You meet Jax Teller adn suddnely you understand why women in romance novels suddenly forgot how to form coherent thoughts.
forgive me for this
The first thing you noticed about Jax Teller was that he looked like trouble.
The second thing you noticed was that trouble apparently had blue eyes.
You'd always thought women in romance novels were dramatic.
"His smile stole the words from my lips."
Sure.
"My thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind."
Obviously not.
"I forgot my own name when he looked at me."
Get a grip.
You were a grown woman. An intelligent woman. A woman with a job, responsibilities, and a healthy amount of skepticism toward fictional nonsense.
Then you met Jax Teller.
And suddenly those romance novel heroines started making a lot more sense.
It happened on a Tuesday.
A completely normal Tuesday.
The kind of Tuesday that should not have been life-altering.
You were working the late shift at a small diner outside Charming.
The lunch rush had finally died down. The coffee pot was half-empty. The jukebox was playing something old and country.
You were wiping down tables when the door opened.
The bell above it jingled.
You looked up automatically.
And forgot what you were doing.
A group of bikers walked in.
You noticed the leather kuttes first.
The tattoos second.
The dangerous energy third.
And then—
Him.
Blond hair. Broad shoulders. White t-shirt stretched across his chest. A smile that should have been classified as a weapon.
For a full five seconds, your brain completely stopped functioning.
Not slowed down.
Not distracted.
Stopped.
Like someone had unplugged it.
The rag slipped from your hand.
One of the bikers noticed.
A dark-haired guy with scars on his face.
He immediately started laughing.
The blond biker looked over.
His eyes landed on you.
And then he smiled.
God.
That smile.
Your soul left your body.
"Oh no."
Your coworker, Sarah, looked at you from behind the counter.
"Oh, no, no, no."
"What?"
"You got hit."
"Hit by what?"
She pointed.
"The biker."
You looked.
Unfortunately.
Jax was still standing there.
Still smiling.
Still existing.
Which felt deeply inconsiderate.
You immediately looked away.
"Oh my God."
Sarah cackled.
"Oh my God, you're fucked."
"I'm not fucked."
"You're staring."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are."
You glanced over.
Jax was still looking at you.
You immediately looked away again.
Sarah nearly fell over laughing.
When you finally approached their table, your hands had forgotten how to work.
Which was unfortunate.
Because carrying coffee required hands.
"Hi."
Good start.
Normal.
Professional.
"Welcome to—"
You forgot the name of the diner.
The diner where you had worked for three years.
Your mind went completely blank.
The scarred biker started laughing again.
Jax looked amused.
You wanted the earth to open and swallow you.
"Welcome to..." you repeated weakly.
Silence.
The biker with the wild hair looked concerned.
The scarred biker was openly dying.
Jax leaned back in his chair.
His smile widened.
"You okay there?"
No.
Absolutely not.
You had never been okay less in your entire life.
"Yep."
The word came out far too fast.
"Good. Great. Fantastic."
You stared.
Why were you still talking?
Stop talking.
"I mean not fantastic. You're customers. Not fantastic. Not that you're not fantastic."
Jesus Christ.
Kill me.
The scarred biker wheezed.
Actually wheezed. Asshole.
Jax looked like he was fighting for his life not to laugh.
"Coffee?" you blurted.
"Coffee sounds good."
"Perfect."
You grabbed the pot.
Immediately poured coffee onto the table.
The table went silent.
You stared at the spreading puddle.
The puddle stared back.
The scarred biker put his head down.
Jax covered his mouth.
You considered fleeing the country.
"Sorry."
You grabbed napkins.
"So sorry."
More napkins.
"So incredibly sorry."
Even more napkins.
Jax finally laughed.
The sound hit you directly in the chest.
Warm.
Deep.
Genuine.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
"It's okay."
His voice was still amused.
"No permanent damage."
You looked up.
Big mistake.
His eyes met yours.
And suddenly every coherent thought vanished again.
How did people survive this?
How did women in romance novels function?
You finally understood why they spent entire chapters staring helplessly at handsome men.
It wasn't weakness.
It was biology.
After that disastrous first meeting, you fully expected never to see him again.
Life, however, hated you.
Because three days later he came back.
Alone.
You were carrying a tray when he walked in.
The second you saw him, your stomach flipped.
"Oh no."
Jax heard you.
His grin appeared instantly.
"That's not very welcoming."
Your face immediately heated.
"I didn't mean—"
"I know."
He sat in a booth.
You hated how happy you felt about it.
The worst part?
He kept coming back.
Twice a week.
Then three times.
Then whenever he happened to be nearby.
Always ordering coffee.
Always finding reasons to talk to you.
Always smiling.
And every single time your brain abandoned you.
"You know," he said one afternoon, "I've never seen somebody so consistently nervous around me."
"I'm not nervous."
"You just walked into a door."
You glanced behind you.
The door was still swinging.
Damn it.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
And somehow Jax Teller became part of your life.
You learned things about him.
He had a son. He loved motorcycles. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He laughed more than people expected. He listened carefully when people talked. He was fiercely protective of the people he loved.
And beneath all the charm and confidence, there was sadness.
A deep sadness.
One he rarely spoke about.
You found yourself looking forward to seeing him.
Looking for his motorcycle outside.
Listening for the sound of his voice.
Smiling whenever he walked through the door.
And that terrified you.
Because Jax wasn't safe.
Nothing about him was safe.
One night, after your shift ended, you found him waiting outside.
Leaning against his bike.
Hands in his pockets.
Looking unfairly handsome beneath the streetlights.
Your heart immediately forgot how to beat properly.
Again.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Neither of you moved.
Neither of you looked away.
The air felt different.
Charged.
Heavy.
Important.
"You wanna grab a drink?" he asked.
Just like that.
Simple.
Casual.
As if he hadn't just detonated a bomb inside your chest.
A normal person would have answered immediately.
You, unfortunately, were dealing with Jax Teller.
Which meant your brain had stopped working again.
"A drink."
Excellent response.
Very intelligent.
His smile widened.
"A drink."
"You mean together?"
Oh God.
"That's usually how drinks work."
You wanted to die.
Instead you managed:
"Yes."
And suddenly he looked relieved.
Actually relieved.
Which made absolutely no sense.
Because this was Jax Teller.
Women probably threw themselves at him daily.
Yet somehow he looked genuinely happy.
"Good."
His voice softened.
"Good."
The first date lasted six hours.
The second lasted eight.
The third ended with both of you sitting on the hood of his truck watching the stars.
Talking.
Laughing.
Learning each other.
The more time you spent with him, the more dangerous he became.
Because it wasn't just the looks. Or the smile. Or the eyes.
It was everything underneath.
The loyalty. The kindness. The way he remembered tiny details. The way he listened. The way he looked at you like you mattered.
You fell in love slowly.
Then all at once.
The realization hit one evening while you were sitting on his couch.
Your feet tucked beneath you.
His arm draped across the back cushions.
The television playing forgotten background noise.
You were talking.
Rambling about something completely unimportant.
A bad customer.
A weird dream.
A movie you'd watched.
And Jax was watching you.
Not the television.
Not his phone.
You.
Like every word mattered.
Like you mattered.
Something inside your chest cracked open.
Warm.
Terrifying.
Permanent.
Oh.
Oh no.
You loved him.
Across from you, Jax smiled.
And somehow you loved him even more.
The problem was that being in love with Jax Teller was terrifying.
Because loving him meant caring.
And caring meant worrying.
Every late-night phone call. Every unexplained bruise. Every dangerous situation. Every risk.
But somehow he became worth the fear.
Worth every sleepless night. Worth every worry.
Worth everything.
The confession happened eleven months after you met.
Not because either of you planned it.
Because neither of you did.
You were standing in his kitchen.
Arguing.
Not really fighting.
Just frustrated.
"You can't keep acting like you're invincible."
"And you can't keep worrying about everything."
"I worry because I care."
Silence.
The words hung between you.
Heavy.
Real.
Jax froze.
Your stomach dropped.
Because suddenly you realized exactly what you'd said.
His eyes never left yours.
"You care?"
You swallowed.
"Yeah."
His voice became softer.
"How much?"
Dangerous question.
Your heart pounded.
"A lot."
Still watching you.
Still waiting.
"A lot, huh?"
You laughed nervously.
Then admitted the truth.
"I love you."
The room went completely silent.
And for one horrible second you thought maybe you'd made a mistake.
Then Jax crossed the kitchen in three steps.
Grabbed your face.
And kissed you.
Hard.
Desperate.
Relieved.
Like he'd been holding it in for months.
You kissed him back immediately.
Because obviously.
Because it was Jax.
Because you'd been in love with him for far too long.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless.
"I love you too."
His forehead rested against yours.
"I've loved you for months."
You stared.
"Months?"
"Months."
"Then why didn't you say anything?"
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
"Because every time I looked at you, you forgot how to form sentences."
You covered your face.
"Oh my God."
"It's true."
"It is not."
"Baby, first time we met, you forgot the name of your own diner."
You groaned.
He kissed your forehead.
Still laughing.
Still looking at you like you were something precious.
And suddenly you realized something.
The women in romance novels weren't exaggerating.
Not even a little.
Because when someone looked at you the way Jax Teller did—
When they loved you completely.
When they became home.
When they became your favorite person in the world.
Coherent thoughts became surprisingly difficult.
Fortunately, by then, you didn't need them anymore.
You had Jax.
And judging by the smile on his face as he pulled you back into his arms—
Summary: Tim’s boot is late for work at the start of her last week of the FTO program and he is not happy. But today is about to turn into Tim’s worst nightmare…
Pairing: Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader
Warnings: language, thriller vibes, violence, kidnapping, forbidden romance, near death experience, smut, PTSD, parental abuse, angst, fluff
Pressure and warmth on your head help when you're suffering from a migraine.
Happy sits with his hand pressed against you for hours long before theres ever anything romantic between you.
so this actually helps me when i have one of my migraines - unfortunately, i have to use a slightly warmed heat pack because i don't have my own feral raccoon of a man
The first time it happened, you thought it was an accident.
You were sitting at the clubhouse bar at nearly midnight, elbows planted on sticky wood, forehead pressed against your folded arms while the world split open behind your eyes.
Music throbbed too loud.
Someone laughed too hard.
Glass clinked somewhere behind you and the sound stabbed directly into your skull.
Migraines were hell in a way most people didn’t understand. Not headaches. Not simple pain. They hollowed you out from the inside. Light became knives. Sound became violence. Even breathing too hard hurt.
You’d made the mistake of trying to push through one.
By the time you stumbled into SAMCRO, you were pale, shaking, nauseous, and barely holding yourself together.
“Jesus Christ,” Gemma muttered from behind the bar. “You look like death.”
You tried smiling.
“Feel like it.”
“Why the hell’d you come here?”
“Needed to drop off paperwork for Tara.”
Gemma scoffed. “Coulda waited.”
You shrugged weakly and instantly regretted it because the movement made your vision blur.
The clubhouse was alive tonight. Loud. Crowded. Sweaty. Half the Tacoma charter was visiting, and someone had decided that meant the music needed to be cranked high enough to summon the dead.
You were trapped.
And unfortunately, your car keys were somewhere in your bag, which suddenly felt like it weighed ninety pounds.
You squeezed your eyes shut harder.
“Hey.”
Happy Lowman’s voice was low and rough beside you.
You lifted your head barely enough to look at him. Big mistake. The overhead lights burned into your retinas.
“Hi, Hap.”
His dark eyes narrowed instantly.
“You sick?”
“Migraine.”
He stared at you for another second.
Then at the clubhouse.
Then back at you.
You watched the calculations happen behind his eyes.
Too loud.
Too bright.
Too many people.
Without another word, Happy grabbed the back of your stool and dragged it backward.
You blinked slowly. “What’re you—”
“C’mon.”
Normally people asked questions. Offered ibuprofen. Told you to drink water.
Happy simply decided things.
You let him guide you because fighting him required energy you absolutely did not possess.
He led you through the clubhouse hallways, one broad hand at your upper back steering carefully whenever you nearly walked into a wall.
You vaguely realized he was taking you toward the dorm rooms.
“I can’t steal somebody’s bed,” you mumbled.
“You ain’t.”
The room he brought you to was dark already. Quiet too. Blessedly quiet.
His room.
You stared at him.
Happy shrugged once like it wasn’t a thing.
“Lie down.”
You obeyed immediately, collapsing sideways onto the mattress with a shaky exhale. The darkness helped instantly. So did the silence.
Happy shut the door.
Then he stood there for a second.
Watching you.
You curled tighter instinctively, one hand pressed over your eyes.
“Meds?” he asked.
“In my bag.”
He found them in seconds somehow despite your purse being a disaster zone.
Water appeared next.
You swallowed the pills gratefully.
“Thanks.”
He grunted.
Then he sat beside you on the bed.
Not touching.
Just there.
You were too exhausted to question it.
Minutes passed.
The migraine pulsed harder behind your left eye. Your stomach rolled unpleasantly.
You made a small sound before you could stop it.
Something between a whimper and a hiss of pain.
The mattress shifted.
Then suddenly—
Warmth.
Heavy, solid warmth against the side of your head.
You froze.
Happy’s large palm covered part of your temple and forehead, fingers spreading carefully into your hairline. Not rough. Not demanding.
Just pressure.
Steady pressure.
Your entire body went still.
“What’re you doing?” you whispered.
“Shh.”
The pressure increased slightly.
It shouldn’t have helped.
Except somehow it did.
The sharpest edge of the pain dulled almost immediately.
You blinked slowly into the darkness.
“That helps,” you admitted softly.
“Yeah.”
Like he already knew.
You drifted after that.
In and out.
Every time the pain sharpened, his hand remained there. Unmoving. Warm. Steady.
Hours passed.
Happy never complained once.
When you woke sometime near dawn, the migraine had finally retreated enough to leave you functional instead of dying.
Happy was still sitting against the headboard.
Still awake.
Still holding your head.
You stared at him blearily.
“Hap…”
He looked down at you.
“You stayed up all night?”
A shrug.
Like that meant absolutely nothing.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Did anyway.”
You didn’t know what to say to that.
So instead you whispered, “Thank you.”
Happy nodded once.
And that should’ve been the end of it.
Except it wasn’t.
The second time happened three weeks later.
This time you didn’t even make it inside before the migraine hit full force.
You’d been helping Chibs organize medical supply deliveries when the aura started. Little flashes in your vision. Static at the edges of your sight.
Then came the pain.
By the time you reached the lot, you were stumbling.
Happy spotted you immediately from where he stood smoking near the garage.
He tossed the cigarette without hesitation.
“You got one?”
You nodded weakly.
He was beside you in three strides.
“C’mon.”
Again.
No questions.
No fuss.
Like this had already become routine somehow.
This time he brought you straight to his room.
No hesitation.
No discussion.
You barely got your boots off before collapsing face-first onto the mattress.
The pain was vicious tonight. You could feel your pulse inside your skull.
Happy shut the blinds completely.
Killed every source of light.
Then the mattress dipped beside you.
Warm fingers slid carefully into your hair.
Pressure against your temple.
Immediate relief.
You exhaled shakily.
“There it is,” he murmured.
You nearly melted from gratitude.
“How do you know how to do this?”
“My mom.”
Your eyes opened slightly.
Happy rarely volunteered information about himself.
Ever.
“She got migraines?”
“Bad ones.”
His thumb shifted slowly against your hairline. Measured. Careful.
“She used to have me do this when I was a kid.”
The image hit you unexpectedly hard.
Little Happy Lowman sitting beside his mother for hours in dark rooms.
Silent.
Patient.
Learning exactly how much pressure helped.
Something painful twisted in your chest.
“You were good to her,” you whispered.
Happy went quiet.
Then:
“She deserved better than what she got.”
There was enough buried in that sentence to fill entire graves.
You didn’t push.
Instead you relaxed deeper into the mattress while his hand stayed steady against your head.
“You don’t have to stay,” you murmured eventually, half asleep already.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
After that, everyone noticed.
Mostly because whenever you got migraines now, Happy appeared out of fucking nowhere.
You could be at Teller-Morrow.
The clubhouse.
A run.
A barbecue.
Didn’t matter.
The second you went pale or squinted against light too long, Happy clocked it instantly.
Then came the familiar:
“C’mon.”
And off you went.
The club found it hilarious.
“Man acts like a damn migraine bloodhound,” Tig laughed one afternoon.
Happy stared at him blankly.
Tig wisely stopped talking.
You tried not to think too hard about it.
About the fact that Happy touched almost nobody voluntarily.
About how gentle he became with you during migraines.
About how he’d sit motionless for literal hours just keeping pressure against your head.
You especially tried not to think about how safe it made you feel.
Which was difficult.
Because Happy Lowman was terrifying.
Most people in Charming crossed the street to avoid him.
He was violence wrapped in tattoos and silence.
But with you—
With you he adjusted his grip when you flinched.
With you he dimmed lights before you even asked.
With you he learned exactly where to press his palm against your skull to make the pain ease fastest.
And sometimes—
Sometimes he’d brush his thumb softly through your hair while he waited for you to fall asleep.
That part was dangerous.
That part made your heart do stupid things.
“You in love with him?”
You nearly choked on your coffee.
Tara looked entirely too calm across from you.
“No.”
The lie came too fast.
Tara raised one eyebrow.
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You look at him like he hung the moon.”
You groaned and buried your face in your hands.
“Please stop talking.”
Tara laughed quietly.
Honestly, you should’ve known better than trying to hide anything from a surgeon. Tara noticed everything.
“He looks at you the same way,” she added.
Your head snapped up immediately.
“No he doesn’t.”
“He really does.”
Happy Lowman did not look at anyone lovingly.
That was objectively ridiculous.
Tara sipped her coffee. “You know he threatened a prospect for slamming a locker too hard because you had a migraine upstairs?”
“…what?”
“Mhm.”
Your stomach flipped.
“He sat outside the room for six hours.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“He wouldn’t let anyone near you.”
That warmth in your chest spread painfully wider.
You looked away before Tara could see too much on your face.
“This thing between you two,” she said gently, “it already exists. You’re just pretending it doesn’t.”
The problem was that you didn’t know what to do with the possibility of Happy wanting you back.
Happy wasn’t easy to read.
He wasn’t affectionate publicly.
Wasn’t talkative.
Wasn’t soft.
