
"I know."
"I've terrified federal agents."
"I know."
"I've broken people's bones."
"I also know."
"And ye've looked at all that and decided the word is adorable?"
"You have little offended eyebrows."
"My...what?"
"They do this."
You demonstrated, furrowing your brow dramatically.
"They're doing it right now."
He looked genuinely betrayed.
"I do not have offended eyebrows."
"You do."
"I've got intimidating eyebrows."
"You have Scottish eyebrows."
"...Scottish?"
"They're expressive."
"They're intimidating."
"They're expressive and intimidating."
He opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Then muttered something in Gaelic that you absolutely weren't meant to understand.
You grinned wider.
"I win."
"Ye cheated somehow."
"I just looked at your face."
"Aye."
He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking back at you with the exhausted expression of a man who had somehow fallen for someone who found his emotional crises entertaining.
Then the amusement disappeared entirely.
His voice became quieter, gentler.
"...Look at me."
You did.
"If ye call me because ye've got a flat tire..."
He held up one finger, "...I'll come."
A second finger, "If ye're sick."
Third, "If ye're scared."
Fourth, "If somebody's bothering ye."
Fifth, "If ye just want company."
His hand lowered.
"If ye wake up in the middle of the night because ye had a nightmare..." His eyes never left yours. "...I'll answer."
Something inside your chest tightened painfully.
"Chibs..."
"No." He shook his head once.
"I want ye tae understand something." His voice remained steady, but there was something earnest underneath it that made every word land with impossible weight.
"Do ye know what bothers me?"
You slowly shook your head.
"Finding out after the fact."
You frowned.
"What?"
"When ye've been hurting by yourself because ye decided I had more important things tae do."
Your throat suddenly felt tight.
"When something frightened ye and ye sat alone because ye thought I'd be inconvenienced."
His jaw flexed.
"When ye need help and don't ask for it."
He leaned forward slightly.
"That's what bothers me."
His expression softened.
"So don't ever tell me ye don't want tae bother me."
You stared at him.
"I..."
"I've spent over twenty years answering phone calls that started with someone bleeding, dying, getting arrested or starting wars."
One corner of his mouth lifted.
"Ye asking me tae come change a tire or hold ye after a bad day isn't exactly an inconvenience."
You laughed despite the tears threatening your eyes.
"I don't know..."
"What?"
"I still feel bad."
"For what?"
"You already do so much."
He looked at you for another long moment before exhaling through his nose.
Then, without warning, he reached up and gently cupped your face in both hands.
His palms were rough.
Warm.
Comforting.
"My girl..."
The words came so naturally that neither of you noticed them at first.
Then, after a heartbeat, you both froze.
His eyes widened. "...Well."
You smiled so brightly it almost hurt.
"...Your girl?"
His ears turned faintly pink.
"I..."
"You called me your girl."
"I did."
"You didn't even hesitate."
He stared at you for several seconds before giving up with the long-suffering sigh of a man who knew he'd already lost the argument.
"...Aye."
His thumbs brushed your cheeks.
"My girl."
This time he said it on purpose.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
As though there were no taking it back now.
"There."
He shrugged one shoulder.
"It's out."
You laughed through happy tears.
"You know..."
"What?"
"If I'm your girl..."
"Aye?"
"...Then bothering you is kind of in the job description."
He barked out a surprised laugh, the sound warm and genuine enough that several people outside went suspiciously quiet.
"Aye," he admitted, smiling at you with an affection so obvious it would have been impossible to mistake now. "It is."
"So..."
"Hmm?"
"I can call you when I'm having a bad day?"
"I expect ye tae."
"When I can't open a jar?"
"I'll open it."
"When I have nightmares?"
"I'll stay."
"When I just...miss you?"
His smile softened into something impossibly tender.
"I'll already be on my way."
You leaned forward until your forehead rested against his, your hands finding his shoulders as naturally as breathing, and he wrapped his arms around your waist without a second thought, holding you close as though the space between you had always been unnecessary.
