#jax teller

You glance up when he walks in.

“There you are,” you murmur.

And fuck. That soft little smile nearly knocks the air out of him.

Which is a problem.

A massive, catastrophic problem.

Because somewhere along the line, Jax Teller—who has spent years insisting emotions are inconvenient and love makes people weak—went and fell hopelessly in love with his best friend.

You.

And he’s handling it terribly.

Meaning:

he thinks about you constantly,

gets irrationally angry when other men flirt with you,

and has started finding excuses to touch you whenever possible.

A hand on your back. Your knees over his lap during movie nights. Brushing your hair from your face.

Tiny things, dangerous things.

Because you still don’t know. And he intends to keep it that way. At least until he figures out how to stop feeling like this.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough from the road.

“Long day?”

“You got no idea.”

You make a sympathetic face and pat the empty space beside you. “C’mere then.”

That right there? That’s the shit killing him.

You do it so naturally.

Like sitting beside you is where he belongs.

And maybe it is.

Jax drops onto the couch heavily, legs spread wide, head falling back against the cushions. Every muscle in his body aches.

You immediately reach for his hand.

“Jesus, Jackson.”

Your fingers turn his knuckles carefully, examining the cuts.

His heartbeat stutters. Every fucking time you touch him.

“Looks worse than it is,” he mutters.

“You say that about everything.”

“Usually right.”

“Hm.”

You disappear briefly and come back with the first aid kit.

Jax watches you kneel in front of him, brows furrowed in concentration as you clean the blood from his skin.

Domestic. Dangerously, disgustingly domestic.

At least in his world.

And Jax has to look away because the sight of you taking care of him like this makes something warm and painful bloom inside his chest.

“You eat today?” you ask.

“Probably.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs.

You sigh softly. “I’ll make you something later.”

There it is again.

That unbearable tenderness.

Jax swallows hard.

“Don’t gotta take care of me all the time, sweetheart.”

You snort lightly. “Somebody has to.”

The words should feel teasing.

Instead they settle deep beneath his ribs.

Because the truth is—you do take care of him. More than anyone. More than he deserves.

The moment happens an hour later.

And afterward, Jax replays it so many times he thinks it might drive him insane.

The clubhouse is loud now. Music blaring. People yelling over pool games. Beer bottles clinking.

Jax is already overstimulated and irritated when Half-Sack accidentally knocks a drink across the table.

“Jesus Christ,” Jax snaps.

Half-Sack mutters an apology.

You look up from beside him. “Relax. It’s just beer.”

“I know what it is.”

“You’re grumpy.”

“I’m tired.”

“That too.”

You bump your shoulder lightly against his. Usually that would calm him instantly. Tonight it barely cuts through the static in his skull.

Clay starts yelling from across the room about missing paperwork. Juice is arguing with someone near the bar. Someone drops glass in the kitchen.

The noise stacks and stacks and stacks until Jax suddenly shoves to his feet with a frustrated curse.

“Fuckin’ hell—”

His hands come up sharply.

Not toward you. Never toward you.

Just up into his own hair in frustration.

But— You flinch.

Violently. A full-body recoil. Like you think he’s going to hit you.

The world stops.

Jax freezes instantly.

You freeze too.

Your eyes widen in immediate horror. Because you clearly didn’t mean to do it.

But it’s too late.

He saw.

And the look on your face— Fear.

Not of loud noises. Not surprise.

Fear of him.

Jax feels something inside himself tear open.

The clubhouse noise fades into a dull roar.

“What…” His voice comes out rough. “What was that?”

You immediately shake your head. “Nothing.”

Bullshit.

Jax stares at you.

You won’t meet his eyes now.

And suddenly he feels sick. Not angry. Sick.

Because there is no fucking universe in which he would ever hurt you. Ever.

“You think I was gonna hit you?”

Your head jerks up immediately. “No!”

Too fast. Too automatic. The kind of denial people learn to use when they don’t want situations getting worse.

Jax’s stomach drops.

“Sweetheart.”

“I said no.”

“You flinched.”

You stand abruptly. “I’m gonna go home.”

“No.”

The word comes out sharp enough that nearby conversations quiet slightly.

Jax softens instantly.