Except sometimes with you.
And maybe that made it worse.
Because those small moments became enormous.
Like the time he bought blackout curtains for your apartment after seeing you suffer through sunlight during a migraine.
Or the way he silently stocked electrolyte drinks in your fridge.
Or how he started carrying your medication in his kutte pocket because you forgot it once.
“You carry my migraine meds around?” you’d asked incredulously.
Happy looked almost annoyed you were surprised.
“You need ‘em.”
That was it.
Like it was obvious.
Like taking care of you was simply a fact of his existence now.
The moment everything changed happened during one of the worst migraines of your life.
Storm weather.
Pressure changes.
You’d been doomed from the second you woke up.
By evening you could barely see straight.
Happy found you curled in the bathroom at the clubhouse, shaking and nauseous from pain.
His expression changed instantly.
Not panic.
Worse.
That terrifying stillness he got when he was angry.
“Hey,” he said quietly, crouching in front of you.
You tried speaking and failed.
Tears burned behind your eyes.
Migraines made you emotional sometimes. Raw. Fragile.
Humiliatingly fragile.
Happy touched your cheek once.
Gentle.
“Look at me.”
You did.
“I got you.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
He helped you stand slowly before guiding you to his room.
Everything hurt.
Every sound.
Every flicker of light under the doorway.
You were shaking by the time you collapsed onto his bed.
Happy shut the door.
Locked it.
Then came immediately to your side.
His hand settled against your forehead.
Pressure.
Warmth.
Relief.
You broke.
A small sob escaped before you could stop it.
Happy went still.
“Hurts,” you whispered miserably.
“I know.”
Another tear slid down your temple.
Humiliation crashed through you instantly. “Sorry.”
Happy’s expression hardened.
“Don’t apologize for pain.”
Something about the way he said it shattered you further.
Because nobody ever understood migraines.
Not really.
People got annoyed eventually. Or dismissive.
But Happy never did.
Not once.
He shifted closer on the bed until your head rested partly against his thigh while his hand remained firm against your temple.
“You can sleep,” he murmured.
You looked up at him through blurred vision.
“Will you stay?”
His eyes softened so subtly most people wouldn’t catch it.
“Always.”
The word hit like a gunshot.
Always.
Your heart stuttered violently.
Happy seemed to realize what he’d said a second later because something unreadable crossed his face.
But he didn’t take it back.
Didn’t look away either.
The room felt suddenly too small.
Too intimate.
Your pulse hammered despite the migraine.
“Hap…”
His thumb brushed carefully beneath your eye, catching another tear.
“You got any idea what you do to me?” he asked quietly.
You stopped breathing.
Happy Lowman almost never sounded uncertain.
Now he did.
Barely.
But enough.
“I—”
“I sit here every time,” he continued roughly, eyes fixed on you, “tellin’ myself this ain’t what it looks like.”
Your chest hurt.
“But then you look at me when you’re hurt…” His jaw flexed hard. “Like I’m somethin’ safe.”
“You are safe,” you whispered immediately.
The words wrecked him.
You saw it happen in real time.
Happy inhaled slowly like he’d been hit.
Nobody probably ever called him safe before.
Not a man with his reputation.
Not a man covered in death.
But he was.
With you, he was.
His forehead lowered against yours carefully.
“You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
Then finally—
Finally—
You lifted your hand and touched his face.
Happy went perfectly still beneath your fingertips.
“You sit with me for hours,” you whispered. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”
His eyes stayed locked on yours.
“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you,” you admitted shakily.
The silence afterward felt enormous.
Then Happy kissed you.
Slow.
Careful.
Like he was terrified of hurting you.
One massive hand cupped the side of your face while the other still rest against your temple instinctively, maintaining that familiar pressure even during the kiss.
It nearly made you cry again.
The kiss deepened gradually.
Warm and thorough and devastatingly tender.
Happy kissed like he loved quietly.
Completely.
When he pulled back, your forehead rested against his.
“You got a migraine,” he muttered softly.
You laughed weakly.
“You’re worried about that right now?”
“Always worried about you.”
Your heart nearly gave out.
He shifted carefully, laying down beside you at last instead of sitting upright like he usually did.
Then he pulled you against his chest.
One hand slid back into your hair.
Pressure against your temple again.
Automatic.
Natural.
Like breathing.
You smiled against him despite the pounding in your skull.
Happy pressed a kiss into your hairline.
“Sleep,” he murmured.
And for the first time in a very long time, you did.
Completely safe.
Completely loved.
Held warm against the terrifying man everyone feared most.
The man who had spent months memorizing exactly how to ease your pain long before either of you admitted this was love.
Happy Lowman (Sons of Anarchy) x fem!reader - he's 49, you're 24
You're sitting with some of the women associated with the club.
Somebody asks what kind of man you'd eventually want to marry.
You start describing someone.
Reliable.
Protective.
Patient.
A little intimidating.
Loyal to a fault.
Good with kids even if he pretends otherwise.
The conversation gradually stops.
Because unfortunately you've just described Happy with terrifying accuracy.
You don't notice.
The others absolutely do.
The first sign that the conversation is heading somewhere dangerous is when nobody laughs.
Usually, afternoons spent around the clubhouse are loud.
There's always somebody talking over somebody else, somebody complaining, somebody gossiping, somebody laughing so hard they nearly spill their drink.
Today is no different.
You're sitting at one of the outdoor tables beneath the California sun with Gemma, Lyla, and a few of the women connected to SAMCRO, your feet propped up on the chair beside you while you lazily pick at a bowl of chips and half-listen to the conversation bouncing around you.
The men are nearby.
Not close enough to be part of the discussion.
Close enough that everyone knows they're there.
You don't pay much attention to them.
Especially not to Happy.
Happy Lowman is sitting against the wall of the clubhouse smoking a cigarette, tattooed arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable as always.
You learned a long time ago that trying to figure out what goes on inside that man's head is a waste of time.
He's forty-nine years old.
Dangerous.
Intimidating.
Quiet.
And somehow one of your favorite people in the entire world.
Not that you'd ever admit that aloud.
Especially not around this crowd.
The conversation shifts naturally from relationships to marriage after somebody mentions a cousin's wedding.
That sparks opinions from everybody.
Lyla talks about commitment.
One of the crow-eaters talks about rings.
Gemma immediately starts complaining about men in general.
You laugh into your drink.
Then somebody points at you.
"What about you?"
You blink.
"What about me?"
"What kind of man would you marry?"
You snort.
"I'm twenty-four."
"So?"
"So I'm not exactly shopping for wedding venues."
"Answer the question."
You groan dramatically.
Everyone waits.
Unfortunately for you, you actually think about it.
The answer comes easier than expected.
"I don't know."
"That's a lie."
"Fine."
You shift in your seat.
"Reliable."
A few women nod.
Reasonable answer.
You continue.
"Someone who shows up when they say they're going to."
Another nod.
"Protective."
Gemma smirks slightly.
You miss it.
"Patient."
That earns a look from Lyla.
You miss that too.
"Someone loyal."
Now people are exchanging glances.
You remain completely oblivious.
"Loyal how?" someone asks.
"Loyal to a fault."
You shrug.
"The kind of person who would walk through hell for people he loves."
The table grows quieter.
You continue talking.
Still unaware.
"He doesn't have to be super friendly."
A couple women suddenly look like they're trying not to laugh.
"He can be intimidating."
Now Gemma has fully stopped drinking.
You're still going.
"He doesn't need to talk all the time. Honestly I'd rather he didn't."
Lyla bites her lip.
Hard.
"Strong."
You count off fingers.
"Dependable."
Another finger.
"Protective."
Another.
"Someone who means what he says."
Another.
"Good with kids."
This is where things truly fall apart.
Because every woman at the table immediately freezes.
You notice eventually.
"Why is everybody looking at me?"
Nobody answers.
You continue anyway.
"I mean, not somebody who acts good with kids."
The looks get worse.
"The guys who try too hard are weird."
Gemma physically turns away to hide a smile.
You frown.
"What?"
Nothing.
Silence.
You keep talking.
"I mean somebody who pretends not to like kids but secretly would do anything for them."
Lyla nearly chokes.
You stare at her.
"What?"
She coughs violently.
"No reason."
You narrow your eyes.
The table is completely silent now.
Every woman there is looking somewhere behind you.
Or beside you.
Or toward the clubhouse.
Anywhere except directly at you.
A horrible feeling slowly begins crawling up your spine.
"What?"
Gemma laughs.
Actually laughs.
"Oh honey."
"What?"
"Oh no."
"What?"
Lyla looks genuinely pained.
"You don't know, do you?"
"Know what?"
The women exchange looks.
Then all of them simultaneously glance toward the clubhouse wall.
You want the earth to open up and swallow you whole.
"Kill me."
"Not a chance."
"Please."
"No."
You peek through your fingers.
Tig is standing nearby grinning like Christmas came early.
Jax isn't far behind.
Both of them look entirely too entertained.
"Well this is interesting," Tig announces.
You immediately flip him off.
He grins wider.
"Protective, loyal, intimidating."
"Shut up."
"Good with kids."
"Shut up."
"Patient."
"Tig."
"Reliable."
"Tig!"
Everyone laughs again.
You seriously consider throwing your drink at him.
Then your eyes drift toward Happy.
Unfortunately.
Mistake.
Huge mistake.
Because Happy is still looking at you.
Not laughing.
Not smiling.
Just watching.
And somehow that's worse.
Much worse.
Because you suddenly remember every single interaction you've had with him over the last two years.
Every ride home.
Every time he silently appeared beside you when somebody made you uncomfortable.
Every time he checked your car without being asked.
Every time he remembered little things you mentioned months earlier.
Every time he stood between you and danger without hesitation.
Every time you got sick and somehow soup appeared at your door.
Every time he acted like helping you was simply expected.
Normal.
Natural.
The realization hits harder than it should.
Maybe because you never let yourself examine it before.
Happy is nearly twice your age.
Happy is Happy.
You'd always shoved any complicated feelings into a box and locked the lid.
Apparently not well enough.
Because now half the clubhouse has figured it out before you have.
Wonderful.
Absolutely wonderful.
The conversation eventually moves on.
Mostly because you're threatening violence.
But the damage is done.
Everybody knows.
Everybody.
Including Happy.
Especially Happy.
You avoid him for the rest of the afternoon.
Or at least try to.
It's impossible.
Because Happy notices everything.
The first time you dodge him, he notices.
The second time, he notices.
By evening, he's definitely noticed.
Which is why you're not entirely surprised when you hear his voice behind you as you're walking toward your car.
"Hey."
You freeze.
Your eyes close briefly.
Then you turn.
Happy stands a few feet away.
Hands in his pockets.
Expression unreadable.
Your heart immediately starts behaving like an idiot.
"Hey."
Silence.
The parking lot feels strangely quiet.
"I heard the conversation."
Of course he did.
You contemplate lying.
Then immediately abandon the idea.
"Yeah."
Another pause.
Then surprisingly—
"I wasn't listening. Not really."
You blink.
"What?"
"At first."
You stare.
Happy shrugs.
"Then I heard you say intimidating."
Heat floods your face.
"Oh my God."
A corner of his mouth twitches.
Barely.
But it's there.
You think that's the closest thing to a smile you've seen all month.
You want to disappear.
Immediately.
Instead you stare at the ground.
"That wasn't about you."
The lie sounds pathetic.
Happy snorts.
Actually snorts.
Which somehow makes everything worse.
"You think I'm intimidating?"
You refuse to look at him.
"No."
"You're lying."
"I know."
Silence settles again.
The comfortable kind.
The kind you've always had with him.
Then he speaks.
"What else?"
You glance up.
"What?"
"What else do you want?"
You swallow.
The question feels bigger than it should.
Because suddenly it doesn't feel hypothetical anymore.
His eyes never leave yours.
Steady.
Patient.
Waiting.
And that stupid flutter in your chest gets worse.
You answer honestly.
"Someone who makes me feel safe."
The amusement fades from his face.
You continue.
"Someone who stays."
Your voice grows quieter.
"Someone who chooses me every day."
The air between you changes.
You can feel it.
Happy can too.
You know he can.
Because something soft appears in his expression.
Something rare.
Something almost nobody gets to see.
"You deserve that."
Your heart hurts.
Because for some reason those four words mean everything.
You laugh softly.
Trying to break the tension.
"You know, this is why people think I was describing you."
Happy steps closer.
Not much.
Just enough.
"Maybe they think that because you were."
Your breath catches.
The parking lot suddenly feels much smaller.
Much quieter.
Much more dangerous.
Not because of fear.
Because of hope.
A terrifying amount of hope.
Happy studies your face.
Then says the last thing you expect.
"You know what I want?"
Your throat feels dry.
"What?"
His gaze never wavers.
"You."
Everything stops.
Your heartbeat.
Your thoughts.
The entire world.
You just stare.
Happy continues.
Calmly.
Like he's discussing the weather.
"I've wanted you for a long time."
Your mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
"A long time."
The words settle heavily between you.
Real.
Certain.
Undeniable.
"You never said anything."
"I know."
"Why?"
A humorless smile touches his mouth.
"Look at me."
You do.
"Now look at you."
Your chest tightens.
"Happy—"
"You deserve better."
"No."
His jaw clenches.
"Yeah."
"No."
The answer comes instantly.
Without hesitation.
Without doubt.
"No, I don't."
His eyes lock onto yours.
And for the first time maybe ever, Happy looks uncertain.
Just for a second.
Just long enough.
You step closer.
Then closer again.
Until you're standing directly in front of him.
"I don't want better."
His breathing changes.
Barely.
But you notice.
"I want someone reliable."
Another step.
"Protective."
Another.
"Loyal."
His eyes darken.
"Patient."
Now you're close enough to touch him.
Close enough to feel the tension radiating from him.
Close enough that neither of you are pretending anymore.
"And maybe somebody who's secretly good with kids."
A genuine smile appears.
Rare.
Small.
Beautiful.
Entirely his.
Your heart absolutely melts.
"There she is."
You laugh.
Relief flooding through you.
Because suddenly everything makes sense.
Every glance.
Every ride.
Every act of quiet devotion.
Every moment neither of you dared acknowledge.
Happy reaches up.
Carefully.
Like you're something precious.
His hand settles against your cheek.
Warm.
Gentle.
Nothing like the dangerous man everybody else sees.
You lean into it without thinking.
His eyes soften.
And when he kisses you, it's slow.
Certain.
Patient.
Exactly like him.
The kind of kiss that feels less like a beginning and more like coming home.
When you finally pull apart, neither of you moves very far.
Happy rests his forehead against yours.
One arm wrapped around your waist.
Holding you close.
Keeping you there.
Keeping you safe.
A few seconds later, somebody whistles from the clubhouse.
Then another person starts cheering.
Then several more.
You immediately groan.
Happy sighs.
Neither of you turns around.
Because neither of you cares.
For once, the entire world can wait.
After all this time, after every missed opportunity and every unspoken feeling and every moment spent pretending there was nothing between you, you're finally exactly where you belong.
And judging by the way Happy's arm tightens around your waist, the way his lips brush your temple, and the quiet certainty in his eyes when he looks at you, he has absolutely no intention of letting you go.
Not tomorrow.
Not next week.
Not ten years from now.
Because the man you'd accidentally described so perfectly is everything you'd been searching for all along.
And now that he finally has you, he's staying.
Just like he always would.
Just like he always promised without ever saying a word.
You wake up sick to find Happy sitting in your kitchen at 4AM because Chibs mentioned you “didn’t sound good yesterday.”
The first thing you became aware of was the cold.
Not the normal kind.
Not the kind that came from forgetting to pull the blankets high enough or leaving the window cracked during a chilly Charming night.
This cold lived under your skin.
It sat heavy in your bones, tangled in your muscles, wrapped around your spine like ice water. Your throat burned raw every time you swallowed, your head pounded behind your eyes, and every inch of your body felt strangely too heavy to move.
You groaned quietly into your pillow.
The digital clock beside your bed glowed a blurry 4:07 AM.
You shut your eyes again.
Absolutely not.
There was no world in which you were willingly awake at four in the morning.
You rolled over slowly, immediately regretting it when nausea twisted through your stomach.
“Jesus,” you mumbled hoarsely.
Your voice sounded terrible.
You coughed once, winced, then dragged the blanket tighter around yourself.
Maybe if you ignored it hard enough, your body would simply stop being sick.
That was a solid plan.
Probably.
You drifted for a few minutes before another sound pulled you back toward consciousness.
A soft clink.
Metal against ceramic.
Your brows furrowed.
You lived alone.
The sound came again.
A spoon.
A mug.
Your eyes snapped open.
For one disorienting second, panic surged through you.
Then your fever-fogged brain caught up.
The front door had still been locked when you went to bed.
And there was only one person in Charming who moved through your apartment like silence itself.
Happy.
You pushed yourself upright with a miserable groan.
Your body protested violently.
Every joint ached.
Your head swam.
Still, you dragged yourself out of bed, wrapping your blanket around your shoulders like armor.
The hallway light was off.
Only the warm yellow glow from your kitchen reached into the apartment.
You shuffled toward it slowly.
Another clink.
Then the low scrape of a chair.
When you rounded the corner, you stopped dead.
Happy Lowman sat at your kitchen table at four in the morning like he belonged there.
Black hoodie.
Black jeans.
Boots.
Arms folded loosely across his chest.
A mug of steaming tea sat beside him.
Another mug rested in front of the empty chair across from him.
The overhead light painted sharp shadows across his face, catching the silver at his temples and the dark ink crawling over his hands.
He looked up immediately.
His eyes narrowed.
“You look like shit.”
You stared at him.
“...Good morning to you too.”
He grunted.
That wasn’t denial.
You blinked slowly.
“Happy.” Your voice cracked. “Why are you in my apartment?”
“Chibs said you sounded sick yesterday.”
You frowned.
“That was yesterday.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re here now.”
“Yeah.”
You waited.
Happy stared back at you with the same unreadable expression he always wore.
You had known him long enough to recognize the tiny details underneath it.
The tension in his jaw.
The way his fingers tapped once against his forearm.
The fact he’d positioned himself facing both the hallway and the front door.
He was worried.
Which would have been adorable if it wasn’t completely insane.
“You broke into my apartment at four in the morning because Chibs said I sounded sick?”
Happy tilted his head slightly.