Outside the office, the clubhouse had resumed its usual noise, but neither of you paid it any attention, because Chibs was still quietly muttering under his breath about the absurdity of anyone believing they could ever be a bother to the people who loved them, and you were smiling into his shoulder as he kissed your forehead again and again, determined to make absolutely certain that from that day forward, you never carried another burden alone when he was there to carry it with you.
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Someone says "happy wife, happy life" to Happy about you and he just frowns cause.. tf else is supposed to be the goal? You sad? Why the fuck would he want that?
The first time someone called you "Happy's girl," he'd corrected them.
Not because it wasn't true, but because it wasn't complete.
"She's her own person."
That had been the end of the conversation.
Nobody argued.
Happy Lowman didn't waste words, and the club had long since learned that if he chose to say something, he meant it.
Months later, though, it was impossible to deny what the two of you were.
You weren't just dating anymore.
You existed together with an ease that made people stop noticing where one of you ended and the other began.
If Happy was at the clubhouse, sooner or later your little car would pull into the lot because you'd brought lunch, or forgotten your phone in his saddlebag, or simply wanted to steal him for an hour because you'd found a bakery thirty minutes away that supposedly made the best cinnamon rolls in California and, according to you, this was an emergency.
If you were home, there was an almost embarrassing chance Happy would be there too. Sometimes fixing something. Sometimes cooking because he'd quietly learned half a dozen recipes you liked after overhearing you mention them once. Sometimes sitting in complete silence while you read beside him, your legs draped over his lap as though they had always belonged there.
Nobody had ever seen Happy Lowman domesticated before.
It was...
Unsettling.
Not because he'd become soft.
He hadn't. The man would still shoot someone without hesitation if they threatened the people he loved. He was still terrifying. Still quiet. Still had the same thousand-yard stare that made strangers rethink their life choices.
The only difference was you.
You walked straight up to him while he was cleaning one of his guns one afternoon, plucked it gently out of his hands without even asking, set it on the workbench beside him, and replaced it with a sandwich.
"You forgot lunch."
Happy looked at the sandwich.
Then at you.
"...Thanks."
"You've been out here for three hours."
"Hm."
"You would've stayed until dinner."
"Probably."
You smiled.
"I know."
Then you kissed his cheek and wandered back inside.
Happy picked up the sandwich.
Started eating.
Never questioned the exchange for even a second.
Across the garage, Tig watched the entire thing happen.
"...Did she just confiscate your gun?"
Happy shrugged.
"Yeah."
"And replace it with a sandwich?"
"Yeah."
"...You just let her."
Another shrug.
"I was hungry."
Tig stared.
"...You're impossible."
The relationship settled into something wonderfully ordinary.
You stole his hoodies, so Happy quietly bought more hoodies. You complained that his apartment never had decent coffee, and afterwards, it mysteriously always had your favourite brand after that.
You'd wake up before him on mornings you stayed over, discover he had somehow wrapped himself around you in his sleep despite insisting for months that he "didn't cuddle," and instead of teasing him, you'd simply smile, run your fingers gently over the ink on his head, and wait for him to wake up naturally.
The first time he realized you did that...
He nearly malfunctioned.
"You don't wake me?"
"No."
"...Why?"
"'Cause you looked peaceful."
That answer haunted him for weeks.
Nobody had ever looked at Happy Lowman sleeping and thought peaceful.
It became almost routine for you to drift through the clubhouse whenever you had free time.
Not because you particularly enjoyed the noise.
Mostly because you liked seeing Happy.
The guys had gotten used to it.
You'd wave. Steal fries off Chibs' plate. Argue with Juice about movies. Accept hugs from Bobby. Roll your eyes every time Tig tried to convince you to help him prank someone.
You fit.
Not because anyone expected you to, but because you'd somehow become family without ever trying.
One warm afternoon, everyone was outside behind the clubhouse while Happy changed the oil in one of the bikes.
You wandered over carrying two cold bottles of water.
Without a word, you handed one to Happy.
He took it automatically.
Opened it.
Took a drink.
Then, noticing you trying to twist the stubborn cap off yours one-handed because you were balancing your phone under your arm, he reached over, took the bottle from your hand, opened it, and handed it straight back. Just.. done.
You smiled.
"Thank you."
"Hm."
