#mayans mc

You'd forgotten your wallet and had to run back inside. Someone had nearly backed into his bike in the parking lot. The self-checkout had frozen twice. You'd dropped a jar of pasta sauce—not enough to break it, just enough to make you think it would—and by the time you finally reached the bike, you sighed dramatically before looking at the heavily tattooed man standing beside you.

"You know," you said, completely deadpan, "you're basically my emotional support biker."

There was a beat of silence.

A passing family glanced toward the enormous Mayan covered in ink and leather.

Creeper looked at you.

Then he gave one slow, thoughtful nod.

"Works for me."

That was it.

Complete, unwavering acceptance.

You stared.

"...That's all you've got?"

"What else is there?"

"I don't know," you laughed. "I expected at least one joke."

"You made one."

"I know."

"I agreed."

Like that explained everything.

Maybe, to him, it did.

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself, while he reached over to take the grocery bags from your hand before you could protest, loading them onto the bike with the same calm efficiency he seemed to approach everything with, completely unfazed by the fact that he'd just accepted perhaps the strangest title anyone had ever given him.

The thing was...

He took it seriously.

You realized that over the next few weeks.

If you had a stressful day at work, somehow Creeper appeared before you'd even texted him twice.

"You ate?"

If you looked tired, there was suddenly coffee in your hand.

If you got overwhelmed in crowded places, he'd quietly step beside you without saying a word, broad shoulders naturally creating space around you until you could breathe again.

If someone irritated you...

Well.

Usually they stopped irritating you the second they noticed the six-foot-something Mayan with prison tattoos calmly standing behind you with his arms crossed.

He rarely had to say anything.

Apparently looking like Neron Vargas was enough.

One afternoon, EZ caught the two of you at the scrapyard after you'd had a particularly awful morning.

You were sitting on an overturned crate, looking exhausted.

Creeper stood beside you with two drinks.

One for himself, and one for you.

He handed yours over automatically.

You accepted it just as automatically.

EZ watched the exchange.

"...You okay?"

You shrugged.

"Bad day."

Before EZ could ask anything else, Creeper spoke.

"She's got me."

Three simple words.

Matter-of-fact.

Certain.

Like it wasn't even up for discussion.

EZ looked between the two of you.

"...Right."

He walked away.

You blinked.

"...Did you just tell EZ you were handling my emotional stability?"

"You said I'm your emotional support biker."

"I was kidding."

"I wasn't."

Your mouth actually fell open.

He looked completely sincere. Like he was simply... accepting the assignment.

From then on, the joke spread through Santo Padre far faster than either of you expected.

Angel overheard it first.

Then Bishop.

Then Hank.

Soon enough, whenever someone asked where you were, "She's with her emotional support biker."

Or, "Go ask her emotional support biker."

Or, "Don't worry. Emotional Support Creeper's got it."

The nickname should have annoyed him.

It absolutely would have annoyed almost anyone else.

Instead, he answered to it. Without complaint or embarrassment.

Someone yelled across the yard one afternoon.

"Hey, Emotional Support Biker!"

Creeper looked up.

"What?"

The prospect burst into laughter.

"So you're really just rolling with that?"

He frowned slightly.

"...It's accurate."

The entire yard lost it.

Angel had to lean against a truck because he was laughing too hard to stand.

Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Holy shit," Angel wheezed. "He actually accepted it."

Creeper looked genuinely confused.

"I support her emotionally."

"You make it sound like a job."

"It is."

You were laughing so hard your sides hurt.

He wandered over to where you were standing, completely ignoring everyone else's amusement.

"You ready?"

"For what?"

"You looked tired."

"...So?"

"I figured we'd go home."

Home.

The word slipped out so naturally neither of you caught it immediately.

He did.

His eyes flickered toward yours.

You saw the tiny pause.

The microscopic hesitation.

Like he'd only just realized what he'd said.

You smiled so softly it almost hurt.

"Yeah," you answered quietly. "Let's go home."

The laughter around the yard faded into background noise as he took your helmet from the handlebars, checked the strap like he always did, then settled it carefully onto your head with surprisingly gentle hands, his rough fingers brushing your jaw for just a second longer than necessary before he fastened the buckle.

"You good?"

"Mhm."

"You sure?"

"I've got my emotional support biker."

The corner of his mouth lifted.

Tiny.

Barely noticeable.

Enough to make your heart stumble.

"You do."