“You got a problem with that?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Honestly?
You were too sick to argue effectively.
Also — and this was probably concerning on your part — seeing Happy sitting in your kitchen had immediately made you feel safer.
Not startled.
Not afraid.
Safer.
Like your fever had less room to scare you with him nearby.
You shuffled toward the table.
Happy watched every unsteady step.
The second you reached for the chair, he stood.
Fast.
One hand settled carefully against your elbow before you could wobble.
“You dizzy?”
“A little.”
“You almost fell.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You did.”
“You’re dramatic.”
He gave you a long look.
Then, unbelievably:
“You’re sweating.”
You stared.
“That’s usually how fevers work.”
His eyes narrowed harder.
Apparently sarcasm was unacceptable when you were sick.
Noted.
He pulled the chair out for you.
You sank into it gratefully.
The mug in front of you smelled like honey and lemon.
“You made tea?”
“Yeah.”
“You know how to make tea?”
Happy looked faintly offended.
“I know how to boil water.”
You snorted weakly.
Immediately coughed.
Your chest burned.
Happy’s entire posture shifted.
Not dramatically.
Just subtly sharper.
“Bad cough?”
“It’s fine.”
“You sound terrible.”
“You’ve said that twice now.”
“Still true.”
You wrapped both hands around the mug.
Warmth seeped into your frozen fingers.
The silence that settled wasn’t awkward.
It never really was with Happy.
Most people found him intimidating because he didn’t fill silence just to fill it.
You had learned quickly that his quiet wasn’t empty.
It was observant.
Intentional.
Comfortable.
You took a cautious sip of tea.
It was actually good.
Your eyebrows lifted.
“Okay, wow.”
Happy leaned back against the counter.
“What?”
“This is really good.”
A shrug.
Tiny.
Almost embarrassed.
“Looked it up.”
Something soft twisted painfully in your chest.
You tried to ignore it.
“How long have you been here?”
“Couple hours.”
You nearly choked.
“Happy.”
“What?”
“You’ve been sitting in my kitchen for hours?”
“You weren’t answering your phone.”
“I was asleep.”
“You had a fever yesterday.”
“And?”
“And people get worse.”
The blunt simplicity of it hit harder than it probably should have.
No grand speech.
No dramatic explanation.
Just:
People get worse.
So he came.
You looked down at your tea before he could see your face soften.
Because that was the thing about Happy Lowman.
Most people saw violence first.
Saw tattoos.
Saw dead eyes.
Saw the terrifying enforcer for SAMCRO.
You saw the man who quietly replaced your dead porch light without mentioning it.
The man who started showing up at your bakery fifteen minutes before closing because he knew you skipped dinner during busy shifts.
The man who once drove thirty minutes in the rain because your car battery died.
The man who pretended not to notice when you cried during sad movies.
Happy cared in strange ways.
Silent ways.
Devastating ways.
And apparently one of those ways involved lurking in your kitchen like a guard dog when you got sick.
You swallowed carefully.
“You could’ve just texted.”
“Did.”
You frowned.
Your phone.
Right.
You’d thrown it somewhere under the blankets before passing out.
“Oh.”
Happy nodded once.
“You didn’t answer.”
“So your next move was breaking and entering.”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
You laughed weakly.
Then immediately regretted it when your throat burned.
Happy was moving before you even fully coughed.
A bottle of water appeared in front of you.
“Drink.”
“You boss everybody around when they’re sick?”
“Only you.”
The words landed heavy.
Quiet.
Automatic.
Like he hadn’t even realized how honest they were.
Your eyes lifted slowly.
Happy looked away first.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
You took another sip of tea to hide your smile.
Outside, Charming was silent.
No traffic.
No voices.
Just darkness pressing against the windows and the soft hum of your refrigerator.
Happy stayed leaning against the counter.
Watching.
Always watching.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” you murmured eventually.
“Not babysitting.”
“What would you call it?”
A beat.
“Making sure you’re breathing.”
Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt.
You looked down quickly.
Fever.
It had to be the fever making your heart do weird things.
Definitely not the terrifyingly devoted outlaw biker standing barefoot-adjacent in your kitchen at four in the morning.
Definitely not that.
“You’re weirdly intense about this.”
Happy shrugged.
“You matter.”
Oh.
Oh, that was dangerous.
You stared at him.
He didn’t seem to realize what he’d done.
Or maybe he did.
Maybe Happy simply said things when they were true and didn’t see a point dancing around them.
Your throat suddenly felt tighter for reasons unrelated to illness.
“You really didn’t have to come over.”
“Wanted to.”
There it was again.
Simple.
Direct.
Like it cost him nothing to admit.
Which somehow made it mean everything.
You looked at the mug in your hands.
“Thank you.”
Happy dipped his chin once.
Silence settled again.
Comfortable.
Warm.
You didn’t realize how exhausted you were until your eyes started drifting shut.
Your body sagged forward slightly.
“Hey.”
You blinked.
Happy was closer now.
When had he moved?
“Bed.”
“M’fine.”
“You’re falling asleep sitting up.”
“Could probably sleep anywhere right now.”
One corner of his mouth twitched.
It wasn’t quite a smile.
Happy’s smiles were rare things.
Small.
Sharp.
Private.
You treasured every single one.
He reached down carefully.
Big hands surprisingly gentle against your shoulders.
“C’mon.”
You let him pull you upright.
Your knees nearly buckled.
Happy caught you instantly.
Strong arms locked around your waist before you could hit the floor.
“Easy.”
You buried your face briefly against his chest, mortified.
“Okay maybe I’m a little sick.”
“A little?”
“Don’t start.”
A low sound rumbled in his chest.
Not quite laughter.
Close.
The vibration of it made something flutter embarrassingly in your stomach.
“You burning up,” he muttered.
His hand brushed the back of your neck.
Cool skin against fever heat.
You nearly melted into him.
“Your hands are freezing.”
“Good.”
“Happy.”
“Hm?”
“That feels unfairly nice.”
Another tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.
He guided you carefully back toward your bedroom.
You became acutely aware of everything.
The weight of his hand at your waist.
The steady warmth of his body beside yours.
The way he automatically adjusted his pace to yours.
Happy Lowman was terrifyingly attentive.
Once he cared about someone, he noticed everything.
It was almost impossible surviving the full force of that attention without falling a little in love with him.
Unfortunately for you, that ship had sailed months ago.
You reached your bed.
Happy pulled the blankets back.
“You staying?” you mumbled before your brain could stop your mouth.
His eyes flicked to yours.
Sharp.
Assessing.
You immediately wanted to fling yourself into traffic.
“I mean — you don’t have to — obviously —”
“Yeah.”
You blinked.
“Yeah?”
“I’m staying.”
Your heart did a stupid little flip.
Happy eased you back onto the mattress.
The second your head hit the pillow, exhaustion dragged at you violently.
You barely registered him pulling the blankets higher.
“You need medicine?”
“Took some earlier.”
“When?”
You thought about it.
Honestly thought.
“...Yesterday?”
Happy sighed.
That was somehow more alarming than if he’d yelled.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I was sleeping.”
“You need to eat something.”
“I’ll throw up.”
“You need fluids.”
“You sound like WebMD.”
“You sound delirious.”
“Probably.”
Your eyes drifted shut again.
You heard movement.
Then the creak of your bedroom chair.
Your eyes opened halfway.
Happy sat beside the door.
Watching.
Guarding.
Like he intended to stay there until your fever broke.
“Happy.”
“Hm?”
“You know normal people don’t do this, right?”
“Good thing I’m not normal.”
You smiled weakly.
“Good thing.”
The last thing you felt before sleep dragged you under again was the strange, overwhelming certainty that nothing bad could touch you with Happy Lowman sitting watch beside your door.
When you woke again, sunlight spilled through your curtains.
Your mouth tasted awful.
Your body still ached.
But the crushing heaviness in your chest had eased slightly.
For a moment, you forgot.
Then you heard low voices.
One of them unmistakably belonged to Happy.
The other belonged to Chibs.
You frowned sleepily.
What the hell?
You dragged yourself out of bed slower this time.
Your legs still wobbled.
The smell hit you halfway down the hall.
Soup.
Fresh coffee.
Toast.
You rounded the corner to find Chibs sitting at your kitchen table while Happy stood at the stove.
At the stove.
You stopped walking.
Chibs looked up first.
“Well look who’s alive.”
Happy turned immediately.
His eyes swept over your face.
Checking.
Assessing.
“You still dizzy?”
“A little.”
“Sit.”
You stared at him.
“Did you just order me to sit in my own apartment?”
“Yes.”
Chibs looked deeply entertained.
“This is the softest I’ve ever seen him.”
Happy ignored him.
You sat mostly because standing suddenly felt exhausting.
Chibs grinned at you over his coffee mug.
“So.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
Happy set a bowl of soup in front of you.
Steam curled upward.
It smelled amazing.
You blinked.
“Did you make this?”
“Store bought.”
“Still heated it,” Chibs said helpfully. “Practically domestic.”
Happy shot him a flat look.
Chibs only laughed harder.
You looked between them slowly.
“What exactly happened here?”
Chibs leaned back.
“I told him yesterday ye sounded rough on the phone.”
Happy muttered something under his breath.
Chibs smirked.
“Next thing I know, he’s interrogating me like yer dying.”
“I was not interrogating.”
“Ye threatened me with a fork.”
“It got your attention.”
You stared at Happy in disbelief.
“You threatened Chibs with cutlery because I had a cold?”
Happy crossed his arms.
“You sounded bad.”
Something warm unfurled in your chest.
Slow.
Dangerous.
Chibs watched the two of you carefully.
Too carefully.
Then his grin softened into something more knowing.
“He stayed all night, didn’t he?”
Happy didn’t answer.
Which was answer enough.
Chibs barked a laugh.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Don’t start,” Happy warned.
“Oh, I’m absolutely starting.” Chibs pointed at him. “This psycho has ignored bullet wounds before but apparently one sick girl and suddenly he’s Florence bloody Nightingale.”
You laughed.
Then coughed.
Happy was instantly beside you.
One hand against your back.
Water shoved toward you.
Chibs went silent.
Not teasing anymore.
Just watching.
Watching the way Happy hovered.
Watching the way you leaned unconsciously toward him.
Watching the way Happy’s eyes stayed fixed on your face until your coughing stopped.
Then Chibs sighed dramatically.
“We’re all doomed.”
You blinked.
“What?”
Chibs jerked his chin toward Happy.
“He’s fucked.”
Happy glared.
“Shut up.”
“Nope.” Chibs grinned wider. “Ye know this idiot nearly punched Juice because he suggested NyQuil instead of DayQuil?”
“Those are different medicines,” Happy said flatly.
“That is not the point.”
You looked at Happy slowly.
“You argued with someone over cold medicine?”
“You needed the right one.”
Your heart.
Your stupid, stupid heart.
Chibs stood eventually, still grinning.
“I’m leaving before he stabs me for looking at ye wrong.”
Happy didn’t deny it.
That was somehow worse.
Chibs paused beside your chair before heading out.
“You need anything, sweetheart, call the clubhouse.”
“I’m okay.”
Chibs snorted.
“Ye've got Happy Lowman making soup. None of us are okay anymore.”
Then he left.
The apartment fell quiet again.
You looked at Happy.
Happy looked at you.
Then he pushed the soup closer.
“Eat.”
You obeyed mostly because your body suddenly realized food existed.
The soup was warm and salty and perfect.
Happy stayed standing nearby.
Watching.
“Are you going to stare at me the entire time?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a little unsettling.”
“You stop breathing in your sleep sometimes.”
Your spoon froze halfway to your mouth.
“What?”
“When your fever spikes.”
You stared.
Happy’s expression remained calm.
Steady.
Like sitting awake through the night monitoring your breathing had been the most natural thing in the world.
“How long were you watching me sleep?”
“Awhile.”
“That’s incredibly creepy.”
“You’re alive though.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Because honestly?
He had a point.
You ate another spoonful slowly.
Happy finally sat across from you.
“You should go back to bed after.”
“You staying again?”
“Yeah.”
No hesitation.
None.
Your chest squeezed painfully.
“Happy…”
His eyes lifted.
Dark.
Focused completely on you.
You swallowed.
“I don’t know what this is.”
The silence stretched.
Not awkward.
Heavy.
Real.
Then Happy leaned forward slightly.
“I do.”
Your breath caught.
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
His gaze never left yours.
“I take care of what’s mine.”
The room went utterly still.
Heat flooded your face.
Maybe from the fever.
Definitely not from the terrifyingly possessive statement.
Definitely not.
“Yours?” you repeated softly.
Happy’s jaw tightened.
Like he was debating whether to retreat.
Whether to soften it.
He didn’t.
“If you don’t like that, say so.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
Because he meant it.
Not ownership.
Not control.
Protection.
Loyalty.
Commitment.
Happy’s version of love probably looked a lot like standing guard outside someone’s bedroom at four in the morning.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” you admitted quietly.
Something changed in his face.
Subtle.
But enormous.
Relief.
Tiny.
Hidden.
Real.
Happy looked away first.
“You should finish eating.”
You smiled into your soup.
By noon, your fever spiked again.
Hard.
One minute you were dozing on the couch while Happy cleaned your kitchen with deeply concerning efficiency.
The next, you were shaking violently beneath three blankets.
Happy was beside you instantly.
“Hey.”
You barely registered his voice.
Everything hurt.
Your skin burned and froze simultaneously.
Your stomach churned.
Your vision blurred.
“Easy.”
A cool cloth pressed against your forehead.
You whimpered quietly.
Happy’s expression darkened immediately.
He hated that sound.
You could tell.
“You need hospital?”
“No,” you croaked.
“You sure?”
“Just fever.”
He studied you carefully.
Then nodded once.
But he didn’t relax.
Not even slightly.
You drifted in and out for awhile.
Sometimes waking just enough to feel his hand against your forehead.
Sometimes hearing him moving around your apartment.
Once, you woke to the sound of his voice low and dangerous.
“No, she’s sleeping.”
A pause.
Then:
“I don’t care if Tig thinks it’s funny.”
Another pause.
“Tell him I’ll kill him.”
You smiled weakly into your pillow.
Even feverish, you knew exactly how that conversation went.
Hours blurred together.
At some point, rain started outside.
Soft against the windows.
You woke again sometime that evening to find the apartment dim except for the lamp beside the couch.
Happy sat on the floor.
Back against the couch.
One arm resting near your legs.
Watching television with the volume low.
Your chest tightened.
The sight was strangely intimate.
Domestic in a way you’d never associated with men like Happy.
You shifted slightly.
He looked back immediately.
“How you feeling?”
“Like death.”
“You’re dramatic.”
You blinked.
“That’s my line.”
A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Victory.
You pulled the blanket higher.
“You’ve seriously been here all day.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t you have club stuff?”
“Handled.”
“You skipped work for me?”
Happy looked genuinely confused.
“You’re sick.”
As if that explained everything.
Maybe to him, it did.
You watched him quietly.
The hard lines of his face softened in the dim light.
He looked tired.
Still alert.
Still watching you constantly.
But tired.
“You should sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“You stayed awake all night.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Silence settled.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Happy stayed where he was on the floor.
Close enough that if you stretched your hand down, you could touch him.
The thought lingered.
Dangerous.
Tempting.
“You scare people, you know,” you murmured sleepily.
“Good.”
“But not me.”
Happy went still.
You watched him carefully.
The side of his face.
The scar near his jaw.
The exhaustion hidden beneath his calm expression.
“You’ve never scared me.”
A long silence followed.
Then quietly:
“You should be smarter.”
You smiled faintly.
“Too late.”
His fingers tapped once against his knee.
Nervous.
Happy Lowman got nervous so rarely that noticing it felt sacred.
“You trust me too much.”
“No,” you whispered.
His eyes lifted slowly.
“I trust you exactly enough.”
Something raw crossed his face.
Gone almost immediately.
But you saw it.
And suddenly the room felt too small for all the things neither of you had said yet.
You shifted carefully.
“Happy.”
“Hm?”
“Come here.”
His brows furrowed slightly.
Still, he stood.
Moved closer.
You lifted the blanket weakly.
The invitation hung there between you.
Happy stared at it.
Then at you.
“You got a fever.”
“I know.”
“You’re contagious.”
“You literally sat beside me all night.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
A pause.
Then quietly:
“If I get in there, I’m not leaving.”
Your heart skipped.
You held his gaze.
“Okay.”
Something intense flickered in his eyes.
Then he climbed carefully onto the couch beside you.
The space instantly felt warmer.
Safer.
Happy settled stiffly at first.
Like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.
You solved the problem by immediately curling against his side.
He froze.
Completely.
“You’re warm,” you mumbled.
One huge hand settled cautiously against your back.
Gentle.
So gentle.
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
“Mhm.”
“You need anything?”
“You.”
The word slipped out half-asleep.
Honest in the careless way exhaustion sometimes forced people to be.
Happy went utterly still.
You felt his heartbeat beneath your cheek.
Fast.
Much faster than normal.
Interesting.
“You got me,” he said eventually.
The quiet certainty in his voice nearly broke your heart.
You drifted asleep listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
For the first time in two days, the fever dreams stayed away.
The next morning, you woke tangled around Happy Lowman.
Which was.
A lot.
Your head rested against his chest.
One of his arms circled your waist.
Your leg had somehow ended up thrown over his.
And despite the terrifying tattoos and generally murderous appearance, Happy held you like you were something precious.
Like he’d done it carefully.
Consciously.
You stayed still for a moment.
Just breathing.
Watching sunlight spill across the room.
Happy’s hand moved slowly against your back.
“You awake?”
His voice sounded rough with sleep.
You smiled slightly.
“Maybe.”
“Fever’s down.”
“You checked?”
“Yeah.”
Of course he did.
You tilted your head up slightly.
Happy was already looking at you.
Dark eyes steady.
Focused.
There was something terrifying about being looked at by Happy.
Not because it was frightening.
Because it wasn’t.
Because when Happy looked at you, it felt absolute.
Like nothing else existed for him in that moment.
Your pulse fluttered.
“You stayed.”
“Told you I would.”
“Most people don’t mean that literally.”
“I do.”
You believed him.
Completely.
That might’ve been the scariest part.
You studied him quietly.
“You know,” you murmured, “this is probably the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
Happy’s expression shifted subtly.
Suspicion.