Then you leaned over, brushed a quick kiss across his temple, and wandered off again because your phone had started ringing.
Silence followed.
Tig looked between the two of you.
Then at Chibs.
Then back again.
"...You two make me sick."
Happy ignored him.
Bobby laughed.
"Nah."
"They're disgustingly cute."
Happy kept working.
Juice smirked. "I give it another six months before Happy starts reminding her to take her meds."
"I already do," Happy answered without looking up.
The entire table went silent.
Happy frowned.
"...What?"
Tig blinked.
"You already what?"
"She forgets."
"So..."
Happy looked genuinely confused by the question.
"I remind her."
"You...remind her."
"Yeah."
"...Every day?"
"If she needs it."
Nobody spoke.
Because somehow, for Happy, that was more romantic than flowers.
A few days later, Happy was helping move supplies into the clubhouse when an older mechanic from another charter wandered over.
The man had met you earlier that morning.
You'd arrived with homemade muffins because apparently everyone deserved breakfast, kissed Happy hello, scolded him for skipping coffee, tucked an extra muffin into the pocket of his kutte "for later," and left again after hugging half the room.
The mechanic watched you drive away.
Then looked at Happy.
He laughed.
"Well."
Happy kept lifting boxes.
"What."
The man grinned.
"Happy wife, happy life."
Happy paused.
Actually paused.
Set the box down and looked at him, a frown already forming on his face.
"...Yeah."
The mechanic chuckled.
"No, I mean, you know..." He made a vague gesture. "Keep the little lady happy."
Happy's frown deepened.
"...Yeah."
The mechanic waited.
Happy waited too.
"...That's the saying."
"I heard it."
"...Right."
Another long silence.
Finally Happy asked, with the kind of complete sincerity only Happy could manage, "...The fuck else would the goal be?"
The mechanic blinked.
Happy genuinely looked confused.
"If she's happy..." He shrugged once. "...Good."
The mechanic laughed.
"No, I'm just saying sometimes you gotta—"
"Compromise?"
"Well..."
"I do."
"No, I mean—"
Happy interrupted him again.
"Why would I want her sad?"
The man opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Happy continued, like he was trying to explain something painfully obvious to a child.
"I like when she smiles."
"...Sure."
"So I do things that make her smile."
"...Right."
"I don't like when she's upset."
"...Nobody does."
Happy looked even more confused.
"So..." Another shrug. "I fix the thing."
The mechanic stared.
Happy stared back.
"You saying I should make her unhappy?"
"...No."
"Then what're we talking about?"
Unfortunately for Happy... Tig had heard the entire exchange.
Which meant everyone heard it within five minutes.
By the time Happy walked into the clubhouse, half the room was already laughing.
Tig was wiping tears from his eyes.
"Oh my God."
Happy sat down.
"...What."
"You asked him what the goal was."
"He was saying weird shit."
"He said happy wife, happy life!"
"I know."
"And you went—" Tig put on an exaggerated impression of Happy's gravelly voice. "'The fuck else is supposed to be the goal?'"
The room erupted again.
Happy frowned harder.
"...It is."
That only made them laugh more.
Chibs leaned against the bar, grinning.
"Ye don't even understand why that's funny, do ye?"
"No."
"Ye really don't."
Happy looked around the room.
"If she's having a bad day..." He gestured vaguely. "...I help."
Bobby nodded.
"Reasonable."
"If she's hungry, I feed her."
Juice covered his mouth to hide another smile.
"If she's cold, I give her my hoodie."
Tig was practically wheezing.
"If she's crying..." Happy's voice softened instinctively. "...I hold her."
The laughter slowly faded.
Because there wasn't a joke anymore.
He wasn't performing. He wasn't trying to sound romantic. He genuinely couldn't understand why anyone would approach loving someone differently.
Happy looked between all of them.
"...What?"
Nobody answered immediately.
Finally Bobby smiled.
"I think..." He glanced around the room. "...That's probably why she picked you."
You arrived maybe twenty minutes later.
Completely unaware of the conversation.
Happy was leaning against the bar nursing a coffee when you walked in carrying a paper bag.
"Hi, baby."