When you climbed onto the back of the bike, your arms wrapped naturally around his waist, your cheek resting comfortably against the solid warmth of his back, he covered one of your hands with his own for the briefest moment before starting the engine, grounding you with nothing more than that quiet touch, and as the motorcycle carried the two of you away from the clubhouse and toward the place that had somehow become home simply because the other person was there, you couldn't help smiling to yourself because what had started as a throwaway joke had become something wonderfully, beautifully true.

He really was your emotional support biker.

“Congratulations” stated Gilly with one look at you as he noticed you enter the room. Before you knew it he had you wrapped in a big hug.

“Thank you, careful you don’t squeeze it out” you laughed as he chuckled and let you go. “Can you take me to the new bakery on Montrey? I have something I need to see if they can do for tonight” you inquired as the two of you walked out to one of the clubs vans.

That Night

Bishop was in Templo working on paperwork when he heard Angel call his name. He was suspicious instantly as he noted the silence that had come over the clubhouse. He was also extra annoyed when he called out what and was told come see. His eyes hitting the clock above the door and realizing he was going to be late for the birthday dinner you had been planning for him. Days like this he wondered why you bothered with him. Scooting the chair back he stood up and moved into the main club area.

“What are yall looking at?” he grumbled as he moved to a table in the center of the room that all his men were standing in front of. Anything else dying on his tongue as his eyes caught the bakery box label as his eyes drifted over the cake inside.  *Baby Losa 2027* on a little sign sticking out of what was a beautifully and intricately done ultrasound cake. Tears welled quickly before he even knew they were coming. He turned and found you holding out a small little leather vest with the Mayans MC insignia on it.

“Happy Birthday Babe” you murmured as the two of you hugged. “Hope you like your gift its homemade” you added making him snort into your neck.

When your eyelids fluttered open again, heavily weighted by medication, he immediately stood.

"There you are," he said quietly, relief slipping into his voice before he could hide it.

You stared at him for several long seconds.

"...Coco?"

"Yeah."

"You got... two heads."

He couldn't help the smile tugging at his mouth.

"Nah."

"You definitely got two."

"I only brought one today."

"Hm."

You seemed to accept that answer with surprising seriousness before squinting at him as though trying to solve an incredibly difficult mathematical equation.

Then you gasped.

"Oh."

"What?"

"I know you."

"You do?"

"You're..." You pointed at him with tremendous effort. "...Johnny."

"Close enough."

"No." You frowned. "Coco."

"There it is."

"I like Johnny better."

"I know."

The nurse passing by laughed quietly before continuing down the hallway.

Coco pulled the chair closer.

"You remember what happened?"

You looked down at your cast.

"...I fought a truck."

"You lost."

"Barely."

"You got hit by a distracted driver."

"Oh." You processed that. "...Rude."

"It was."

"Did I die?"

"No."

"I feel dead."

"I know."

You looked at him again.

Really looked.

Your eyes softened in a way that made him wonder just how strong those painkillers actually were.

"You stayed."

The words came out so quietly they almost disappeared beneath the steady rhythm of the heart monitor.

He shrugged.

"Course I stayed."

"You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

Another long silence settled between you.

Not awkward.

Just sleepy.

Your head tipped slightly against the pillow while your gaze never left his face, and Coco had the strange feeling you were studying him like he'd suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the room.

"...Can I tell you something?"

"You usually do."

"You have..." You stopped, clearly distracted by your own hand. "Wiggly fingers."

"They've always done that."

"Oh."

Another thoughtful pause.

"You have..."

He waited.

"...Kind eyes."

The words were so unexpectedly sincere that they landed harder than anything else you'd said all afternoon.

He blinked.

"What?"

"You have kind eyes."

"They're just eyes."

"Nooo."

You shook your head with exaggerated determination before immediately regretting it and groaning.

"They're warm."

"C'mon."

"They're sad too." That one hit closer than he liked. "But mostly kind."

You smiled lazily.

"Like... like old dogs."

He barked out an involuntary laugh.

"Old dogs?"

"The nice ones."

"I didn't know there were mean old dogs."

"There are."

"You seem very informed."

"I am."

"You a veterinarian now?"

"I could be."

"You barely know what year it is."

"It's... Tuesday."

"It is Friday."

"...Time isn't real."

He laughed again, quieter this time, shaking his head.

"You know," you continued with absolute confidence, "people think you're scary."

"They do."

"I don't."

"No?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Why's that?"

"'Cause scary people don't look at people like..." You waved vaguely toward his face. "...that."

"Like what?"

"Like they're trying to make sure they keep breathing."

He froze.

You'd said it so absentmindedly.