Like he thought you were joking.
“I made soup.”
“You sat awake all night monitoring my breathing.”
“You stopped breathing sometimes.”
“You threatened Juice over cold medicine.”
“He deserved it.”
You laughed softly.
Happy’s gaze lingered on your face.
Long enough that warmth crept into your chest.
Then his thumb brushed lightly against your waist.
Small movement.
Careful.
Like he was testing whether he was allowed.
You melted immediately.
Humiliating.
“You really worried about me?” you asked softly.
Happy looked almost annoyed by the question.
“Yeah.”
“How worried?”
A long pause.
Then:
“I almost kicked your door in.”
Your eyes widened.
“Happy.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“That’s not normal behavior.”
“Didn’t feel normal.”
There it was again.
That terrifying honesty.
No games.
No pretending.
Just truth.
You reached up before you could overthink it.
Your fingers brushed lightly against his jaw.
Happy froze.
Every muscle in his body tightened beneath you.
But he didn’t pull away.
“You care about me a lot,” you whispered.
His eyes held yours.
“Yeah.”
The air changed.
Heavy.
Charged.
Your pulse pounded loud in your ears.
“You know what the really pathetic part is?” you admitted quietly.
“What?”
“I think I started falling in love with you when you fixed my porch light without telling me.”
Happy stared.
Completely still.
You kept going because apparently fever removed all self-preservation instincts.
“And then it got worse when you remembered my coffee order after hearing it once.”
Silence.
“And then there was that thing with my car battery.”
Still silence.
“And now you’re making soup and hovering like an emotionally constipated guard dog, so honestly I never stood a chance.”
Happy’s expression became unreadable.
Dangerously unreadable.
Your stomach dropped.
“Well,” you mumbled, suddenly mortified, “that might be the fever talking.”
Then Happy kissed you.
Not hesitant.
Not soft.
Just immediate.
Like he’d spent months holding himself back and finally snapped.
His hand cupped the back of your neck carefully.
The other tightened around your waist.
You made a startled sound against his mouth.
Then melted instantly.
Because kissing Happy felt exactly like everything else about him.
Intense.
Certain.
Possessive in the gentlest possible way.
Like once he decided something mattered, he committed completely.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
His breathing was rough.
“You talk too much when you’re sick,” he muttered.
You stared at him.
Then laughed.
Really laughed.
Happy’s eyes softened immediately at the sound.
There.
That.
You saw it.
The thing he hid from everyone else.
The terrifying depth of feeling underneath all that silence.
“You kissed me,” you whispered.
“Yeah.”
“You finally kissed me.”
Happy’s jaw tightened.
“Been trying not to.”
“Why?”
His gaze darkened.
“Because when I want something, I don’t stop.”
Heat curled low in your stomach.
“Sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
You smiled slowly.
“Good thing I want you too.”
Something fierce flashed across his face.
Then he kissed you again.
Slower this time.
Thorough.
Like he was learning you.
You curled closer automatically.
Happy made a low sound against your mouth.
Dangerous.
Warm.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing harder.
“You still sick,” he murmured.
“And whose fault is that?”
His mouth twitched.
“Yours.”
“You literally broke into my apartment.”
“You like that I did.”
The worst part was:
He was absolutely right.
You narrowed your eyes.
“That confidence is deeply unattractive.”
Happy looked completely unconcerned.
“You’re holding onto me.”
You glanced down.
Your arms were indeed wrapped firmly around him.
Traitorous limbs.
“I’m weak from illness.”
“Sure.”
You huffed.
Happy actually smiled.
A real one.
Small.
Crooked.
Beautiful enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
Your expression must’ve changed because his smile faded slightly.
“What?”
“You should do that more.”
“What?”
“Smile.”
Happy looked deeply suspicious.
“You’re delirious.”
“No, seriously.” You touched his face lightly. “You get this tiny little smile and suddenly you look almost approachable.”
“Don’t spread that around.”
You grinned.
“Oh, I’m absolutely telling people Happy Lowman secretly smiles.”
He caught your wrist gently.
“Careful.”
“Or what?”
His eyes flicked to your mouth.
“Or I’ll keep kissing you.”
Your heart nearly exploded.
“That’s supposed to be a threat?”
A low rumble left his chest.
Closer to laughter this time.
You froze.
Because there it was.
Not the fake amused huff he gave the guys.
Not the dark chuckle he used during intimidation.
A real laugh.
Small.
Rough.
Startlingly warm.
Your eyes widened.
“Holy shit.”
Happy immediately looked wary.
“What?”
“That was real.”
His brows furrowed.
“You laughed.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Wasn’t laughing.”
“You are literally lying directly to my face.”
Happy looked offended.
“You’re sick. Your hearing’s messed up.”
You burst into helpless laughter.
Which turned into coughing.
Happy instantly grabbed your water.
Concern snapping back into place so fast it made your chest ache.
“Easy.”
You took a sip, still smiling.
“There’s my scary biker.”
“You done?”
“Never.”
He shook his head.
But his hand stayed warm against your back.
Steady.
Grounding.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then quietly:
“You know nobody’s ever taken care of me like this before.”
Happy’s expression shifted.
Darkened.
“Then they were stupid.”
Emotion hit you so hard it almost hurt.
You leaned forward slowly.
Pressed your forehead against his.
“Stay?” you whispered.
Happy looked at you like you’d asked something ridiculous.
“Yeah.”
Not hesitant.
Not uncertain.
Just absolute.
You believed him immediately.
Because this was Happy.
And maybe the terrifying thing about being loved by someone like him wasn’t the intensity.
Maybe it was the certainty.
The way he showed up.
The way he stayed.
The way he sat awake at four in the morning in your kitchen because someone mentioned you didn’t sound good.
Like caring for you was the easiest decision he’d ever made.
Outside, rain continued softly against the windows.
Inside, wrapped in blankets and tangled up with the most dangerous man in Charming, you realized something quietly wonderful.
You had never once been afraid of Happy Lowman.
Not really.
Because from the very beginning, every violent part of him had only ever turned outward.
Never toward you.
Never at you.
Only around you.
Protecting.
Guarding.
Loving in all the quiet ways he knew how.
And now that you knew what that love looked like, you weren’t sure how you’d ever survived without it.
Happy brushed his thumb slowly against your waist.
“You should sleep more.”
You smiled against his mouth.
“Only if you stay.”
His eyes softened.
“Not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in days, maybe longer, you believed that completely.
Happy Lowman (Sons of Anarchy) x fem!reader - he's 49, you're 24
You see happy shirtless for the first time and it breaks your brain a little (a lot)
enjoy the shirtless Happy/David labrava photos at the end - based off unfortunately true events.. yes.. even the fucking taxes line and the squeak
The clubhouse was louder than usual, every room spilling into the next with overlapping conversations, the scrape of boots across old hardwood floors, someone laughing too loudly over the music pouring from battered speakers that had survived more parties than they had any right to, and you had made the mistake—what would soon become one of the most embarrassing mistakes of your entire adult life—of volunteering to carry a box of fresh pastries you'd baked that morning because apparently your greatest talent wasn't baking anymore, it was finding increasingly creative ways to humiliate yourself in front of one particular tattooed biker who barely spoke five words a day and somehow still managed to occupy approximately ninety-eight percent of your conscious thoughts.
You'd been around SAMCRO long enough that everyone knew you now.
The sweet girl.
The baker.
The twenty-four-year-old who somehow fit into the chaos without ever becoming hard enough to match it.
Happy Lowman had started calling you "sweets" months ago by complete accident.
It had stuck.
Much to your everlasting cardiac distress.
Today, however, was going fine.
Actually...
Today was going suspiciously well.
Happy had nodded at you when you'd walked in.
He'd accepted one of your cinnamon rolls.
He'd even muttered, "Good."
Which, from Happy, was practically a standing ovation.
You should've known the universe was balancing the scales.
Because halfway through unloading pastries into the kitchen, Chibs called from somewhere down the hallway.
"Happy!"
A muffled response.
"Bathroom's flooded again."
Someone groaned.
"Bobby clogged it?"
"It wasn't me!"
Laughter erupted.
You weren't paying attention.
You were carefully arranging muffins into neat rows because presentation mattered, thank you very much, when Tig wandered into the kitchen wearing the expression of someone seconds away from causing problems.
"Hey, sweetheart."
"No."
"I didn't even say anything."
"You've got that face."
"What face?"
"The one that means I should leave."
He looked almost offended.
"I was just gonna tell you Happy's in the spare bathroom."
"...Okay?"
"Shower's working in there."
"...Okay?"
"He went to rinse off after fixing his bike."
"...Okay?"
He grinned.
"So if you need paper towels they're in the linen closet."
You blinked.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Nothing."
Then he walked away laughing to himself.
You frowned after him.
"You're a weird man."
You genuinely thought nothing of it.
Until approximately five minutes later when Gemma shouted from somewhere downstairs.
"Sweetheart! Can you grab the clean towels from the hall closet?"
"Yep!"
You hurried upstairs.
Completely unsuspecting.
Entirely innocent.
Not a single survival instinct present.
The hallway was quiet compared to downstairs, music muted through old walls as you reached the linen closet, pulled open the door, stacked fresh towels into your arms...
...and immediately dropped half of them when another door opened.
Your head snapped toward the sound automatically.
Happy stepped out of the spare bathroom.
Fresh from the shower.
Shirtless.
Hair still damp.
Water glistening over black ink that covered broad shoulders and a chest you'd somehow never really appreciated before because Happy almost always wore layers, flannel over shirt, kutte over flannel, sleeves rolled down, and apparently your imagination had been criminally inadequate because absolutely nothing had prepared you for the reality standing six feet away from you with a towel slung carelessly around his neck, tattoos stretching across muscle earned through decades of violence and motorcycles and work, scars weaving between ink like stories written directly into his skin, droplets of water tracing slow paths downward before disappearing beneath the waistband of worn jeans that sat low on narrow hips, and every coherent thought your brain had ever possessed packed a tiny suitcase, wished you luck, and abandoned ship.
Happy noticed you.
You noticed Happy noticing you.
Time stopped.
Your brain made one final, desperate attempt at functioning.
Say hello.
Easy.
Normal.
Adult.
Instead—
Your eyes got impossibly wide.
Your mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
You made a noise.
Not a word.
A noise.
Something between a squeak and the sound a tea kettle makes right before it explodes.
Happy's eyebrow lifted.
"...Sweets?"
You continued staring.
Absolutely frozen.
Because there were muscles.
So many muscles.
Good lord.
How did one human being—
He had—
His shoulders—
Was that another tattoo—
Dear God, his arms.
Happy tilted his head slightly.
"You alright?"
Your brain finally rebooted.
Unfortunately.
The first thought it produced was:
OH MY GOD HE'S LOOKING AT ME WHILE SHIRTLESS.
You panicked.
Utterly.
Catastrophically.
"Nope!"
The word burst out far louder than intended.
Happy blinked.
You pointed at absolutely nothing.
"I—"
Nothing.
"I have—"
No you didn't.
"I forgot—"
Forgot what?
"My... uh..."
Think.
Think!
"My... taxes!"
Happy stared.
"...Taxes."
"YES."
Silence.
"...It's June."
"I KNOW!"
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
Instead—
You spun around so quickly you smacked directly into the linen closet door.
"Ow!"
Recovered.
Barely.
Grabbed approximately three towels instead of the whole stack.
Then, in what would later be remembered by every witness as the least convincing escape attempt in recorded history—
You ran.
Actually ran.
Down the hallway.
Away from the shirtless man.
Away from your dignity.
Away from civilization itself.
Behind you—
There was a long pause.
Then Happy's voice.
"...Sweets."
You ran faster.
Downstairs, Juice looked up just in time to see you bolt through the clubhouse clutching three crooked towels against your chest with the expression of someone fleeing an active crime scene.
"...Everything okay?"
"PERFECT."
"You look like you're about to pass out."
"I AM NOT."
"You sure?"
"I HAVE TO GO."
"You... live thirty minutes away."
"I KNOW."
You dropped the towels and headed straight for the front door.
Behind you came slow, familiar footsteps.
Heavy boots.
Unhurried.
Steady.
Happy.
Tig spotted him immediately.
"...She's runnin'."
"I know."
"You gonna let her?"
"No."
Happy continued walking.
Not fast.
Didn't need to.
You'd barely made it halfway across the parking lot before you heard him.
"Sweets."
You accelerated.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
You could never look him in the eye again.
You'd squeaked.
You'd blamed taxes.
You'd fled.
You deserved exile.
Behind you—
Happy sighed.
Long-suffering.
Then—
"Sweets."
Closer now.
You risked one glance over your shoulder.
Big mistake.
He'd pulled on a black T-shirt.
Which honestly wasn't helping.
Because now you knew what was underneath it.
Your face somehow became even hotter.
"Oh my God..."
Happy watched realization dawn across your expression.
Then watched you turn and immediately speed-walk even faster.
His mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile.
Close.
He caught up effortlessly.
You stubbornly refused to look at him.
"I'm busy."
"Mm."
"I have somewhere to be."
"You don't."
"I absolutely do."
"I parked behind your car."
...
"...That's unfortunate."
"You can't leave."
"...I could walk."
"Thirty miles."
"...Exercise is healthy."
He stopped in front of you, calmly blocking your path without an ounce of aggression, simply existing there with his hands tucked into his pockets, looking down at you with that unreadable expression that usually terrified grown men but somehow only made your heartbeat worse.
You stared determinedly at the laces on his boots.
Anywhere but his face.
Or... anything else.
Happy waited.
Patient.
Finally—
"Sweets."
"...Mm?"
"You gonna look at me?"
"No."
"Why?"
"...Reasons."
"What reasons?"
"...Personal reasons."
Silence.
Then—
"...Was it because I didn't have a shirt on?"
Your soul left your body.
Gone.
Departed.
Ascended.
You covered your face with both hands.
"Oh my God."
Happy had his answer.
A tiny sound escaped him.
Barely audible.
A low huff.
It took you a full three seconds to realize...
He was laughing.
Not loudly.
Not mockingly.
Just...
Amused.
You peeked between your fingers.
"...Are you laughing at me?"
"No."
"You are!"
"I'm not."
"You literally are!"
"Little bit."
"Oh, this is horrible."
He looked at you for another long moment before quietly murmering, "You ran because I took my shirt off."
"I ran because my brain stopped working."
"...Mm."
"I embarrassed myself."
"You squeaked."
"I KNOW."
"You said taxes."
"I KNOW."
"It's June."
"I KNOW IT'S JUNE."
He nodded once.
"I liked that."
You blinked.
"...What?"
"The squeak."
Your eyes widened.
"You... liked it?"
"Yeah."
"...Why?"
A shrug.
"'Cause it was honest."
You stared.
Happy met your gaze without looking away.
"You don't fake much."
"I wasn't trying to fake anything."
"I know."
"I genuinely malfunctioned."
"I noticed."
"I made the noise of a distressed guinea pig."
"You did."
"You'll never forget that."
"No."
"I have to move countries."
"No."
"You'll tell the guys."
"No."
"You'll think about it every time you see me."
Another pause.
Then—
"I'll think it's cute."
Your head snapped up.
"...Cute?"
"Mm."
"I made a complete fool of myself."
"I know."
"You found that..."
"...Cute."
"You don't think I'm ridiculous?"
"I think you're twenty-four."
"...That's your explanation?"
"You've got a big heart."
His voice remained quiet.
"So when you feel things..."
He gestured vaguely.
"...Your whole face says it."
You frowned.
"...That's embarrassing."
"I like seeing it."
"...Why?"
"'Cause I always know where I stand."
You looked at him then.
Really looked.
Happy wasn't teasing.
Wasn't smirking.
Wasn't making fun of you.
He genuinely looked... fond.
Like your spectacular failure to behave like a normal person had somehow become one of his favorite things.
"You really thought I was...Handsome?"
Your face exploded into fresh color.
"I wasn't gonna say it!"
"You were thinkin' it."
"..."
"..."
"...Maybe."
That tiny almost-smile returned.
"So."
"So?"
"You think I'm handsome."
"I think you're impossible."
"Didn't answer."
You groaned dramatically.
"You are absolutely impossible."
"Sweets."
You sighed the sigh of someone accepting unavoidable defeat.
"...Yes."
He waited.
"...Yes, I think you're handsome."
Silence.
"...Very handsome."
Another pause.
"...Stupidly handsome."
He nodded once.
"Good."
"Good?"
"'Cause I think you're beautiful."
Everything stopped.
The parking lot. The motorcycles. The voices drifting from inside. The breeze moving through the trees.
Your heart forgot how to beat altogether.
"...What?"
Happy stepped closer.
Close enough that you could smell clean soap instead of engine grease.
Close enough that his voice stayed low.
"I've thought that for a while."
"You..."
"I wasn't in a hurry."
"You were waiting?"
"You would've gotten there."
"...Eventually."
Your laugh came out shaky.
"I don't think I was."
"You would've."
"I literally ran away."
"You came back."
"I had to."
"You always do."
He wasn't wrong.
No matter how flustered you got.
No matter how nervous he made you.
You always ended up gravitating back toward him.
Like it was instinct.
Like somehow, somewhere along the way, he'd quietly become home.
Happy reached out slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and brushed one escaped strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that seemed impossible for hands that had spent decades throwing punches and fixing motorcycles.
"So."
"So?"
"You done runnin'?"
You looked up into warm brown eyes that somehow held more tenderness than words ever could.
Then smiled.
"...Yeah."
"You sure?"
"I don't think I could outrun you anyway."
"No."
A tiny laugh escaped you.
"So... what happens now?"
Happy's hand settled lightly around yours.
Simple.
Steady.
Like it had always belonged there.
"Now," he said quietly, "I take my girl inside."
Your breath caught.
"...Your girl?"
"If she'll have me."
You looked at your joined hands.
Then back at him.
"I've been making a fool of myself over you for months."
"I noticed."
"I'd really, really like to be your girl."
For the first time since you'd known him, Happy smiled without reservation.
Small.
Soft.
Entirely real.
"Good."
He squeezed your hand once before leading you back toward the clubhouse, and when the front door opened to reveal every single Son pretending very badly not to have been watching through the windows, Tig immediately grinned and called, "So... taxes all sorted?"
You buried your burning face against Happy's shoulder with a groan of absolute defeat.