You smiled the moment you spotted him.
"I brought those lemon cookies you like."
Happy's entire expression changed.
It wasn't dramatic.
Most people wouldn't even notice.
But the club did.
His shoulders relaxed, his eyes softened and the corners of his mouth lifted just enough to count.
He reached for the bag.
"You remembered."
"'Course I did."
You stood on your toes and kissed his cheek.
"You've had a long week."
He rested one large hand lightly against your waist for just a second.
"...Thanks."
You looked around.
"Why is everybody staring at us?"
Nobody answered.
Tig simply shook his head.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"I think we've been looking at the saying all wrong."
You frowned.
"What saying?"
Bobby chuckled.
"Nothing important."
Happy looked down at you as you happily started unpacking the cookies onto a plate for everyone else before making sure he took one first.
He watched the little crease that appeared between your eyebrows when you concentrated. The way you instinctively broke your own cookie in half and handed him the bigger piece without thinking. The way you smiled after he accepted it, as though that tiny exchange mattered.
It did.
It mattered more than most things in his life ever had.
You caught him looking.
"What?"
Happy reached up, tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that would have shocked anyone who'd known him ten years earlier, and quietly said, "Nothin'."
You smiled.
"Okay."
Then you slipped your hand into his, automatically. Like it belonged there.
Happy laced his fingers through yours without a second thought.
Across the room, Tig leaned toward Chibs and muttered under his breath, "You know..."
"What?"
"I think he was right."
Chibs smiled into his beer.
"Aye."
"He really does think her bein' happy is just... the obvious thing."
Tig watched Happy glance down at you with that rare, almost disbelieving softness that only ever appeared when you were close enough to touch.
"...Poor bastard."
Chibs raised an eyebrow.
"Poor?"
"He never had a chance."
"No," Chibs agreed, watching as Happy quietly reached over to brush a few crumbs from your sweater before you even noticed they were there. "He really didn't."
And Happy, utterly oblivious to the teasing still waiting for him, could only think about one thing as your fingers squeezed his hand and your smile lit up the room.
Of course your happiness was the goal.
He loved you.
As far as he was concerned, there had never been any other goal worth having.
Someone makes you cry. It does not go well for them when Happy finds out.
The first time Happy Lowman saw you cry, he didn't actually see it happen.
That was probably the only reason someone left the clubhouse with all their teeth still intact.
You were twenty-four, bright where Happy was dark, soft where he was hard, and somehow you'd managed to become part of the fabric of SAMCRO without anyone really noticing when it happened; one day you were just there, sitting on the worn couch in the clubhouse office with a book in your lap, helping Gemma with errands, bringing coffee when everyone was hungover, laughing at jokes that weren't funny, and existing in a way that made the entire place feel lighter.
And Happy—poor bastard—Happy was completely, hopelessly, catastrophically gone for you.
Nobody talked about it because Happy wasn't exactly a man people enjoyed discussing behind his back, but everyone knew.
They knew because he always sat where he could see you. Because he somehow appeared whenever you were carrying something heavy. Because he remembered things about you that normal people forgot five seconds after hearing them. Because a man who routinely threatened people for breathing too loudly would spend twenty minutes helping you figure out why your car's Bluetooth wasn't working.
He was forty-nine years old.
He knew exactly how ridiculous it was.
Didn't matter.
You'd owned him for years.
The problem started on a Thursday afternoon.
Happy had been out handling club business two towns over while you'd stayed behind helping with paperwork in the office, and by the time he got back the sun was setting and the yard outside the clubhouse was crowded with bikes and members drinking beer around picnic tables.
Happy noticed something was wrong immediately.
Because you were smiling.
And that was the problem, because the smile looked fake. Tiny. Tight. Like it hurt.
Happy parked his bike and watched you from across the lot.
You laughed at something Juice said.
A second later you looked away.
Happy's jaw tightened.
Something about your eyes looked wrong.
A few minutes later you slipped inside the clubhouse and Happy followed without saying a word.
He found you standing alone in the hallway near the storage room.
Your head was bowed.
One hand covered your face.
Your shoulders shook once.
Twice.
And then Happy heard it.