So carelessly.

As though it hadn't exposed exactly what he'd been doing since the accident.

Watching.

Checking.

Waiting for every breath.

"You look at everybody else with your shoulders."

"...My shoulders?"

"Mhm."

"And you look at me..." Your finger drifted upward again until it hovered somewhere near his eyes. "...With these."

He didn't know what to say.

Didn't know how someone floating somewhere between consciousness and morphine had managed to read him more accurately than people who'd known him for years.

"So..." you whispered. "...You have kind eyes."

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling strangely embarrassed.

"No one's ever said that before."

"They should."

You smiled.

"They're pretty."

Now he genuinely didn't know where to look.

Because compliments never sat comfortably on him.

Because he'd spent most of his life believing people saw danger first and everything else second.

Because he'd accepted that years ago.

And yet here you were, drugged out of your mind, looking at him like you couldn't see any of the darkness he'd spent decades carrying.

Only kindness.

Only warmth.

Only someone worth smiling at.

"You know..." you murmured sleepily.

"What?"

"If anyone says your eyes are scary..."

"Mhm?"

"They're wrong."

Your eyelids drifted closed.

"...They're home."

The room went silent.

The monitor kept beeping.

A cart rolled somewhere down the hallway.

Someone laughed faintly at the nurses' station.

But Coco couldn't hear any of it over those last two words.

They're home.

You'd already fallen asleep again.

Completely unaware of what you'd just done to him.

He sat there for a long while, simply watching your breathing even out once more, before carefully reaching over and brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead with a tenderness so instinctive it surprised even him.

"You ain't gonna remember any of that," he whispered with the smallest smile.

Three weeks later, you were finally discharged.

Your bruises had faded into pale yellow shadows.

The cast remained.

Walking still tired you out.

Coco refused to let you carry anything heavier than your phone.

"You know," you said as he helped you into the truck, "everyone keeps smiling every time they see me."

"They're happy you're okay."

"No..." You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. "They're smiling like they know something."

He very deliberately looked at the road instead of you.

"Huh."

"My sister keeps asking if I've noticed your eyes."

His grip tightened almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel.

"...Does she?"

"Mhm."

"Weird."

"And she laughed."

"Families do that."

You turned toward him.

"...Why would she ask that?"

He sighed.

"You really don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

"The hospital."

"I remember... pudding."

"You did steal three puddings."

"I was hungry."

"You accused the nurse of hiding a fourth."

"There was a fourth."

"There wasn't."

"There was."

He laughed.

Then he glanced at you.

"You don't remember telling me I had kind eyes?"

Your mouth slowly fell open.

"...I what?"

"You told me about six times."

"Oh my God."

"You also compared me to an elderly golden retriever."

"Oh my God."

"You called my eyelashes 'emotionally supportive.'"

"No."

"You did."

"I did not."

"You did."

You buried your face in your good hand.

"I have to move."

"You ain't moving."

"I have to leave the country."

"You don't."

"I said all that?"

"You sure did."

Silence.

Then, very quietly, "...I mean..."

He looked over.

Your face was still hidden.

"...I wasn't wrong."

His heart stumbled.

"You remember saying it now?"

"No."

"But..." You finally looked up, cheeks burning. "...You do have kind eyes."

This time there were no painkillers.

No morphine.

No medication.

Just you.

Completely awake.

Completely aware.

He pulled the truck onto a quiet overlook outside town, shifted it into park, and turned toward you.

"You know what I figured out?"

"What?"

"I don't think you were talking nonsense in that hospital."

"No?"

"I think the drugs just made you brave enough to say things you'd been thinking."

You looked away.

"...Maybe."

He reached over, gently taking your uninjured hand into his.

"And maybe..." he said softly, "...I've been looking at you exactly the way you said I have for a long time now."

You met his eyes.

Those warm brown eyes that had stayed beside a hospital bed for days without complaint, that had watched every breath you took because losing you had never been an option in his mind.

"I meant it," you whispered.

"I know."

"They're kind."

His thumb brushed across your knuckles.

"And you," he replied, smiling with a softness almost nobody else ever got to see, "are the first person who ever made me believe that."

You leaned across the console first.

He met you halfway.

The kiss was gentle, lingering, and full of everything the accident had nearly stolen before either of you had been brave enough to claim it, and when you finally pulled apart, resting your forehead against his, Coco looked at you with those same impossibly kind eyes.

Only now, they weren't just watching to make sure you kept breathing.

You tried very hard not to make your migraines anyone else's problem.