Happy wrapped an arm around your waist without hesitation, looked directly at Tig, and said in the calmest voice imaginable, "Yeah."
Then he kissed the top of your head.
"My girl's good now."
The laughter that erupted around you barely registered, because tucked safely against his side, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the very shirt that had caused your spectacular collapse in the first place, you realized you didn't mind making a fool of yourself anymore—not if every time you ran, Happy Lowman was always going to be the one who came after you.
Running to Happy when something terrifies (genuinely scared shitless) you, burying your face into his chest and wrapping your arms around him.
He's startled, you guys have never touched on purpose before, but he quickly holds you to him, a hand pressing protectively over the back of your head as he hushes your tears.
He's full of rage and violence but he holds you to him as carefully as he can.
Warnings: reader is followed by a creep
Nobody in Charming ran to Happy Lowman for comfort.
For protection? Absolutely.
For violence? Without hesitation.
For fear? Never.
Happy was the thing people hid behind when they were scared, not the person they collapsed into.
He was too sharp-edged for softness. Too brutal for gentleness. Too dangerous.
At least that’s what everyone thought.
Including him.
Especially him.
Which was why the feeling of your body slamming into his chest nearly stopped his heart.
The clubhouse was loud that night.
Music blaring.
Bikers yelling over poker games.
Half-drunk croweaters laughing too loud near the bar.
Happy sat at the table in the corner cleaning one of his guns while Tig and Kozik argued over something pointless nearby.
It was normal chaos.
Until the front doors burst open hard enough to rattle the walls.
Everyone looked up instinctively.
You stumbled inside.
Pale.
Breathing hard.
Terrified.
Not upset.
Not startled.
Terrified.
Happy knew the difference immediately.
Your eyes darted frantically around the room before landing on him.
And then—
You ran to him.
Actually ran.
Happy barely had time to stand before you crashed into him hard enough to knock his chair backward.
Your arms wrapped around his middle desperately.
Your face buried against his chest.
The entire clubhouse went dead silent.
Happy froze.
Every muscle in his body locked instantly.
Because you’d never touched him like this before.
Never.
You joked with him.
Sat near him.
Talked to him more than most people dared.
But this—
This was different.
This was instinct.
Fear.
Need.
Your entire body was shaking.
“Hey,” Happy said automatically, startled by how rough his voice sounded.
You made a small, broken sound against his chest that twisted something vicious inside him.
Without thinking, Happy’s arms came around you.
One wrapped tightly around your waist.
The other pressed protectively against the back of your head.
Covering you.
Shielding you.
Like his body moved before his brain caught up.
“It’s okay,” he muttered roughly.
Which was ridiculous because he had no idea what happened.
But you were trembling so hard he could feel it through your ribs.
“Hey. Hey.” His hand tightened gently against your hair. “Look at me.”
You couldn’t.
You just clung harder.
Happy’s jaw flexed sharply.
Rage started building immediately.
Cold and violent.
Because somebody had done this.
Somebody had scared you badly enough to send you running into a room full of killers looking for safety.
And somehow—
Somehow—
you’d chosen him.
“Who?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head against his chest.
Couldn’t speak.
Happy looked over your head immediately.
The room had gone eerily still.
Jax was already standing.
Chibs looked deadly serious.
Even Tig had lost the usual humor in his face.
Happy adjusted his hold on you carefully.
Painfully carefully.
Like you were something fragile despite the violence simmering under his skin.
“Take a breath,” he murmured.
Your fingers clenched tighter in the back of his shirt.
Happy glanced down finally.
Really looked at you.
Your eyes were wet.
Terrified.
And Christ.
Happy had seen bloodier things than nightmares.
Had done bloodier things himself.
But seeing you look genuinely afraid hit him harder than violence ever had.
“It’s okay,” he repeated softly.
The softness startled everybody.
Including him.
You finally managed a shaky breath.
“There was a man—”
Happy went still.
“He followed me,” you whispered. “From the grocery store.”
The room temperature seemed to drop instantly.
Your voice cracked.
“I thought I lost him but then he grabbed me outside my apartment and—”
Happy’s arms locked around you tighter immediately.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to anchor.
Rage exploded white-hot behind his ribs.
“Did he hurt you?”
You shook your head quickly.
“No, I got away. I just—I didn’t know where else to go—”
Happy’s expression changed.
Tiny shift.
But devastating.
Because you came here.
To him.
Out of every possible place in Charming, your terrified brain had decided Happy Lowman meant safety.
Not danger.
Safety.
Something ugly and protective twisted violently in his chest.
You finally looked up at him then.
Eyes red.
Face pressed close enough he could feel your breath through his shirt.
And Happy—
Happy melted.
Nobody would’ve called it that.
Not looking at him.
Not with the tattoos and scars and death in his eyes.
But something in him softened instantly around you.
His hand cradled the back of your head more securely.
“You did good,” he said quietly.
Your face crumpled unexpectedly at that.
Like nobody had said the right thing yet.
Tears spilled harder.
Happy visibly panicked.
“Hey.”
You buried your face back into his chest immediately, shaking.
And Happy—
Jesus Christ.
Happy Lowman, who had stabbed men without blinking, looked completely overwhelmed by your tears.
His eyes darted around the room like someone else might know what to do.
Tig made a tiny motion with his hand.
Comfort her, dumbass.
Right.
Happy swallowed hard.
Then lowered his head slightly toward yours.
“It’s alright,” he murmured again, softer now. “Ain’t gonna let anybody touch you.”
You made another shaky sound.
Happy’s hand moved slowly against your hair.
Awkward.
Careful.
Like he was trying not to break you.
And maybe the strangest part was how natural it felt after the first second.
Holding you.
Protecting you.
Keeping you tucked against him while your fear slowly eased.
Like something deep in him had already decided you belonged there.
The clubhouse stayed silent around you.
Mostly because nobody had ever seen Happy like this before.
Gentle.
Patient.
He looked like a wolf trying to hold a wounded bird without crushing it.
Jax finally spoke quietly.
“You know what the guy looked like?”
Your body tensed again immediately.
Happy felt it.
Saw it.
And instantly tightened his hold.
“Nah,” he said flatly without looking away from you. “Not now.”
Jax paused.
Then nodded once.
Because Happy’s tone made it very clear:
This came first.
You came first.
The room slowly resumed movement after that.
Quietly.
Respectfully.
But Happy stayed exactly where he was.
Holding you against his chest while your breathing gradually steadied.
Minutes passed.
Maybe longer.
Eventually, your grip loosened slightly.
Embarrassment started creeping in around the edges now that the panic faded.
You pulled back just enough to wipe your face quickly.
“Sorry,” you mumbled hoarsely.
Happy frowned instantly.
“For what?”
You laughed weakly.
“I basically tackled you.”
“So?”
The answer came so automatically it stunned both of you.
You stared at him.
Happy looked mildly confused by your confusion.
Like he genuinely didn’t understand why this was a problem.
You swallowed hard.
“You don’t really… do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” You gestured vaguely between your bodies. “Comforting people.”
Happy looked down at you for a long moment.
Then his thumb brushed lightly near your temple, wiping away leftover tears before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.
“Ain’t people,” he muttered.
Your breath caught.
The words hit him about half a second later.
Happy froze.
The room went suspiciously quiet again because apparently everyone heard that.
Tig’s eyes widened dramatically.
Chibs looked delighted.
Happy ignored them completely.
Because you were still looking at him like that.
Soft.
Safe.
Trusting him with parts of yourself most people never got close enough to see.
And Happy realized something ugly and undeniable in that moment:
If that man had actually hurt you—
Really hurt you—
they would never find enough of him left to bury.
The violence of the thought should’ve bothered him.
Instead, all he felt was relief that you were here.
Alive.
In his arms.
You shifted slightly, finally realizing you were still pressed fully against his chest.
But before you could step away, Happy’s hand tightened reflexively against the back of your head.
Not forcing.
Just… keeping you there another second.
His eyes dropped to yours.
“You stayin’ here tonight.”
It wasn’t really a question.
You blinked.
“I don’t wanna inconvenience—”
“You ain’t.”
The firmness in his voice shut that down immediately.
Then quieter:
“You’re safe here.”
Something warm and aching spread through your chest.
Because you believed him instantly.
Happy glanced toward the clubhouse doors again, jaw tight with leftover rage.
Then back at you.
And for the first time since you’d known him, the terrifying brutality everyone feared about Happy Lowman became something else entirely.
Not frightening.
Protective.
His violence curled around you instead of toward you.
A wall between you and anything cruel enough to make you cry.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then slowly rested your forehead back against his chest.
Happy’s entire body relaxed.
Just a little.
His chin dipped briefly against the top of your head while his arms settled around you more securely.
And this time when he spoke, his voice was low enough only you could hear it.
“Got you.”
Happy did not sleep that night.
Not really.
He stayed awake on the clubhouse couch while you slept in the room down the hall Gemma had practically forced on you.
The lights stayed low.
The TV muttered quietly in the background.
Most of the club eventually drifted off or disappeared into other rooms, but Happy stayed exactly where he was.
Watching the door.
Knife turning slowly between his fingers.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you bursting through the clubhouse doors again.
Terrified.
Shaking.
Running straight into him like your body already knew he’d protect you.
Something vicious settled deep in his chest at the memory.
Protective in a way he didn’t entirely know what to do with.
By morning, the rage had sharpened into focus.
Happy wanted a name.
You woke up embarrassed.
That was the first problem.
Happy knew it immediately from the way you avoided eye contact over breakfast.
You stayed close to him physically—always within arm’s reach—but now there was self-consciousness wrapped around your movements.
Like you regretted last night.
Happy hated it instantly.
“You eat yet?”
You glanced up from your coffee.
“Hm?”
“Food.”
“Oh. Uh. Not really.”
Happy shoved his plate toward you.
You blinked.
“You don’t have to—”
“Eat.”
You stared at him for a second before quietly taking the plate.
Happy watched until you took the first bite.
Only then did he relax slightly.
Gemma noticed from across the room immediately.
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Interesting.
You looked up suddenly.
“I should probably go home and grab some clothes.”
“No.”
The answer came so fast you startled.
Happy leaned back against the counter, jaw tight.
“Not alone.”
“I’ll be fine during the day—”
“No.”
There it was again.
That dangerous edge under his voice.
Not angry at you.
Just furious underneath.
You looked at him carefully then.
Really looked at him.
At the exhaustion under his eyes. At the tension in his shoulders. At the way his attention never fully left you even for a second.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
“Happy…”
He looked away first.
“Jax is workin’ on findin’ him.”
That got your attention immediately.
“What?”
“You gave enough description.”
Happy rolled his shoulders slowly.
“Guys are askin’ around.”
Something dark flickered behind his eyes.
“If he’s local, we’ll find him.”
The certainty in his voice should’ve scared you.
Instead, it made you feel safer.
Which maybe said something concerning about you at this point.
It took less than two days.
SAMCRO had roots everywhere.
Bartenders talked.
Dealers talked.
Mechanics talked.
And creeps who grabbed women outside apartment buildings apparently talked too.
Happy got the call while you sat beside him outside the garage drinking a soda.
He answered quietly.
Listened.
Went still.
You noticed immediately.
“What?”
Happy hung up slowly.
His face became unreadable in that terrifying way it sometimes did.
The calm before violence.
“We found him.”
Your stomach dropped.
You set your drink down carefully.
“Oh.”
Happy looked at you then.
Really looked.
And the fury in his expression softened instantly at whatever he saw on your face.
“You stay here.”
You swallowed hard.
“What are you gonna do?”
Silence.
That was worse.
“Happy.”
His jaw flexed.
“He scared you.”
The simplicity of the statement sent a chill through you.
Like in Happy’s mind, that alone justified whatever came next.
You stood quickly.
“Don’t kill him.”
Happy’s eyes lifted to yours.
Cold.
Violent.
Protective.
“You askin’ me not to?”
You stepped closer before you could think better of it.
Happy went still automatically.
“You don’t need to do something awful for me.”
Something changed in his face then.
Small.
Sharp.
Almost offended.
He stepped toward you slowly until there was barely space left between your bodies.
“You think this is for you?”
Your breath caught.
Happy looked down at you with an intensity that made your pulse stutter.
“This is for me.”
The words landed heavy.
Possessive.
Honest.
Because somewhere along the line, your fear had become his too.
Your safety had rooted itself inside his ribs like instinct.
Happy reached up slowly.
Like he was giving you time to pull away.
His rough knuckles brushed gently against your cheek.
“You came to me scared,” he said quietly. “Ain’t nobody gonna think they can do that shit again.”
Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs.
Nobody had ever looked at you the way Happy was looking at you now.
Like protecting you was something sacred.
Like hurting you was unforgivable.
You covered his wrist lightly with your hand.
“Please be careful.”
Happy’s expression shifted immediately.
Softer.
God, it was dangerous when he looked soft.
Because it felt earned.
Rare.
Only for you.
“I always am.”
You both knew that was a lie.
The man’s name was Curtis Bell.
Mid-thirties.
Local drunk.
History of harassment complaints that never went anywhere because Charming had always been better at ignoring women than protecting them.
Happy found him behind a run-down bar just outside town.
The guy recognized immediately that he’d made a catastrophic mistake.
Especially when Happy approached wearing his kutte.
No smile.
No hurry.
Just death walking steadily closer.
Curtis backed up instinctively.
“Hey, man, I didn’t do nothin’—”
Happy punched him hard enough to drop him instantly.
The sound echoed sickeningly through the alley.
Curtis gasped, clutching his bleeding mouth.
Happy crouched slowly in front of him.
Calm.
Terrifyingly calm.
“You touched her.”
“I didn’t—”
Happy grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head against the brick wall.
Once.
Hard.
“You scared her.”
Curtis whimpered.
Happy felt absolutely nothing.
No guilt.
No hesitation.
Only rage.
Because he kept seeing your tear-streaked face buried against his chest.
Kept hearing your shaky breathing.
Happy leaned closer.
And quietly—almost conversationally—said:
“You ever look at her again…”
Curtis started crying immediately.
Actual tears.
Begging.
Happy’s expression never changed.
“They won’t find your body.”
The certainty in his voice broke something in the man completely.
Good.
Happy released him roughly.
Curtis collapsed coughing onto the pavement.
Then Happy stood.
Looked down at him one last time.
And realized something deeply inconvenient.
The violence hadn’t satisfied him.
Not fully.
Because what he’d really wanted—
What had actually been clawing at him for two straight days—
was you.
Your safety.
Your trust.
The feeling of you clinging to him.
Like he was home.
That realization followed him all the way back to the clubhouse.
You were sitting outside when his bike pulled in.
Waiting.
The second you saw him, you stood quickly.
Happy killed the engine.
For one moment neither of you moved.
Then you walked toward him fast enough that his chest tightened instinctively.
“You okay?”
The question hit him strangely hard.
Not “did you do it.”
Not “what happened.”
You okay?
Happy stared at you for a long second before nodding once.
“He won’t bother you again.”
Relief washed across your face so visibly it almost hurt to look at.
“Okay.”
That was it.
Just okay.
Because you trusted him.
Completely.
Happy got off the bike slowly.
You stayed close while he pulled off his gloves.
Your eyes caught on the blood across his knuckles immediately.
Tiny cuts.
Split skin.
Your face tightened.
“Happy…”
“Ain’t mine.”
You exhaled shakily.
Then, before he could process it, you reached for his hand carefully.
Happy froze.
Your fingers wrapped around his wrist gently as you inspected the bruising across his knuckles.
Such a small touch.
But it hit harder than violence ever did.
“You should clean these.”
Happy couldn’t stop staring at you.
At the softness in your expression. At the concern. At the way you held his hand like it wasn’t attached to someone dangerous.
You looked up suddenly and caught him staring.
The air shifted instantly.
Heavy.
Close.
Happy stepped toward you slowly.
Your breath caught.
“You ain’t scared of me,” he said quietly.
Not a question.
You frowned softly.
“Should I be?”
Probably.
But Happy found he didn’t want that.
Not from you.
Never from you.
He lifted one hand carefully.
Slower than a man like him had probably ever moved.
Giving you every chance to pull away.
Instead, you leaned into the touch immediately when his palm settled against your jaw.
Happy exhaled roughly.
Like that tiny movement undid him.
“You ran to me,” he murmured.
Your eyes searched his.
“I knew you’d protect me.”
That did it.
Completely.
Something fierce and aching cracked open inside his chest.
Happy lowered his forehead against yours carefully.
Like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
“You got no idea what that did to me.”
Your hands slid slowly up his chest, gripping the front of his kutte lightly.
And when you kissed him—
Soft.
Tentative.
Warm—
Happy made a low sound in his throat that almost sounded pained.
Then his arms wrapped around you fully.
Secure.
Certain.
One hand cradling the back of your head exactly the same way it had the night you came running to him terrified.
Only now he kissed you like he’d been holding it back for far too long.
Deep.
Intense.
Every ounce of restrained feeling finally surfacing all at once.
And when he finally pulled back, breathing rough, his thumb brushed beneath your eye gently.
“Mine now,” he muttered before he could stop himself.
Formally titled - Sugar Spice and a Little bit of Vice.
SUGARLAND
Happy Lowman x Reader
When the leather clad regulars roll into your small bakery, you can't help but feel sorry for the quiet one they call "Happy." What kind of cruel joke is it to give such a name to someone who never seems to smile? Determined to brighten his day, you leave a little treat at Teller-Morrow, hoping to coax even the smallest grin from the serious biker.
You think you can handle knowing what he does for SAMCRO. You've been told outright, seen it when he showed up during a robbery at your bakery, you've seen the respect and fear in people's eyes when they look at him. The Tacoma Killer. It doesn't matter—not until the day you witness it firsthand.
Now the man who once made you feel safer than you'd ever been has become a stranger, and you can't unsee what you saw. Happy has always been patient, but winning back your trust will be his greatest challenge yet.
Sometimes the sweetest treats come with the most bitter truths.
Happy Lowman x F!Reader | Jax Teller & Platonic!F!Reader //
Word Count: 21.2k
Summary: In the midst of grief and hardship, you meet The Tacoma Killer who opens your eyes to more than just the weight of your burdens. A story from start to finish of how meeting and falling in love with Happy Lowman changed both of your lives while still keeping both of you exactly the same.