A tiny, broken sound. Enough to make something cold and ugly wake up inside his chest.
You immediately wiped at your eyes when you noticed him.
"Oh." You tried to smile again. "Hey, Hap."
His expression didn't change.
"Who."
Your smile faltered.
"What?"
"Who."
The single word landed like a hammer.
You looked down.
"Nobody."
Happy stared.
You looked away first, which told him everything, because you always met his eyes. Always.
His voice dropped lower.
"Who made you cry?"
You laughed weakly.
"I'm fine."
Happy took one step forward.
You took one back, instinctively, because you knew him, and somewhere in your mind you were already worried about whoever had upset you.
"Happy."
"Who."
You sighed.
"It doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
The words came out before either of you could stop them.
Silence filled the hallway.
You froze.
Happy froze.
Because Happy didn't talk about feelings. Ever. But there they were anyway. Raw and honest and impossible to take back.
Your eyes softened.
His stomach twisted.
And for one stupid second he thought maybe—
Then you looked away again.
"Forget it."
Happy's face hardened.
Wrong move.
Because if you weren't going to tell him, he'd find out another way.
And he did, approximately twenty-three minutes later.
From Chibs, who made the unfortunate mistake of mentioning that one of the club's associates had spent the afternoon making comments about you. About your age. About how you were hanging around older men. About how you probably liked the attention.
The guy had apparently thought he was funny. Thought everyone would laugh.
Unfortunately for him, Happy Lowman was now aware of his existence.
The associate was sitting outside when Happy found him.
Laughing, drinking beer, having the best final ten minutes of his week.
Happy walked directly toward him and the laughter around the table died instantly. The associate noticed too late.
"Hey, Happ—"
The first punch knocked him off the bench.
The second broke his nose.
The third had Tig physically grabbing Happy's shoulders while several people shouted at once.
Blood splattered across the gravel.
The associate curled into himself.
Happy looked like he was considering murder as a viable solution.
"What the hell?" the man wheezed.
Happy took a step forward.
"You made her cry."
The entire yard went silent, because everyone knew exactly who "her" was.
The man's eyes widened.
"I was joking—"
Happy lunged.
Three people caught him.
Barely.
Happy snarled, "Does she look like she enjoyed the joke?"
The guy wisely shut his mouth.
Happy looked ready to bury him somewhere remote.
The tension lasted another second before Chibs finally stepped between them.
"Happy."
No response.
"Happy."
Still nothing.
"She's gonna be more upset if ye kill him."
That finally worked.
Happy stopped struggling.
His breathing was heavy. Violent. Controlled only through years of practice.
Then he looked at the associate one final time.
"Leave."
The man didn't hesitate.
He practically ran.
Smartest decision he'd made all day.
The yard stayed quiet after he disappeared.
Happy turned around.
And found you standing in the clubhouse doorway.
Watching, your eyes were wide.
Everyone suddenly found something else to do. Tig vanished. Juice vanished. Chibs muttered something Scottish and vanished.
Within seconds the yard was suspiciously empty.
Leaving just you and Happy.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
There was dried blood on his knuckles.
"You beat him up."
Happy shrugged.
"He made you cry."
"Happy."
"He made you cry."
Like that explained everything. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Maybe to him it was.
You shook your head.
"He wasn't worth that."
Happy's gaze never left yours.
"You are."
The breath caught in your throat.
Because Happy wasn't good with words. Which meant when he actually said something, he meant every syllable. Every single one.
The silence stretched.
Neither of you looked away.
Then Happy took a slow step forward.
"I don't like seeing you hurt." Another step. "You cry and I start thinking stupid things."
Your heart was pounding now.
Happy looked almost irritated by his own feelings. Like he was annoyed they existed.
"I don't sleep right when you're upset."
Another step.
"I don't eat."
Another.
"I think about it for days."
His voice lowered.
"I think about you all the damn time."
You stared at him.
The big, terrifying man who scared almost everyone. The man who carried enough violence in him to make grown men nervous. The man who looked absolutely helpless right now.
Because of you.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Happy frowned immediately.
"What."
"You picked a terrible confession."