You'd had them since you were a teenager. You knew the warning signs before anyone else did—the strange shimmering in your vision, words suddenly refusing to make sense, the pressure behind one eye that always felt like someone slowly tightening a vice around your skull. Sometimes they lasted hours. Sometimes they stole entire days. Sometimes they disappeared almost as suddenly as they'd arrived, only to return a week later with twice the vengeance.

You had routines.

Medication.

Ice packs.

Blackout curtains.

Electrolytes.

Silence.

You'd survived long before Coco entered your life.

You fully intended to keep surviving without asking him to shoulder any of it.

Unfortunately...

Johnny Cruz loved you.

Which meant your pain automatically became his business.

"You got that look."

You blinked over at him from the pavement by his bike after you'd stopped outside your apartment building.

"What look?"

"The one where you're pretending everything's okay."

You smiled weakly.

"I'm fine."

"Liar."

"I'm literally smiling."

"You only smile like that when you're trying not to worry somebody."

"..."

"You got one coming?"

You hesitated.

"...Maybe."

He was already climbing off the bike.

"Johnny—"

"Nope."

"I can still function."

"Nope."

"I just need—"

"Nope."

He removed your helmet, brushed your hair back from your face, and his expression shifted the instant he noticed your pupils.

Your left eye had started watering.

Your jaw had tightened.

You were squinting against the afternoon sun.

His voice dropped into that frighteningly calm register that always meant he was seconds away from bulldozing absolutely everyone in his path.

"When'd it start?"

"...Ten minutes ago."

"You didn't tell me."

"I didn't want to ruin the day."

His entire face softened.

"You think spending the day with you while you're hurting ruins anything?"

"..."

"Oh, sweetheart."

He kissed your forehead so gently you barely felt it.

"Let's get you upstairs."

The Mayans learned quickly.

Not because you announced anything.

Because Coco did.

The first time one of the prospects slapped the garage door open during one of your migraines, Coco's head snapped around so fast everyone actually went quiet.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"...Opening the garage?"

"She's upstairs."

"...Okay?"

"She has a migraine."

"...Okay?"

"You trying to make it worse?"

The poor prospect blinked.

"I... didn't know."

"You know now."

His voice wasn't loud.

That made it scarier.

Within ten minutes everyone in the clubhouse knew.

By the following week...

Nobody slammed doors anymore if you were visiting. Phones got silenced. Music got turned down. Conversations happened outside.

Nobody complained.

Not once.

Mostly because everyone had seen Coco's face the first time you nearly collapsed from one.

He learned everything.

The aura. The medications. The foods you could tolerate. The ones guaranteed to make you nauseous. Which eye usually hurt first. How cold your hands got. How sometimes you couldn't find words halfway through a sentence. How occasionally one side of your face went numb enough to scare both of you.

He researched.

Asked questions.

Read articles at two in the morning.

Cornered your neurologist after appointments.

"You sure this medication's okay?"

"Yes."

"What about mixing it with—"

"Still yes."

"What if—"

"Mr. Cruz."

"...Yeah?"

"I promise you she's explained all of this to me already."

"I know."

"...Then why're you asking?"

"Because I love her."

The doctor had smiled.

"I figured."

Your apartment slowly transformed without you even noticing.

Blackout curtains became thicker. Extra ice packs mysteriously appeared in the freezer. A tiny refrigerator beside the bed suddenly stayed stocked with water bottles, electrolyte drinks, applesauce pouches, ginger ale, and pre-made meals you could stomach afterward.

A basket appeared beside the couch.

Inside...

Your medications.

Sleep mask.

Heating pad.

Cooling wrap.

Lip balm.

Hair ties.

Peppermint oil.

Earplugs.

Even fresh phone chargers.

You stared at it.

"...Johnny."

"What?"

"...Did you make me a migraine basket?"

"...Maybe."

"You labeled everything."

"So you don't gotta think when one hits."

Your throat tightened.

"...You're ridiculous."

"I know."

"I love you."

"I know that too."

Sometimes the migraines stole your speech.

Not completely.

Just enough that every word became frustratingly difficult.

One afternoon you were trying to tell him the pain had climbed from a six to an eight.

Instead...

"It... hurts..."

"I know."

"...No..."

"You trying to tell me it's worse?"

Your eyes widened.

You nodded.

He immediately stood.

"Meds?"

You nodded again.

"Nausea?"

Another nod.

"You need help walking?"

Tiny pause.

Then...

One reluctant nod.