Warnings/Tags: All my fics are 18+ regardless of content. Angst. Grief. Canon character death. Sick reader relative. Reader relative character death. Canon-level violence. Smut. Hurt/Comfort. Arguing. Drugs. Drinking. Crying. Mourning. Mentions of cancer, dementia, injuries, and blood.
A/N: You can thank @drabbles-mc for jump starting whatever Happy Lowman bug she gave me after writing this fic (please read this and ALL her Happy fics and while you're at it just all her stuff). All 21.2k words of this are because of her so class be sure to say thank you Miss Drabbles MC!!!!
The sigh that left your mouth was full of a lot more than just exhaustion. It was more than just a long day of work, more than just a long night of work. It was years of them. Years of a weight you were burdened with, then guilt from describing your ill father as a burden.
There was a debate going on in your head as you sat in your truck in the parking lot of your job. Should you go home or should you go to the club party?
The text message in your phone was trying to convince you of the latter.
Jax (7:14): You never told me if you were gonna swing by tonight
Jax (11:27): Don’t be a loser come by it’s free drinks and bud can’t beat it
Jax wasn’t much of a convincing argument, but he also knew begging wasn’t your speed. Looking at the other messages in your phone, you squeezed your eyes shut trying to cope with the day you had.
Kayla At-Home Nurse (2:45): Your dad’s medication got mixed up, running him to urgent care just to be sure.
That message earned you a 30 minute phone call, during your 30 minute lunch break. So that meant shoveling bites of food here and there when you could and copious amounts of coffee through the day.
Then there were the other 5 messages.
Kayla At-Home Nurse (5:18): I just got the call he’s gonna need to get his stomach pumped.
You didn’t read that one right away, you were in the middle of a shift, no phones.
Kayla At-Home Nurse (5:35): Can you please answer me I don’t know what to do.
Another unanswered message.
Kayla At-Home Nurse (5:48): We’re going to go through with it, doctors say he’ll be back home in the morning and the only thing he'll need is to be on a special diet.
Kayla At-Home Nurse (5:59): They just brought him back, they said they’ll call me when he’s out.
6 o’clock was when you got off. 6 o’clock was when you called Kayla the at-home nurse 15 times before she picked up. 6 o’clock was when Kayla told you she thought she was texting someone else this entire time and that your father was fine, home from urgent care, eating applesauce to settle the medicine mix up and sitting on the back porch. His favorite place.
Then you went to your second job, you were so frazzled that you spilled coffee on someone, someone who not only didn’t leave you a tip but also shorted out on the bill, which came out from your paycheck.
“Fuck it,” you shook your head from the day, grabbing your duffel from the back and pulling out a pair of jeans and black tank top to quickly change into before heading to the clubhouse.
As you pulled into the club, you saw the barrels of fire, the large group of people, there was more than just SAMCRO here, there had to be a couple different charters here.
You weren’t sure how you felt about that, part of you was kind of hoping to just see the guys you knew. Have a few beers, smoke a little hash, relax, take the edge off. But with more people here, it’d be more of a socializing thing.
It was too late though, you were already spotted. As you pulled into the spot, you heard your name being called out. As you grabbed your black zip up from the back seat, you followed the cat-calls which were clearly coming from people you knew. Tig gave you a purr as you walked by him and Clay. But then you heard a voice you had heard call out to you since you were a kid. Jax had waved you over to the boxing ring that was set up under the awning just outside the clubhouse.
“Training for UFC?” You joked as Jax pulled you in for a hug. It wasn’t your first time at Teller-Morrow or the clubhouse, you’d spend evenings after school here years ago, watch Jax work on cars, learn something yourself so you could save some money on oil changes and other maintenance things for your Pops’ truck. Not that anyone was driving it at that time, but you knew one day you would be. Now, you’d come to club parties when you weren’t working overnights, sometimes you’d show up even after your night shift on the days the party tended to last well into morning. You’d also find yourself behind the desk at Teller-Morrow from time to time, picking up shifts working at the mechanic office, organizing invoices, taking calls, paperwork shit. A favor for Gemma, offered to you by Jax. He knew you needed the money and hated that you were working nights at shitty dive bars and diners just to make enough.
Growing up in the house a few blocks down from Gemma’s, your life was on full display. There was no hiding your father getting sick, you had nurses in and out of the house, garbage full of empty orange bottles, you’d put on a yard sale every month just to earn whatever cash you could to pay for whatever insurance wouldn’t. When you were out of high school, you’d work whatever jobs you could just to make ends meet. Gemma brought you leftovers a lot, or she’d send Jax over to deliver them to you. JT was one of your father’s closest friends, they were war buddies as they liked to call it. Two tours in Vietnam together. Both of them didn’t exactly come home in the best conditions, JT’s was more mental, your dad’s was well, it was cancer.
It brought you and Jax close, losing a parent, whether it figuratively or literally tended to bond people.
“Something like that,” Jax smiled, the boyish grin fully on display as he turned to look at the punches being thrown.
Your gaze followed his, you recognized one of them in the ring as one of the guys from the Devil’s Tribe, but the other man wasn’t someone you knew. He was covered in tattoos, shaved head, and tall.
“How you holdin’ up?” Jax tossed his arm around you.
Jax always asked you this, it was his way of asking a few things at once. How are you, how’s your dad, is there anything he can do?
“Tired from work, new nurse is a fucking idiot, so I gotta figure out how to get someone new,” you inhaled sharp. The list never ended, it felt like it kept piling up. But it was worth it, your dad was having way better days than shitty ones, in fact, before this new nurse started, he was walking again, cracking jokes, spending mornings on the porch with you drinking coffee and watching birds.
“What happened to Suzanne?” Jax frowned down at you as you kept your eyes on the two bikers in the ring, the one that was a mystery to you specifically, not really in the mood to figure out your problems right now, it’s all you tended to think about, sometimes you just wanted a break.
“She was a fucking relic Jax,” you shook your head. “She retired.”
Jax laughed, Suzanne was a fucking dinosaur. “I can see if Tara knows any nurses who are looking for work.”
“Tara, huh?” You raised your brows, getting ready to pry and tease based on his reaction, but just like you didn’t want to be pressed, he didn’t either.
“I don’t wanna hear it,” there was still a smile on his face, but he didn’t have an answer for the question you had, if it could even be considered a true question. But he knew that what you said was laced with a lot more than just a teasing remark and with you, he needed to have real answers, logical ones, and this thing with Jax and Tara was the furthest thing from logical. Jax turned his attention back to the ring as everyone yelled as the two bikers got more enthralled in the fight.
“Whose the tats?” You kept your voice down as you asked Jax a question he actually could answer, changing the topic to something that would pull both your minds from what was constantly being overworked in them.
“Nomad, used to be in at Tacoma,” Jax didn’t give you much information, no name, no history, no personal opinion, just a typical MC descriptor.
“Jackie boy!” A voice interrupted your conversation.
Then there was another yell, “Alright, break these guys up!”
Chaos was starting to ensue and you were gonna take it as a sign to head inside and grab a drink.
You leaned your elbows against the bar as the prospect grabbed a cold beer from the cooler, popping the cap off for you.
“Hey,” a raspy voice sent chills down your spine and you turned to see who was calling your attention. It was the guy who had just been in the ring. Tacoma. The Nomad. But he wasn’t looking at you, he was looking at the prospect, eyes burning into him like he owed him something. He wasn’t getting your attention, he was getting the prospect’s.
“That was the last one, Hap,” the shaky voice came from the kid earning his stripes for SOA. “I got Half-Sack grabbing another case from the liquor store.”
The tatted man didn’t say anything, just stared at him, no expression on his face, which in all honestly was probably scarier than an intimidating one for the prospect.
“Here,” you pushed over your beer towards the 6 foot biker, offering a solution that would allow the kid to take a minute to change his pants because he was clearly shitting himself at the moment. “Get me vodka on the rocks,” you smiled at the prospect that Jax was currently sponsoring.
“Yes ma’am,” he gave a polite smile.
You quickly spoke out your name as a demand. “No ma’am, Juice. Just my name.”
Now, the tall man’s eyes were on you. Boring into you much like he had just done to Juice.
“Shit won’t work on me,” you waited for your drink, not bothering to look at him.
He said nothing.
It was like that for a few more seconds. Quiet, if you could call it that, there was so much noise around you it’s not like it was an awkward silence.
Juice came back with the glass of clear iced liquid and spoke your name as he placed it down. Just as you went to grab it, the tatted man pulled it away.
Your brows knitted together faster than him grabbing your drink.
“You take the beer,” the words were raspy and firm coming from his mouth.
Glancing over to him, your eyes squinting slightly like if you strained hard enough you’d be able to read him clear as day. No dice.
Now it was your turn to stay silent and bore a glare into him.
“I’m not taking your beer,” he spoke through your silence.
“Half sack’s back with the beer!” Juice exclaimed so cheerfully as he stepped away from your staring competition. Normally it’d make you laugh, he was so different from the other guys, always joking, usually going on about some tech thing that no one knew what the fuck he was talking about, but it’d always make you smile, except now. You kept your eyes on the man, the Nomad, taking in his shaved down head, the stubble was greying, a sign of a weathered biker. The stubble around his face, though, was different. It had not quite caught up to his head yet, not that he ever let it grow out for anyone to really tell. The tattoos that were on full display as he stood there sweaty, bloody, and shirtless, were detailed. They told a story, they told his story. Or at least part of it.
‘Filthy few.’ If you didn’t know what that meant, the ‘I live, I die, I kill, for my family’ tattoo would have given it all the explanation it needed. You were no stranger to the shit the club did. Outlaw life. If your dad didn’t get sick, he would have joined, there was no question about it. With how the club took care of you, even when you weren’t really “a part” of it, you got it. That pull for a family, a group of misfits that would do anything for one another. It made sense. Even despite the criminal shit.
Honestly? With how the system fucked you, the medical debt, the bills, the back taxes, making just enough to kick you off government-assisted programs but not enough to buy fucking milk the week between paychecks, how couldn’t someone resort to other measures?
It was silent between you two before Juice came back with another beer.
“Give me an empty glass, Juice,” you gave the order to him and he obliged and stepped away from whatever was going on between you and the Nomad.
Juice slid the glass toward you before retreating to one of the many other people crowding the other side of the bar. You poured half of your vodka into the glass, and then pushed it so it clinked next to the fresh beer. An act of evening the score between you.
“Now we’re both happy,” you smiled, sarcastically.
“No, I’m Happy.” He nodded, somehow without his expression changing at all, you felt him soften just the slightest bit.
“Well… I’m glad.” Your voice had a bit of confusion tied to it as you brought the vodka up to your lips, you needed something strong, maybe it would make sense of whatever was happening here.
“No, my name.” He rasped. “Happy.”
He was introducing himself. If you could even call it that.
“Your personality really embodies your name,” you nodded and then after a beat of him not responding you clinked your glass to his. “Nice to meet you, Happy.”
An olive branch? Was that you offering some sort of truce to peace over whatever was happening between you?
“You from Charming?” It was the first question he had asked you, everything else before was just a sentence, or more like a demand.
“You gonna ask me if I come here often?” You were pulling back that olive branch just as fast as you were offering it. “If I’m free for a ride or to drive around? If you could take me home?” You had heard it all before, as jokes from most of the guys and occasionally a serious offer if they were drunk enough or someone from out of town rolled in.
“No, just asking if you’re from Charming.” He held no disdain from your reaction.
“If you try anything, I’ll cut your dick off,” you spoke the words with gusto, almost like you had to convince yourself that you were capable of the violent act.
He tilted his head and studied your face and then nodded. “I completely believe you.”
At first, you thought he was being sarcastic, his voice was so monotone that it was hard to pull context from it. Maybe you didn’t need to pull context from it, maybe he just was saying what he was thinking. You weren’t exactly used to guys doing that, not that you had time for guys. But from your little experience it was always games.
He wasn’t giving you a reason to not believe him, although there was a little voice in your head that was probably Gemma’s saying, if it’s got a dick, that’s reason enough not to trust it. But fuck it, this felt different.
“Well, good.” You didn’t know how else to respond and he was just there, standing there, not phased at all, still fucking staring at you. “I am,” you lowered the claws, “from Charming.” You answered his question from earlier. “Hear you’re kind of a nomad.”
“Ain’t kind of. Am.” He shook his head at the first sentence, then nodded once at the last, he pulled a toothpick into his mouth letting it bounce around with his tongue.
“So what, you just… float around?” Now it was your turn for a question.
“Drive around,” he said with a slight smirk calling back to your earlier remark.
It was the first joke he made, and you couldn’t help but smile at him.
“And somehow we’re back to my point. You bikers are all the same.” You were teasing, you appreciated his quick wit there. You looked down at your glass, the vodka was getting watered down now.
“I ain’t like anyone.” He wasn’t arguing with you, wasn’t being defensive, he was just telling the truth and you found it refreshing.
“You know what, Happy?” You nodded, taking down the rest of the vodka before pushing the glass forward and grabbing the neck of the beer bottle. “I completely believe you.”
He smiled. You could see why Juice was terrified of him. His smile wasn’t warm or welcoming. And yet? And yet. It was all the invitation you needed to decide to break that internal rule you gave yourself.
No fun. That was the rule. You didn’t have time for it, not with multiple jobs, not with your father being sick. All the fun you allowed yourself was coming to these parties, you could bottle it into one night, no aftermath, no fallout.
That’s what this could be. One night. No aftermath. No fallout.
“So Happy?” You took a breath in. “You come here often?”
He grinned, wide. “Yes, ma’am.”
—
“Oh God, Jesus Christ, you gotta be fucking kidding me,” Jax stumbled out of the dorm room where you were laying pretty much bare across the full mattress. Why he was walking into it to begin with was a mystery to you, but it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t expecting to walk in on one of his oldest friends, indecent and clearly disheveled from an entertaining night.
All you could do was laugh. You were alone in the room, but it was obvious you had company from someone last night and Jax wasn’t expecting to find you in such a delicate state.
Rolling over, you saw the cup of coffee on the nightstand. It had the smell of spice to it, something earthy besides the coffee. You took a sip and closed your eyes. “That fucker put cinnamon in the fucking coffee.” After last night, you shouldn’t have been shocked that Happy had more surprises up his sleeve. In fact, you figured there were a lot of surprises Happy had up his sleeve.
You pulled your clothes back on and peeked out of the dorm, checking if anyone else was going to see your walk of shame. When the coast was clear, you made your way to the main part of the clubhouse, mug in hand. Your eyes scanned across the clubhouse, it was just a mess of bottles, garbage, a couple of the guys and random women passed out. No Happy. You ducked into the kitchen where Jax was grabbing a beer and chugging it down.
“Oh, relax.” You rolled your eyes.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, his face scrunched up and almost immediately his brows rose again as his nostrils flared. “Who are you doing here?”
“None of your business,” you matched his expression, mug pulling up to your face.
“I thought you had a rule?” He simmered his temper down just slightly.
“Wasn’t broken,” you lifted your eyebrows and shook your head.
“You’re unbelievable,” he wasn’t going to let this go, which honestly was fair, you were like a sister to Jax, a sister he just accidentally walked in on naked. But, his face had twisted from disgust to humorous. Eyebrows raised almost like he was impressed, maybe even a little proud of you.
“You’ll be alright,” you patted him on the back.
—
It was two weeks after you slept with Happy. The idiot nurse was still an idiot, but it made sense why. She was balancing her own shit, like everyone was. Her brother was on hospice, she was spending most of her time on the road between your house and her brother’s in Lodi. It made those mixed up text messages and spaciness track, she was in a million different places at once. You could relate. With that, you figured you’d make the decision for her, offer her a decent severance, which honestly was just what you could pull together, and pay your respects. She needed to lighten the load, this money would give her that and the opportunity to be closer to home.
You wanted to be further from home. It felt like you spent all your time at home, it didn’t even feel like work offered you enough of an escape. But then, when you were gone, you felt guilty. Things had been bad, it made you feel like that last spurt of good before the new nurse started was just a favor from the universe, your time to create the last good memories with your father before things took a harsh turn. Dementia had fully crept its way into your father’s mind, as if the in and out remission cancer wasn’t enough. The medications already made his mind fuzzy, but this was different and you knew it. Sometimes, you just needed to be away from it all. Act like none of this was happening.
It’s why you stayed at this 24 hour diner a little longer than you should’ve. It was 1:30AM, you had two dirty plates next to you, one from a meal, a burger and fries, and a smaller one from a piece of pie. You were nursing a cup of coffee, it was stale, and not because you had been taking your time to drink it, but because it was probably sitting in the pot for hours before you had walked in, there weren’t many people passing through at this hour.
But it was better than being home.
God, the guilt that ate you away with that thought.
“You come here often?”
The rasp of a familiar voice pulled you out of your thoughts and your attention shifted to the tall man standing right at the edge of your booth. Two coffee cups in his tattooed hands.
A smirk twitched at the corner of your mouth and your brows furrowed.
“No, can’t say I do,” you looked down at his hands, his rings were large, silver, covered most of his skin, and what wasn’t hidden, was covered with ink. He had on a sweatshirt, a dark gray hoodie that had no markings but if it did they’d be hidden by his kutte, the worn leather had some droplets on it, your ears then noticed the sound of rain hitting the window to your right, it’s probably why he was here, pulling in to wait out the rain.
Happy looked at the booth, his way of asking for permission and you nodded, tilting your head as an invitation to slide in.
He slid the coffee to you and you shook your head. “Coffee’s stale, been sitti—”
“Fresh pot,” he cut you off and pushed the cup with two fingers towards you.
When you had asked the waitress to make you a fresh pot and she declined, pretty rudely too. So, you wondered what Happy said or did to get her to come around. Your mind started to go wild at that, you didn’t hear any commotion, but also you couldn’t imagine him asking nicely for anything let alone a cup of coffee. Mystery. Happy was a mystery.
You met his eyes and then looked down at the mug. Black, lightened just slightly with something. Something sweet? No, you breathed in a faint inhale, something spicy.
You took a sip. “Cinnamon.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, but you were kind of asking him for confirmation.
“And nutmeg.” He nodded.
“Christmas in a mug,” you smiled and took another sip.
“Why’re you here?” He asked, his face searching yours for answers. 1:30AM at a diner that was mainly truckers and homeless people, yeah you stood out, but it did make you smile at how abrupt he was in his questioning.