"I wasn't confessing."
"You literally just confessed."
His jaw clenched.
You laughed harder.
And suddenly he realized you weren't crying anymore.
Your eyes were bright and warm.
Happy loved that look. Loved it enough that it hurt.
Then you stepped closer.
Close enough to touch him. Close enough that he stopped breathing.
"You know," you said softly, "most people buy flowers."
Happy blinked.
"I punched a guy."
"You did punch a guy."
Silence.
Then, like you weren't about to ruin his life, "I like you too, Hap."
His expression didn't change, but his eyes did.
You saw it immediately.
The shock, and hope, and disbelief. "Yeah?"
You smiled.
"Yeah."
Happy stared for another second.
Then another.
Like he was waiting for someone to tell him it was a joke.
When nobody did, he reached for you carefully. Almost cautiously. As though you were something precious. Something fragile. Something he couldn't believe belonged in his hands.
His fingers brushed your cheek.
"You sure?"
You leaned into his touch.
"I'm sure."
Happy exhaled.
A slow breath.
The kind a man takes after carrying something heavy for a very long time.
Then he kissed you.
Gentle.
Shockingly gentle. Like all the rough edges disappeared the second he touched you.
The clubhouse erupted immediately.
Cheers.
Whistles.
Someone shouted that it was about damn time.
Happy flipped everyone off without breaking the kiss, which only made the cheering louder.
And for the first time in years, maybe decades, Happy didn't care who was watching.
Because you were smiling. Because you weren't crying anymore. And because after years of loving you in silence, he finally had you in his arms exactly where he'd wanted you all along.
You ask Happy to stay the night because you “sleep better when someone’s there,” and he almost has a cardiac event.
Happy Lowman had been shot more times than he cared to count, had survived prison, cartel wars, ambushes on lonely highways, and enough bar fights that he'd long ago stopped remembering which scars belonged to which story. His heartbeat barely changed when bullets started flying anymore. He had stared down men twice his size without blinking, smiled while someone held a knife to his throat, and once calmly finished a cigarette while a building burned around him because he knew exactly how much time he had before the roof collapsed.
None of that, absolutely none of it, prepared him for you looking up from the couch one in the clubhouse quiet Tuesday evening and saying, in the most casual voice imaginable, "Would you... maybe stay tonight?"
He looked at you.
You looked back.
"...What."
You blinked. "Stay the night."
"I heard the words."
"So..."
Happy narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"So?"
You shrugged, suddenly looking oddly shy as you tucked your feet underneath yourself. "I just... sleep better when someone's there."
Silence.
The television kept playing some terrible reality show neither of you had actually been watching.
The clock ticked.
Outside, someone revved a motorcycle before disappearing down the road.
Happy continued staring.
You frowned.
"...Happy?"
He honestly wasn't sure his brain was functioning anymore.
Sleep better.
When someone's there.
Someone.
Not anyone.
Him.
His heart—which usually existed purely to circulate blood and occasionally spike during violence—gave one enormous, painful thump against his ribs.
You wanted him there.
Not because someone was after you.
Not because you were scared.
Not because you needed protection.
Just...
Because you slept better.
With him.
His expression remained exactly the same—flat, unreadable, almost bored—but internally it felt like every alarm in his body had started screaming at once.
"...You serious?"
"Yeah."
"You know what you're asking."
"You to sleep."
His jaw flexed.
"You got a couch."
"I don't want you on the couch."
Another heartbeat.
"...Bedroom?"
"If that's okay."
Cardiac event.
Actual, genuine cardiac event.
He was almost fifty years old. He had buried friends, killed enemies and seen things that haunted other men forever.
Yet somehow a twenty-four-year-old woman asking him to share a bed without a hint of seduction had reduced him to feeling like a terrified sixteen-year-old on his first date.
"...Happy?"
"You always ask questions like this?"
"What questions?"
"Ones that shave ten years off my life."
You laughed.
Actually laughed.
He wasn't joking.
The drive to your apartment that evening was the quietest he'd ever been.
Normally he filled silence with the occasional sarcastic remark, or just let it exist comfortably between the two of you.
Tonight?
His mind wouldn't stop.