“Don’t run away,” he says quietly.

Your throat bobs.

And then Jax notices something else.

You look ashamed. Ashamed. Like you think you did something wrong.

That destroys him.

He steps closer carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

You still won’t look at him.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, your eyes lift.

God.

You look terrified.

Not terrified terrified—not like you think he’s about to hurt you right now—but like you’re waiting for anger. For disappointment. For punishment.

Jax feels nauseous.

“Who hit you?”

Silence.

Your breathing catches slightly.

And there it is.

There. It fucking is.

Jax goes cold all over.

“Who,” he repeats, quieter this time, “hit you?”

You wrap your arms around yourself instinctively.

“No one anymore.”

Anymore.

AN-Y-MORE.

Rage detonates behind Jax’s ribs so hard his vision blurs for half a second.

He wants names. Addresses. Bodies.

Instead he forces himself still because you already look overwhelmed.

“How long?” he asks carefully.

You laugh weakly without humor. “Long enough, I guess.”

Every protective instinct inside him loses its fucking mind.

Because suddenly things make sense.

The way you apologise when people raise their voices. How you move carefully around angry men. The way you instinctively make yourself smaller during arguments.

Things he noticed but never really saw. Until now. And now he can’t unsee them.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers brokenly.

Your eyes shine instantly with embarrassed tears.

“I hate that you saw that.”

That nearly kills him.

Not what happened to you. Not the flinch. The fact you’re embarrassed.

Jax steps closer slowly.

“Listen to me real careful.” His voice is low and steady now. “I would rather cut off my own damn hands than put ‘em on you in anger. You understand me?”

You nod immediately. Too immediately. Like you’re trying to calm him down.

Jax notices.

Of course he notices.

And something dark and furious curls inside him at the realization that somebody taught you to manage men’s emotions for survival.

He wants to burn the whole fucking world down.

Instead he reaches for you slowly.

Slow enough you can pull away. You don’t. That eases something in him, slightly.

His hands settle gently on your arms.

You tense automatically anyway.

Jax feels his heart crack.

“Sweetheart…” His voice goes wrecked. “You never gotta be scared of me.”

Your eyes finally meet his properly then.

And the grief in them is unbearable.

“Sometimes people are good until they aren’t.”

Jesus Christ.

Jax stops breathing for a second.

Because that sentence didn’t come from nowhere. Someone loved you badly enough to poison safety itself. And now your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

Jax understands that.

Logically.

Emotionally, though? Emotionally he’s losing his fucking mind.

It gets worse after that.

Not because you keep flinching.

Because you don’t.

You actually seem calmer around him afterward, relieved the secret’s out.

But Jax? Jax becomes obsessed.

Not angry at you. Never you.

Just desperate. Desperate to make sure you know. He would never hurt you. Ever.

And apparently he decides the best way to accomplish this is by turning into the most emotionally unhinged man alive.

Week one is subtle.

Too subtle.

He lowers his voice around you unconsciously. Moves slower when approaching you. Announces himself before entering rooms if he thinks you didn’t hear him.

You notice.

Obviously.

“Why are you standing six feet away from me like I’m a nervous horse?” you ask one morning.

Jax crosses his arms defensively. “I ain’t.”

“You literally backed up when I reached for coffee.”

“I was givin’ you space.”

“You’ve known me fifteen years.”

“Still.”

You stare at him.

Jax stares back stubbornly.

You sigh. “Jax…”

“I just don’t want you uncomfortable,” and the honesty in his voice wipes the teasing expression off your face immediately.

Something soft enters your eyes.

And that somehow makes this whole thing worse.

Because now he wants to protect every soft thing inside you until he dies.

Week two becomes physical.

Not sexual. Never pushing.

Just… Intentional.

Jax starts touching you carefully. Consistently.

Like he’s trying to rewrite something inside your nervous system.

A hand on your shoulder before he moves past you. A squeeze to your knee during conversations. His palm warm against the back of your neck when he hands you coffee.

Always gentle. Always predictable.

Always giving you room to move away.

You start melting into it without realizing.

And every single time you do, Jax feels simultaneously relieved and homicidal. Relieved because you trust him. Homicidal because someone else made trust this difficult for you in the first place.