“You don’t know subtlety do you, Happy?” A smile grew on your face, followed by a harsh exhale that held the weight of why. “I’m on my way home from giving my dad’s at-home nurse a severance package, got caught up helping her out with her sick brother, so I hit the road kind of late,” you tapped your fingers against the mug, the warmth of it not giving you nearly enough comfort.
“I thought she was an idiot.” Happy’s brow frowned slightly.
“She was—is,” you shook your head. “She’s going through something, something I understand.” You shook your head trying to get the thoughts straight.
Happy’s brow twitched just slightly. He looked thrown. Like the idea that someone would be that kind, to offer help to someone who not only was an idiot but fucked up things in their life was a little beyond him. He was intrigued, though.
“I’m sorry, how do you know she was an idiot?” You asked him, confused how that information was public knowledge to him.
“Jax.” That was all the answer he gave you, he was still wrapping his brain around what you told him, trying to figure you out. He thought he had a decent picture, you two spent a night together and before things escalated to the bedroom, you had some conversations. He learned you liked Led Zeppelin. He knew you liked vodka, preferably on the rocks. He found out your favorite book was One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, and that you’d reread it every year. Those were his favorite things, things that made him think: this girl’s a woman after his heart. But there were other things, too. Things he normally didn’t care about, that he found himself intrigued by. Sudoku puzzles, baking, volunteering, all the different jobs you held.
You were a fucking saint. He kept asking himself what the fuck you were doing there that night. But he never asked. Just listened.
You lifted your hand up at him and twirled it around, your way of asking for more explanation without verbally doing so.
“He asked me if I knew any good nurses.” He shrugged, coming back to the conversation, thinking back to Jax’s question before he hit the road again a week ago.
That sentence did nothing more to explain anything for you.
“You know, I wish your communication skills were as good as you were in bed,” you brought the mug up to your lips and hummed. “Or your ability to make a damn good cup of coffee.”
“I got a lot of practice in two of those things,” he grinned hard, like the joke wrote itself.
You rolled your eyes, ignoring his clear confidence in himself and continued your conversation. “Why would Jax ask you about nurses?”
“I’ve got an in-home nurse for my mom,” he sipped his cup of coffee, his rings clinking against the ceramic of the mug as he did.
In that moment, you looked up at Happy, surprise on your face, and nodded. “How’d you find the right nurse?”
“Anyone is the right person if you press enough fear in them.” He spoke the answer like it was simple.
“You’re serious?” You weren’t shocked, but with how straight faced he told his jokes, you had to be sure.
“As a heart attack,” he nodded.
“I can see why people are terrified of you,” you appreciated how honest and straightforward these conversations tended to be with Happy.
“Are you?” He asked, curiously, as if you could pull that emotion from the straightforward way he spoke it. “Terrifed of me?” He clarified his question, as if you didn’t get it from the original two worded question.
“No,” your answer came quickly, you didn’t need to think twice to deliver an honest answer.
“Why?” He squinted his eyes. Maybe he was trying to warn you off. Intimidate you. Or maybe he was trying to read you, any tell you offered up, a twitch of your eye, a fidget of your fingers. But you gave him nothing.
You pulled a page out of his book, no emotion, no tell, just a straightforward sentence. “Because you put cinnamon in my coffee.”
He smirked, slightly, just the corner of his mouth twisting up. “And because I’m good in bed,” he leaned back now, satisfied with your answer, with the truth.
“No,” you laughed, leaning back too. “That should terrify me.”
“If that’s the case, I’m terrified of you,” he lifted his head as a way to point to you.
“Because I’m good in bed?” Your eyebrows raised, nostrils flared as you held back the humor despite it being laced in your tone.
“Extremely,” he nodded a few times, dramatically.
You let out a laugh. One so genuine it felt like a release of things you had bottled up for ages.
Happy stared at you, well, more like beamed at you. When you settled down from laughing he dropped his mug on the table, it was empty now. There wasn’t anything else he had to say, he got the answers he wanted, his coffee was done, but instead of getting up and leaving, he said something that knew was going to put him in a little deeper with you than he planned.
“And you give grace to people. That’s extremely terrifying.” His hand was mindlessly playing with the mug.
“Nothing scary about being a human going through human things,” you shrugged. Those words stirred something up in you. You blinked back the tears, swallowing the lump in your throat.
“I think a lot of people would disagree,” Happy either didn’t notice you were fighting tears or he was doing the honorable thing and ignoring it.
“I’m sure they would,” you inhaled sharp. “Doesn’t stop it from being true.”
Silence. The truth tended to do that. Honesty had a tendency to make everyone look inward.
“What’s the deal with you and Jax?” Happy broke the silence.
“Excuse me?” You couldn’t hide your shock at those words.
“I saw him that morning, talking to you, he was pissed we slept together,” Happy explained.
“He doesn’t know we slept together,” you shook your head understanding what he was getting at now. The SAMCRO members used to tease you about Jax, a lot of people assumed things, it was nothing new. Although, it had died down, most of the guys had known you for a long time, known your friendship with Jax.
“Hiding it because you and him got something going on?” Happy wasn’t going to drop it. Why? That’s what you wondered. These guys didn’t care about shit like that. If you were someone’s old lady, none of what happened that night would have gone down, there wouldn’t have been the chance. Someone would have stepped in and set shit straight. That meant, if Happy believed there was something between you and Jax, it meant you were just having fun, and guys like Happy, outlaws, club guys, they didn’t give a shit about passing women around. Unless they were resenting something.
“You jealous?” The question came out fast, you didn’t even mean for it to, but you were so used to not holding back with Happy at this point, it just flew out before your brain could tell you no.
Happy didn’t answer. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, the only tell that answered your question. Any one else, you would have rung them out, gave them a whole ‘mind your business’ speech, all that jazz. But when Happy’s jaw ticked, you couldn’t help but soften up just a bit.
“No, Jax is my neighbor, we were kids together,” you shook your head. “He’s like a brother to me. Very much like how he’s a brother to you. Nothing going on with us, never has been, never will be. He wasn’t pissed, he was grossed out,” you let out a chuckle. “I don’t usually make a habit out of sleeping with people from the club.”
“So that’s why you were at the club,” Happy’s words were like he finally put something he’d been questioning all this time together.
“You were questioning why I was there?” You made a face.
“A girl who does fuckin’ sudoku puzzles, volunteers at charities,” he lifted his hand, “drive out to give the lady who twisted her life up a paycheck and help. Doesn’t exactly scream crow-eater.”
“I told you, I don’t usually make a habit out of sleeping with people from the club,” you answered.
“Rule breaker,” Happy seemed to relax a bit now.
“If we want to be technical, not exactly yet,” you smirked, biting your lip inward, looking down at the table. “Haven’t made a habit out of it yet.”
Happy’s expression didn’t change but you saw his eyes get curious, curiously excited. But then he looked at you, saw the exhaustion in your eyes.
“It’s tough, being a caretaker,” Happy lowered his head, attempting to make eye contact with you.
It worked, your gaze shot up to his. “How long has your mom been sick?”
“7 years, M.S.” he answered. You could tell his brain was reliving every moment with her over the time period she was going through it. Dealing with a person who's been sick for a long time comes with a lot of baggage, usually in the form of memories that splashed across your mind in the worst of times. “Your pops?” He asked, turning the question to you.
“9, first five were different,” you closed your eyes, exploring your own film of memories in your brain. “He moved around the house a lot more. He laughed, saw friends, even entertained the idea of joining the club, said he’d do it after the chemo,” you pulled that memory to the front of your mind. Him sitting in those stupid chairs, needle deep in his vein, blanket over his body, talking to you about the bike he’d get. Then the image of him getting off the chemo jumped ahead. Pale, thin, shakey. “I don’t know what was worse, him sick for the year and a half he was on it, or him sick from it after. He couldn’t stay on it for the full 2-year treatment. It was preventing him from walking near the end. Guess it did the job though, he was in remission for a few years before it came back.” You sighed. “Thought he’d made it through the thick of it, we would spend our days on the porch together, watching fucking birds, I really thought that maybe old age would be the thing that did him in,” you scratched your head, a motion to try and pull your brain from the thoughts. “Now he’s got cancer and dementia,” you laughed because it was the only thing holding you back from crying.
“You do anything for yourself?” Happy might’ve been the first person to truly ask about you. Jax asked how you were holding up, but this question from Happy, it wasn’t just checking in, it was making sure you were taking care of yourself.
“You’re looking at it,” you extended your arms out, giving a curt smile.
“This wasn’t for you, this was for your idiot nurse,” he shook his head.
“I go to the club parties when I can,” you were pulling anything out to give the impression that you had things controlled.
“Something tells me that’s more for Jax than for you. Show face so he doesn’t ask questions.” It was one of the longer statements that came from him, but true. 100% true.
“That’s still very much for me,” you laughed, keeping Jax’s questions at bay made life easier for you for sure.
Happy let out a breathy laugh, like he was pleased to have gotten that right.
“I guess, I slept with you, that was very much for me,” you drank the last of the coffee from your mug, it was cold now, but still damn good.
“Hate to break it to you but that pleasure was all mine,” he tapped his hand on the table and shook his head.
“Well then, Hap. I guess I don’t do shit for myself,” you gave up at trying to come up with excuses.
“Well then,” he mimicked you, “why don’t we change that.” His eyes connected to yours again, less staring and more beaming, like he was in awe of you. “Name it, one thing you want.”
You looked out the window, the rain had stopped, the window was fogged slightly, probably from the outside humidity and the inside air conditioning. Your eyes fell on the bike, it was next to your truck. Despite being around the club since you could remember, you never got on the back of a Harley, never learned how to ride, never felt the thrill of it.
“Can we go for a ride?”
“No,” Happy’s response made you snap your head to him, brows knitting at his refusal.
He gave you a look, like he knew that wasn’t what you genuinely wanted and he was going to make you say exactly what it was.
A slight nod came from your head and you closed your eyes for a brief moment to let the words come out.
“Can you teach me how to ride?”
There it was. What you really wanted. Something for you.
Happy grinned, a nod leaving his head.
“Yes ma’am.”
—
“Pull on the clutch, ease on the break,” Happy’s breath hit your neck as he sat behind you, his hands guiding yours on the handles of his Harley as he gave the direction.
“Atta’girl,” his voice rasped as you successfully brought the bike to a stop. “You ready for a real ride?”
“I don’t know,” you hesitated, you felt the drop of sweat fall down your forehead, maybe it was the humidity, maybe it was the stress.
“You got this,” Happy pushed.
With a glance over your shoulder, you gave Happy a look, one that said everything while saying nothing.
He laughed. You couldn’t believe you were making this intimidating biker laugh so much.
“You think I’d let you go through with this if I didn’t think you could on my bike?” He framed it now so you would have the confidence in yourself.
You rode for two hours. Happy’s hands on yours the entire time, helping you clutch and break. His feet were the ones controlling the rear break and the gears, but it was everything you needed, everything you wanted. The wind, the thrill. You forgot about everything, your focus was on when to let the clutch up and when to slowly pull the break, and when your thoughts did come back to you, it was because Happy tapped your thigh to offer you another ‘Atta’girl’, or maybe let out a laugh when you turned a corner nervously and pulled the break just a tad to fast. Which has resulted in him grabbing your hand to slow you down. Completely and totally in the moment.
He brought you to a park, completely abandoned and drove you on a long gravel path that led to a field a few miles deep into it.
“You planning on murdering me?” You yelled over the idling engine.
As he shut the bike off he shook his head as he stepped off the bike. “Thought you weren’t terrified of me?”
“I’m not, I could take you,” you brought your leg over the bike, standing inches from him, removing the helmet and then moving to jokingly tap your fist to hit his abdomen.
Not only did he catch your hand but he twisted you around like you were dancing, pulling you close as you hit the 360 mark.
Inches away were now centimeters. You felt his breath against your face now.
“Thought you could take me?” He whispered.
“Still could,” you mumbled back, your eyes dropping to his lips and back to his eyes.
He said nothing, just stared back at you. As your heart pounded you figured you’d keep up this streak of doing things for yourself.
“Kiss me,” you whispered.
Happy’s mouth crashed against yours, his hand moving from his grip on yours to your neck, wrapping around the back of it to bring you closer as if it was possible.
You melted into him, stepping on your tiptoes to reach him, your hands moving to grab his kutte and pull his chest against yours.
His tongue slipped into your mouth and then his lips moved from yours to your jaw, then your neck.
You let out an audible moan and Happy let out his own. Less of a moan and more of an eager grunt.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he gruffed in your ear, taking your lobe between his teeth.
“You gonna fuck me in the middle of the woods, Hap?” You were teasing him and Happy had no room for play right now.
“I’m gonna fuck you on my bike,” he pulled you onto his bike, moving your arms around his shoulders so you could hang on him as he lifted you up and pulled your pants down. As he placed you back down on the seat of his Harley, he undid his zipper and pulled himself free. He rubbed against your entrance a bit, feeling the slick heat between your legs.
“Fuuuuuuck,” he let out as he watched himself.
You let out a breathy laugh and dropped your head back.
“Hap?” You questioned, your head in another fucking world right now.
“Hm?” He hummed, still taken by you.
“You gotta hold me, if you keep this up I’m gonna lose my senses and fall,” you managed to get out through breaths.
Happy let out a humorous chuckle and gripped your hips, all while bringing you down on him.
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he said as he pumped in and out of you.
This was better than the first time. You weren’t drunk, you were actually better than sober. You were alive from the ride. And now living for the thrill of this.
At some point you moved onto the grass, if you started there you might’ve thought to put down a bedroll but that wasn’t even a thought in your head at this moment.
“Don’t stop,” you moaned as Happy kept his pace up.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he rasped.
“You feel so fucking good, Hap,” you gripped him deeper every time he pushed in, letting out a moan as he hit deep inside.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, woman.” He moved his thumb on your clit and that was it for you.
“I’m gonna cum,” you breathily said.
“Don’t whisper, scream it out,” he demanded.
“I’m gonna cum!” You yelled, feeling the intensity start to build, moments away from breaking.
“Yeah, baby. Scream.” He demanded again.
You listened. Your orgasm came from deep down, no holding back, no restrain, just you riding out the wave as Happy guided you through it and reached his orgasm right after.
Side by side, both of your chests rose and fell from the activity. Your back was soaked from the grass, and now his was too. He looked over at you.
“C’mere,” he gripped your hand and signaled for you to come closer to him.
“What’s the real reason you brought me out here?” Your hand landed on his chest.
“That wasn’t a good enough reason?” His eyebrows rose up.
“You could have brought me anywhere to do that,” you traced his rings with your finger.
“I brought you here to shoot shit,” he said with no emotion.
You shouldn’t have been shocked, but you couldn’t hold in your laughter, your head falling on his chest as you did.
He laughed with you. His hand moved to cradle your head and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.
It made both of you stop, your eyes connecting and saying so much without saying a single thing.
“I’m not really—” you started to say and cut yourself off. “I’m fucked up, Happy.”
“Yeah, I ain’t really put together either.” He joked.
“I’m serious, Hap,” you said.
“Love it when you call me that,” he rasped.
“Everyone calls you that,” you brought your hand to his face, feeling the stubble on his chin.
“Only love it when you do it,” he moved to wrap his teeth around your hand and then kissed it.
“Alright, Hap,” you started. “Let’s shoot some shit.”
—
You shot at trash for an hour, Happy told you about how he got into riding, about the chop shop he used to work at that changed his life. You had a feeling there was probably more than just the Harleys that left an imprint on his life but you weren’t going to pry. The rain picked up soon after that, he pulled out a zip-up sweatshirt from the bike compartment and wrapped it around you, bringing the hood over your head.
“I can drive us back to the diner,” he looked down at you, not phased by the rain at all.
“Shouldn’t we wait out the rain? Slick roads and all that?” You looked behind you towards the road, it was pretty foggy, hard to see, it couldn’t be good riding conditions to drive back for an hour and a half.
“Could be a while,” Happy looked up at the sky now.
“How far are we from Charming?” You asked.
“10 minutes,” he shrugged.
“You want to hang at my place for a bit?” The question shocked you, you didn’t bring anyone into your life. Let alone some guy you barely knew, some guy you decided to sleep with in the middle of the fucking park.
“Sure,” Happy didn’t hesitate.
And before you knew it, you were taking the exit for Charming and you were tapping Happy’s abdomen signaling him to turn into your driveway.
It was dawn, not that you could tell with the rain. It had to be close to 5:30 in the morning, give or take a few minutes. As you took the helmet off and descended off the bike, you saw the rocking chair on the porch moving.
Shit. No nurse, what the fuck were you thinking. This is why you didn’t do shit like this. You needed to be responsible, you needed to be present.
“He seems fine,” the rasp brought you back from the blame, Happy clearly reading everything going on in your brain. “Come on, we’ll have coffee. Sit on the porch, watch the birds.” Happy was walking past you now, dropping his keys into his kutte and then removing his riding gloves.
“Sir,” he greeted your father from the grass in front of your home.
You quickly jogged to catch up to him.
“Pops, this is my friend, Happy.” You placed your hands on Happy’s arm to politely squeeze past him. As you made your way to the rocking chair, you placed a quick greeting kiss on his cheek and bent down to be balancing on the arm of the chair to get a look at him. “You alright?” You whispered the question, tears just beyond your eyes. He looked fine. Slight stubble on his face, but he looked healthy, not too tired.
“Saw a towhee,” he pointed at the tree where he spotted it. Towhee birds loved rain.
“You’ve been waiting for that one,” you followed his gaze, seeing if you could catch a glance yourself.
“You like birds, Happy?” Your father asked the man who was standing a few feet behind you.
Turning your head, you looked up at Happy. He looked different and exactly the same all at once. His kutte was still on, proud of what he was, who he was, not nervous to hide this part of him, but his eyes looked soft, not like an outlaw biker, but like someone who knew this life. Knew this struggle.
“I do,” he nodded with an answer.
“Well, pull up a seat.” Your father waved at one of the rocking chairs on the porch.
“Sit, I’ll make coffee,” you nodded at Happy, pushing up off the armrest and moving to the front door. “Cinnamon,” you paused for a minute at the door looking at Happy who took no time to comfortably sit sprawled in the chair, using his legs to rock it back and forth.