Sleep better.
Someone's there.
Stay the night.
Bedroom.
He found himself gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary.
Were you lonely?
Scared?
Did you mean anything by it?
Were you completely oblivious to what asking a man hopelessly in love with you to spend the night implied?
Probably.
You had this terrible habit of assuming everyone around you was emotionally stable.
Happy was not emotionally stable.
He was one sentence away from proposing marriage.
Your apartment smelled like vanilla candles and laundry detergent, the way it always did.
You kicked your shoes off near the door.
"I'm making tea."
"Mhm."
"You want some?"
"Mhm."
"You okay?"
"Mhm."
You stopped halfway toward the kitchen.
"...Did somebody replace you with a robot?"
He looked at you.
"...No."
"...Because you've said exactly one real word in the last fifteen minutes."
"I'm thinking."
"Oh." You smiled gently. "Don't hurt yourself."
He stared.
"...Cute."
"I know."
God.
He was doomed.
You handed him a mug.
He accepted it.
Your fingers brushed.
His pulse jumped.
Ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
He'd touched you a thousand times before.
Helping you onto the back of his bike, guiding you through crowds, steadying you when you'd slipped on wet pavement. A hand against your back. Your shoulder. Your arm.
None of those had felt like this.
Because tonight...
Tonight he'd be sleeping beside you.
Not because of passion.
Not because of lust.
Because you wanted him there.
Because somehow his presence had become comfort.
Jesus Christ he was going to die.
When bedtime finally came, you disappeared into the bathroom while he stood awkwardly in your bedroom looking like he'd accidentally wandered into a museum where touching anything would trigger alarms.
Your room was unmistakably yours.
Books stacked beside the bed. A knitted blanket folded neatly across the end of the mattress. Plants thriving in every available patch of sunlight. Tiny fairy lights around the window. A stuffed bear sitting against your pillows.
He found himself smiling despite himself.
Soft.
Everything about you was soft.
Then you walked back in wearing oversized sleep shorts and one of those huge faded T-shirts that reached halfway to your knees.
No makeup.
Hair messy.
Sleepy eyes.
You smiled.
"There."
Happy immediately looked at the ceiling.
"...Right."
"You can change in here if you want."
He nearly laughed.
"I ain't shy."
"I know."
"...You should be."
"I've seen shirtless bikers before."
"Different."
"Because of tattoos?"
"No."
"...Then why?"
He didn't answer.
Because you were the only woman he'd ever wanted to look pretty for.
Eventually the lights went out.
The room settled into darkness.
The mattress shifted as he carefully climbed in beside you, staying rigidly on his side like crossing some invisible line would get him arrested.
There was at least a foot of space between you.
Probably more.
His hands stayed folded over his stomach.
He stared at the ceiling.
Do not move.
Do not breathe too loudly.
Do not make this weird.
"...Happy?"
"Mhm."
"You don't have to sleep like you're in a coffin."
"I'm comfortable."
"You look like Dracula."
"I don't know what Dracula sleeps like."
"Stiff."
"...Mhm."
You giggled.
The mattress shifted.
Then, warmth.
Your hand found his forearm beneath the blanket, resting there. Like it belonged.
"I like knowing someone's there," you murmured into the darkness. "That's all."
His throat tightened painfully.
"...Bad dreams?"
"Sometimes."
"You never said."
"I didn't really think about it."
You yawned.
"But whenever you've fallen asleep on my couch or I've napped at the clubhouse... I always sleep all the way through."
Another yawn.
"So..." You squeezed his arm once. "...Thanks for staying."
His chest hurt.
Actually hurt.
Because you had no idea.
No idea what you were doing to him.
No idea that every careful wall he'd spent decades building was crumbling into dust because you'd admitted, so simply and honestly, that his existence made you feel safe enough to sleep.
He turned his head.
You'd already closed your eyes.
Already drifting.
Trusting him completely.
Without thinking, he shifted closer.
Just enough that your shoulders barely touched.
You sighed happily, content.
"...Better?"
"Mhm." Your voice was barely audible now. "So much."
Five minutes later your breathing evened out.
Asleep.
Just like that.