He was beside you before you could feel embarrassed.

One arm around your waist.

The other holding your hand.

"You never gotta be embarrassed asking me."

"I..."

"You hear me?"

"I hate... this."

"I know."

"I feel... useless."

He stopped walking.

Actually stopped.

Turned you gently until you were facing him.

"You wanna know what I see?"

You looked away.

"I see the strongest woman I know fighting her own damn brain every week and still getting up afterward."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"I don't see weak."

Another tear.

"I don't see useless."

He cupped your face.

"I see my girl."

The only time anyone ever saw genuine panic in Johnny Cruz's eyes was when your migraine became something different.

You'd been sitting with him at the clubhouse when your sentence suddenly stopped halfway through.

The glass slipped from your fingers.

Your expression changed.

"...Baby?"

You couldn't answer.

Half your face had gone numb.

For one horrifying second...

He thought you were having a stroke.

He was already catching you before anyone else even stood.

"Call an ambulance!"

His voice cracked.

Actually cracked.

Bishop didn't hesitate.

Neither did Angel.

Nobody questioned him.

Nobody told him to calm down.

Because the look on Coco's face...

It terrified them.

Hours later the doctors confirmed it had been one of your more severe migraine episodes with temporary neurological symptoms.

Not a stroke.

Not permanent.

You were exhausted.

Johnny looked like he'd aged ten years.

When you finally woke properly in the hospital, he was still holding your hand.

"You stayed."

His laugh came out broken.

"Where the hell else was I gonna be?"

"You look awful."

"I've been informed."

You smiled faintly.

His forehead rested against yours.

"Oh, sweetheart." His voice shook. "You scared me."

After that...

His protectiveness reached legendary status.

"Too bright." He closed the blinds.

"Too loud." The television disappeared.

"You eat?" He was already in the kitchen.

"You drink water?" Bottle in your hand.

"You take your meds?" He knew the schedule better than you some days.

You teased him relentlessly.

"I swear you're worse than my neurologist."

"I'm prettier."

You laughed.

"...Barely."

He gasped dramatically.

"You wound me."

One evening, months later, another migraine crept in while the two of you were at his place.

He noticed before you did.

You rubbed your temple once. Twice. Paused mid-conversation. Your eyes lost focus for half a second.

Without interrupting the story he was telling...

He quietly stood.

Closed every curtain. Turned off every unnecessary light. Lowered the television. Filled your water bottle. Grabbed your medication. Set an ice pack in a towel.

Then returned to the couch as though nothing had happened.

Only then did he gently interrupt himself.

"You starting?"

You blinked.

"...How did you know?"

He smiled sadly.

"Because I know you."

You looked around the room.

Everything was already done.

Everything.

Before you'd even admitted you needed it.

Your eyes burned.

"You don't have to keep taking care of me."

His eyebrows pulled together.

"The hell I don't."

"I mean..."

Your voice cracked.

"What if one day you get tired of this?"

He stared at you like you'd spoken another language.

"Tired?"

"You didn't sign up for—"

"I signed up for you."

Silence.

"The migraines came with the package."

"They're awful."

"They are."

"They interrupt dates."

"They do."

"They ruin plans."

"Sometimes."

"They wake you up."

"They sure as hell do."

You swallowed hard.

"So... why stay?"

He reached for your hand.

Because unlike you, he never hesitated anymore. His rough fingers intertwined with yours as naturally as breathing.

"Because none of those things are you."

Your lip trembled.

"You're the woman who laughs so hard she snorts when she's genuinely surprised."

You covered your face.

"The woman who apologizes when she's the one hurting."

"..."

"The woman who worries about disappointing people even while she's fighting pain most people couldn't imagine."

He kissed your knuckles.

"I don't love you despite the migraines."

Your eyes filled completely.

"I love you."

Nothing added.

Nothing qualified.

Nothing conditional.

Just you.

The room had grown dim enough that the beginnings of the migraine didn't feel quite so sharp anymore, and as you leaned carefully into his side, letting your head rest against his shoulder while he wrapped an arm around you with the practiced ease of someone who had done this dozens of times before, you realized something that had taken years to believe was possible—not that the migraines would disappear, because they wouldn't, and not that they would stop hurting, because they still would, but that you no longer faced them alone.

They still arrived without warning, still stole entire days, still left you exhausted and frustrated and aching, yet every single time they came, Johnny was already there with dark rooms, cold ice packs, quiet reassurances, steady hands, and unwavering love, standing between you and the rest of the world like it had personally declared war on the woman he adored.