One night, you fall asleep against him on the clubhouse couch during a movie.

Your head slips onto his shoulder gradually, your body going warm and heavy beside him.

Jax goes completely still. Like moving might scare you away.

Halfway through the movie, you shift unconsciously and curl closer.

Your face presses lightly against his chest.

Jax nearly fucking dies.

Opie notices immediately from across the room. His grin is unbearable.

“Careful, brother,” Opie murmurs. “You keep lookin’ at her like that, somebody’s gonna notice.”

Jax doesn’t look away from you.

“Don’t care.”

And that’s when Opie realises, “Oh.”

Yeah.

Oh.

Week three is when Jax finally understands the extent of it.

You’re at his house helping organise Abel’s old clothes for donation.

The afternoon is quiet. Safe.

Until a plate slips from Juice's hands in the kitchen and shatters loudly.

You flinch so hard you nearly drop the laundry basket.

Jax sees your face afterward.

The instant panic. The automatic brace.

And then— the embarrassment.

Again.

Like trauma is somehow inconvenient.

That night, Jax sits alone outside the clubhouse smoking for nearly two hours.

Thinking about every time someone taught you fear instead of safety. Thinking about the fact your body still expects pain. Thinking about how badly he wants to kill whoever did that to you.

And underneath all that— Something else.

Something terrifying.

Love.

Not the manageable kind. Not the kind he can ignore anymore.

The catastrophic kind. The kind rooted deep enough that your pain feels like his. The kind that makes him want impossible things.

A future. Peace. You.

“Ah, shit,” he mutters to himself.

Because of course this happened. Of course he fell in love with you.

The confession happens accidentally.

Naturally.

Like most important things between you do.

You’re sitting on the hood of a truck outside the garage late one evening while he works.

Comfortable silence.

Your favorite kind.

“You know,” you say suddenly, “you don’t have to keep treating me like glass.”

Jax looks up immediately. “I don’t.”

“You hover now.”

“I do not hover.”

“You absolutely hover.”

He wipes grease from his hands. “Just makin’ sure you’re okay.”

“I am okay.”

“I know.”

“Then stop looking at me like somebody kicked your dog.”

Jax laughs quietly despite himself.

Then you smile.

And fuck, there it is again. That feeling. That awful, beautiful feeling.

You hop down from the truck and move closer.

“Hey,” you say softly.

Jax’s eyes lift.

“You know I trust you, right?”

The words hit him like a bullet. Because suddenly he realises how badly he needed to hear them.

“How?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Your brows furrow. “How what?”

“How do you trust me after…” He gestures helplessly.

Your expression softens instantly.

“Because you never made me earn softness from you.”

Jax stares.

“You’ve never scared me on purpose,” you continue quietly. “Even when you’re angry, you still pay attention to me.”

He can barely breathe now.

“And,” you add with a tiny smile, “you look at me like I’m something precious.”

Well.

That’s it.

That’s fucking it.

Jax is done for. Completely.

Because you said it so casually. Like you don’t realise what you just admitted seeing.

His voice comes out rough. “Sweetheart…”

You tilt your head slightly.

And Jax kisses you.

He doesn’t mean to.

One second he’s looking at you and the next he’s kissing you like he’s been starving for years.

His hands cradle your face carefully. Like he’s still afraid of hurting you somehow.

You make a startled sound against his mouth.

Then kiss him back.

Jax’s entire world tilts sideways.

The kiss turns desperate almost immediately.

Not messy. Not rushed.

Just honest.

Years of love packed into one impossible moment.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard.

Your eyes are wide.

“So,” you whisper faintly.

“Yeah.”

“You’re in love with me.”

Jax huffs a broken laugh. “Unfortunately.”

A startled laugh bursts out of you.

Then you kiss him again.

And this time Jax melts completely when your hands slide into his hair.

Because you’re not afraid. You’re not bracing.

You’re just holding him. Trusting him. Choosing him.

Jax presses his forehead against yours afterward, eyes closing briefly.

“I swear to God,” he murmurs quietly, “I will spend the rest of my life makin’ sure you never fear me.”

Your expression softens into something unbearably tender.

“You already do,” you whisper.