Happy stayed awake another hour.
Watching shadows move across the ceiling. Listening to your breathing. Feeling your hand slowly slide down until your fingers loosely wrapped around his wrist in your sleep.
He didn't move.
Wouldn't have moved if the building caught fire.
The next morning he woke before dawn out of habit.
For one terrifying second he forgot where he was.
Then he looked down.
You had migrated completely across the mattress, and now your face was tucked against his chest, with one arm wrapped around his waist and one leg tangled with his. Your hair was everywhere.
He froze.
He should move.
Probably.
Instead...
Very carefully...
He rested one hand against your back.
Gentle.
Barely touching.
You made the smallest sleepy sound imaginable and burrowed even closer.
His eyes closed for just a second.
Christ.
He was fucked.
Absolutely, completely fucked.
The second you woke, you smiled.
"...Morning."
"Morning."
"You stayed."
"You asked."
"I'm glad."
You stretched slightly before looking up at him with sleepy sincerity that made lying impossible.
"I haven't slept that well in months."
His hand was still resting lightly against your back.
Neither of you seemed interested in moving it.
"You know," you said quietly, "I think... it wasn't just having someone here."
"No?"
You shook your head.
"It was having you here."
The room became impossibly still.
You looked at him for another long moment before your smile softened into something almost nervous.
"I kind of realized last night that... if it had been anybody else, I don't think it would've worked."
He stared.
You laughed weakly.
"I guess what I'm trying to say is... I don't think I've just been sleeping better."
"No?"
"I think... I just feel better when you're around."
Happy's entire world narrowed until it was just you, your face. Those honest eyes.
He reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek with rough fingertips that had broken bones and held guns and somehow managed to be impossibly careful with you.
"I've been trying not to fall in love with you," he admitted quietly.
Your smile grew.
"...How's that going?"
"It ain't."
"No?"
He shook his head once.
"Not even a little."
You leaned forward until your forehead rested against his.
"I was kind of hoping you'd say that."
His laugh was quiet, rough, almost disbelieving.
Then, after weeks of restraint, months of longing, and countless stolen glances neither of you had ever acknowledged aloud, he kissed you with all the tenderness people would never believe a man like Happy Lowman possessed, and when you smiled into it instead of pulling away, he understood something he hadn't expected to find this late in life.
You hadn't asked him to stay because you were afraid of the dark.
You'd asked because somewhere along the way, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, he'd become home.
And from that morning onward, whenever either of you said, "Stay tonight," it stopped being a question altogether. It was simply where he belonged, and eventually, where the two of you belonged together.
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sammy is the husband that sings really badly with the radio as you cook in the kitchen together. squinting his eyes closed and basically howling and he’s so off-pitch that you have to laugh.
cackling and squealing with laughter as your hands are covered in the dinner you’re making, and sammy’s grinding against you and dodging your pushes.
flipping you around by your hips to face him– trying to hit a high note and failing so terribly. “c’mon baby dance with me” “no, sammy! you’re so flat” “what?! flat?! stop lying and dance with your husband”
both red faced and smiling as his loud, embarassing rendition turns into a hummed comfort as you sway together in the warmth of your home💔
sammy looooooves a slow makeout. sitting in his lap with your arms over his shoulders, deep breaths and happy sighs from both of you.
sammy, ever the ass-man, has his big palms spread across your comfy sweatpants, squeezing and feeling you through them. his tongue glides through yours, a soft, wet comfort and balm to the little nips on your bottom lip.
he’s leaving for work in 6 minutes, but he just needs “his daily lovin’” as he affectionately calls it. leaning his head back as a silent request for you to suck on his neck, closing his eyes and rasping “don’t wanna go. wanna be with you.”
it’s routine and you love it. “gotta go baby, i’ll be here when you’re home, kay?” running your fingers through his auburn hair and massaging the nape of his neck with squeezes of your palm.
relcutantly, like always, sammy nods and pulls you in for a tight bear hug– tucking his head into your neck with puffy cheeks. a muffled “love you” from him as you sync your breathing and relax before he goes <3
he hugs you to his chest like a kid with a teddy bear💔💔💔
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