“And nutmeg.” One nod, and then a hint of a smile as he tucked a toothpick from his kutte in his mouth.
With the front door open, you let the screen door keep the threshold between the porch and inside. As you approached it with three mugs balancing between your hands, you paused as you heard the conversation happening on the porch.
“I can put up a hummingbird feeder, on this side of the coast you could see Anna’s hummingbirds, fat little fuckers,” Happy chuckled.
“Pink,” your father nodded.
“Very,” Happy agreed.
“I don’t have a lot of days like this,” your father started to say, slowing his rocking.
Happy kept his rocking pace up, not thrown by your father’s words.
“Lucid ones,” he kept explaining. “Days where all I want to do is just sit on the porch and watch birds. Maybe get a game in of whatever’s on, eat dinner with my kid.”
“Sounds like a damn good day,” Happy agreed.
“Is she okay?” Your father’s voice cracked a bit and it took everything in you not to let out a sob at the sound of it. He was now looking directly at Happy.
Happy stopped rocking, his head turned to look your father directly in his eyes.
Silence. He stayed silent.
Lie. That word repeated in your head. Just lie. Say yes. He needed to believe you were okay. It would make him better, or at least not worse.
“I want her to be okay,” his voice was pleading, like he was begging for it.
“She’s okay,” Happy nodded. There it was. The lie. You understood the sentiment of ‘be careful what you wish for’ because you hated it. The minute he said it, you hated it.
It was a lie. It was the first time you saw Happy lie, but he was damn believable at it. Two words and the way he said them, so honestly.
Now your dad stayed silent. He believed him too.
“You love her?” your dad looked back out at the birds in the trees as the rain picked up from a drizzle.
You weren’t going to make Happy lie again, he was already doing too much by even being here.
“Coffee’s up,” you opened the screen door. Both of their heads turned to you, hands extending out to grab their mugs. “Did you take your meds, Pops?” You had the pill organizer in your pocket in case he didn’t.
“Not yet, wanted an hour without being numb,” he didn’t mean for the words to break you but they did.
With a nod, you kept the organizer in your pocket and plopped down next to Happy.
The only thing the three of you talked about for the next hour was birds. Ones you saw, ones your Dad missed seeing, his favorite ones. Happy had a couple favorites, too. When the rain began to slow, and the sun crept its way through the dark clouds, your father stood up off the rocking chair, made his way over to you and stuck his hand out.
You put the organizer in his hand and as he went to grab it, he leaned down and placed a kiss on your forehead. “I love you, sweetheart.”
You closed your eyes, hearing those words in your head repeat over and over. You did this every time, knowing time was limited. Although, you thought time was limited nearly 10 years ago, and yet here you were. The worry became a part of you.
“I love you, too.” You whispered back.
He moved over to Happy, extending his hand out to his.
“Thank you,” your father said to him. Happy gave no verbal response, just a nod.
And then it was just you and Happy on the porch, the sun’s rays were more pronounced as they casted the shadows on the deck.
“You wanna go pick up your truck?” Happy asked after 10 minutes of sitting there.
“Yeah,” you pushed along the arm rests and stood up.
Happy followed suit. As you stood at his bike, waiting for him to pass you a helmet, you looked up at the porch.
“You lied.”
“What?” Happy’s hand extended out with the helmet.
“You lied,” your eyes snapped to him.
He looked confused and for Happy that meant angry. He was burning a hole into you as he stared.
“I don’t lie.” His voice was tense.
“I’m not okay,” the words felt like shit to admit.
“Now you’re lying,” he moved his hand for you to take the helmet like he was over this, like that was the end of the conversation.
Grabbing the helmet, you shoved it under your arm. He was lucky you didn’t throw it. “I’m not fucking lying. You don’t know me, Hap.” You scrunched your face up. “I’m not okay,” you brought the helmet to your chest as you pointed to yourself. “I’m a daughter who feels the pain of her father so deeply in every fucking bone of my body, he struggles and I’m the one who notices it, the one who carries it. I do whatever I can to hide it, but it’s so fucking big and present that even my dying dementia ridden father can pick up on it. I can’t run from it, I can’t live in it, I can’t escape the weight of it. I have done so much to escape the weight of it, I have given up my dreams, my happiness, my peace, and all that does is give me more space for more weight, so no I’m not okay.”
Happy stared at you, his eyes were frozen.
“You are okay,” he spoke it slow, and then before you could argue he pointed at you. “Are you breathing?”
“That’s not what I me—”
“Are. You. Breathing?” He said it firmer.
“Yes,” you answered.
“Did you have a nice morning?”
“Yes.”
“Have a good time last night?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me something you’re looking forward to.”
“Smoking a fat joint when I get back here.”
Happy smirked. “You take it day by day. You do something—one thing—everyday for yourself. I don’t give a fuck if it’s a bubble bath, a joint, a fucking movie. One thing.” He held his finger up. “That’s how you stay okay.”
“Is that what you do?”
“It’s what we all do.”
With that, you nodded and placed the helmet on top of your head.
—
You did do something—one thing—everyday for yourself. You slept with Happy.
You did other things, too. You visited him up north, at his place, sometimes at his moms. He kept teaching you how to ride. He gave you a tattoo, three of them actually. He brought you to pawn shops, bought you knives, a gun, even throwing stars, although, those were definitely more for him.
He found you not one but 3 rotating at-home nurses who were great at what they did.
He sat with your father, watched birds on the porch, made both of you coffee.
Things were okay. You were okay.
No one knew you and Happy were, well whatever you were. It’s not like you put a label on it. You didn’t flaunt it around, especially when you were at the club. In fact, there weren't too many times you and Happy crossed paths at the club. With him being Nomad, he was on the road more often than at SAMCRO.
But there was one day. The day. The day everyone found out.
Jax had called you, told you that there was going to be a lockdown at the club, how he wanted you and your Pops to come in. You put up an argument, there was too much logistics around bringing your father in. Meds, beds, IVs. I mean half your home looked like a hospital wing.
But then Happy called.
“You should take him in,” he rasped over the speaker.
“How am I supposed to bring all his stuff? How am I supposed to even convince him to get out of the house?” You were looking through the window on the porch at him eating at the dining room table.
“I can bring it,” Happy always had a solution for everything.
“Is it really that bad?” You asked, hand to your forehead.
“Yes,” Happy answered.
You let out a sigh, frustration littered in the tone of it.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” his voice was soft.
“I know, Hap.” You dropped your hand down.
“Want me to pick up his things on my way down?” There was rustling on the other end.
“No, I got it. What time are you planning on being there?” You tried to push past whatever anxiety was building in your brain.
“Couple hours,” you heard the rev of his bike.
“Drive safe,” you pleaded with him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
—
Closing the door to the guest dorm you let your head lightly hit the door as it fell back. Getting your father settled here was more work than you expected. You wanted to get the machines plugged in, the IV ready if needed, all of his meds organized, unpack his things, whatever you could to make it feel like home. You made the bed with the same sheets from home, even brought some pictures, too.
As you made your way over to the bar, you didn’t even realize you had sat down next to Gemma.
“Can you get her some coffee?” Gemma spoke to one of the crow eaters.
“Thanks,” you looked over at her.
“He all settled?” Gemma asked as she sipped her own mug.
“As settled as he can get,” you inhaled sharply. “I don’t know how long he’s gonna last. He gets worse when he’s not somewhere familiar.”
“He spent plenty of time in this clubhouse,” Gemma smirked.
“On his more lucid days, I think he regrets never getting to wear a kutte,” you smirked back.
“Him and JT used to talk for hours about it, the cancer hit him so fast,” she shook her head.
“Life has a tendency to do that,” you smiled at the woman who dropped your coffee in front of you. “Can you get me some Cinnamon, doll?” You asked her politely, Gemma’s eyes looking at the girl to make sure she followed through before looking back at you.
“The guys are heading out soon, take care of what they need to,” she looked over at you, but your eyes searched for Happy’s.
He was in the corner talking to one of the guys from the Tacoma charter but his eyes were on you. Your eyes softened, the nerves and anxiety taking over at the idea of whatever it was they were going to take care of.
Quickly you moved back to look at Gemma. “You holding up okay?”
“I’ll be better when this is all over,” she nodded. “How long you been sleeping with Happy?”
You almost spit your coffee out.
“Doesn’t take a genius to put it together, sweetheart. He’s been staring at you since you stepped out of the dorm.”
“Happy stares at everyone,” you weren’t sure why you were trying to hide it, maybe because you didn’t want Gemma to be the first to know, you weren’t sure how Jax was going to respond, not that it mattered, but you were trying to contain it so you could control it.
“You’re putting Cinnamon in your coffee,” she brought her mug to her lips again. “Happy’s an early bird, he usually makes the coffee when he stays over here.”
Your brain was trying to rack itself around what to say or do.
“Relax,” she smirked. “I won’t tell big brother,” she laughed, outloud. “The killer and the caretaker,” she shook her head. “Who would’ve thought?”
“It’s been a few months,” you answered her question.
“I’m sure that’s been fun,” her grin was wide.
You smiled, it had been fun. But it was also more than that. “He’s good company,” you agreed. “Pops enjoys when he comes over too.”
That got Gemma to look at you, shock written all over her face.
“Well shit,” she looked at your face. “You’re in fucking love.”
“Gemma,” you used her name as a scoff.
“Thank God I never had daughters,” she shook her head looking over at Happy now who was focused on his conversation with Kozik.
Jax walked in then, a whistle came from Tig to get the guys attention and they all gathered, making their way out the clubhouse.
Just when you thought Happy was going to follow them out, he walked straight over to you.
“Hap,” Gemma smiled and squeezed his arm as she dismissed herself.
“Gemma,” he nodded back to her, giving her a small smile.
“Where you guys headed?” Your gaze moved from Gemma to Happy.
He just gave you a look. He wasn’t touching you, but he was towering over you.
“I hate this shit,” you sighed.
“Be back later,” he said like he was running to the grocery store.
“Be careful,” you brought your hands up to his kutte, not in a romantic way, just a quick tap.
“Always am,” he nodded.
“Nuh-uh,” you shook your head in disapproval. “None of that, what I said wasn’t a statement or sentence or casual conversation.” You dropped your hands. “It was an order.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His lip twitched slightly as he said it.
“Go get ‘em, killer,” it took everything in you not to kiss him.
“No.” He shook his head unemotionally, his way of showing disapproval. “Don’t like when you call me that.”
You quickly wrapped your arms around him, giving him a hug. The only people left inside were family and crow eaters and it’d do you more good than harm for them to see you pressing up on Happy. As you squeezed your arms around him you whispered.
“Come home to me in one piece, Hap.”
—
You fell asleep on the couch. Phone in hand and next to your face in case you got a call. When you woke up to someone shaking you slightly awake, you went to grab them when you heard his voice.
“It’s me,” two words was all it took.
You took him in, a few cuts on his face, not too deep, just a little scuffed up. Your fingers
ran over them and he didn’t even flinch. This was what it really was, what it would be. Him going out and doing things like this, you worried at home. Worried. That was all you did lately. It felt like it was who you were. Someone who worried and took care of everyone.
“You don’t need to take care of me.”
Happy always knew how to read your mind. And that was true though, wasn’t it? You didn’t need to take care of him.
“I think you’re the first person I haven’t had to take care of but want to take care of.”
It was true, obviously you wanted to take care of your father, but there was also an element of having to. This was different. You didn’t need to do anything. This was all purely want. A desire. Something to look forward to. One thing for yourself. Happiness. Happy.
“Happy?”
He hummed.
“I love you.”
It was the first time you said it. First time you ever said it to a man who wasn’t considered family. Although, Happy was considered family. Your father loved him, you hadn’t seen him enjoy talking with someone so much since JT. But that was one of the many reasons why you loved Happy. That, and his presence. His ability to make you smile when there was nothing to smile about. His fierce loyalty, to the club, to you, to his mother. The list could go on forever.
His hand came up and cradled your face. His palm was so big it covered your entire face. “I love you, too.”
And at that moment, you should have gone back to one of the dorms, hell, even your truck. You should have made love for the rest of the night, laughing in his arms and feeling him inside you, loving every part of him as he worshiped every inch of you.
But then there was a scream.
Followed by a slam.
Your father walked out of the room, he looked frantic. He looked scared. His voice shook as he called out a name. You expected it to be yours but it wasn’t.
“John?” His head swivelled. Looking for a man he’d never find.
You gripped Happy tighter as you moved to stand up and while he gladly lifted you up off the couch with ease, he stepped in front of you to handle this himself.
“I got it,” he said back to you and was walking over to your father.
You couldn’t hear them, but you saw the minute your father recognized Happy. How his tension eased away the minute Happy’s hand landed on his shoulder.
The commotion got everyone up, patches stood in the hallway with their guns drawn, the main clubhouse was filled now with club members.
“S’alright!” Happy yelled out over his shoulder. “You want some fresh air, Lieutanant?” He always called your dad that, a sign of respect.
He nodded. Everyone’s eyes were on them, watching as Happy led your father outside.
“Are you going to be staying over again tonight, Happy?” Your father’s voice echoed in the silent clubhouse.
You immediately closed your eyes. Suddenly, everyone’s eyes weren’t on them, but on you instead.
There was one set you felt burn into you. It was where you looked first when you opened your eyes again. Jax must’ve been in the hallway, but had moved closer into the main part of the clubhouse when he realized it was your dad who was causing the commotion. Similarly to Happy he had cuts and bruises on his face.
He waited a few minutes, likely for everyone to go back to their business and you could have a sort-of private conversation.
“It serious?” He sat down next to you.
You thought back to seconds ago when you told Happy you loved him.
“Yeah, it’s serious,” you smiled, nodding.
“How long?” He leaned back.
“Been about 6 months,” you thought back. He looked shocked, his head snapping to you. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know what it was, we were just hanging out.”
“I wouldn’t have given a shit no matter what it was,” Jax said. It got silent, both of you just sitting there. “You and Hap, huh?” Jax was clearly trying to wrap his head around it.
Before you could answer, Happy was walking back through the door and you were standing up and making your way over to him.
“He’s fine,” he looked down at you. “Wants to sit outside for a bit.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have brought him here,” you inhaled.
“He’s fine,” he repeated again, this time softer, but more convincing.
You felt the tears in your eyes well up, crossing your arms you inhaled harshly again and Happy matched it with a sigh.
“S’alright, c’mere, none of that.” He brought one hand around your shoulders and brought you against his chest.
“Thank you,” you managed to say through sobs.
Happy’s eyes connected with Jax’s, he was smiling on the couch, a nod escaped him and Happy nodded back. It was how these guys communicated, and Happy was fluent in nods and grunts.
He pulled your face from his chest and moved his head to point to the door. “Come on, we’re gonna wait for the birds.”
—
That was the last time you brought your dad to the clubhouse. If anything, that night was the beginning of the true end. You had 6 more months with him until one day, he just wasn’t awake anymore.
Everything felt like a tunnel. Like you were stuck in one. Like you were looking through one. Like you were hearing through one.
And yet, you only had one thought in your head. Buttercups.
You had replayed this day in your head for 10 years. The day your father got his cancer diagnosis you thought through what you’d wear. What shoes—something comfy, but something nice. People would probably talk, they always did. You thought through how you’d plan for it, who you’d have to invite, where you’d hold the repass, what you’d say, you’d probably have to say something, he was your father after all. Your mind would jump to the food, what kind of food did you serve at these things? Would you get a priest? Your family wasn’t exactly religious, but surely you needed someone to spit out some silver lining hope to keep everyone together. To give everyone that one nice thing to say when they left and went back to their normal lives. As they got in their cars and drove back home and stripped from their black clothing, bellies full of chicken parm and garden salad. That’s what you figured would make sense, italian. Fan favorite, something for everyone.
You wouldn’t have that moment though, you wouldn’t be able to strip yourself from this. You’d go home and feel the emptiness of the house, the silence of it, you’d probably have an empty stomach, for days. Because no matter how long you had to prepare for this moment, it still managed to shock you, push you in a direction you never expected to be.
Like now, you were in the front row of the funeral parlor, staring at the casket, thinking about buttercups. The small yellow weed that disguised itself as a flower. Your father used to sit with you in the yard when you were a kid, beer in one hand, cigarette in another, jeans littered with the green stains of a freshly mowed lawn.
“Can we put these in a vase?” You asked him with a hand picked bouquet of buttercups.
“We can.” He chugged down his beer and handed it to you, you placed the short weeds into the neck of the bottle and they sat there perfectly.
“You know these are butter flowers.” He picked one out from the bottle and twirled the stem in his finger.
“Butter flowers?” You looked at him like he was crazy. “What, they make butter out of it?”
“No,” he chuckled. “They say if you hold it under your chin and it reflects yellow, it means you like butter.” His hand pushed out and held the weed under your chin, you lifted your head up slightly to accommodate, and your father smiled. “Yep, you like butter.”
You laughed, taking the flower from his hand. “Everyone likes butter.”
“Not everyone,” he shook his head and pointed his finger to his chin as he jetted it out and forward.
Without a second thought you pushed the flower under his chin and there was no reflection, your brain couldn’t comprehend that it was because of the thickness of his beard preventing a reflection.
“Not even on your popcorn?” You looked baffled at your father.
“Not even on my popcorn.” He shook his head and placed the bottle between you two.
“How can they tell?” You looked at the flowers, like they’d tell you themselves.
“They know you,” your father answered without a trace of question in his voice. “Like I know you.”
“I didn’t know you didn’t like butter on your popcorn,” there was a hint of heartbreak in your tone.
“Now you do,” he brushed it off like it meant nothing. Like you weren’t completely destroyed by the idea of not knowing your father. Maybe that’s where the weight of this all started. At 7 years old in your backyard. You don’t think you ever got to know him, maybe he didn’t even get to know himself. He went to war young, came back fucked up, got left with a kid, got sick, he had so many things happen that prevented him from being his trueself, from experiencing life the way he planned.
You felt a hand grab yours. You weren’t sitting down anymore, you were standing in line next to your dad’s brother, no clue how you even got here, but nonetheless you were in the receiving line, shaking hands of everyone offering their condolences.
After sitting through the tunnel vision of the receiving line, you felt a warm body behind you, then a squeeze of your side. A soft kiss pressed to your temple and you fell back into it.
“Let’s go sit down,” He rasped into your ear.
That tunnel vision widened for a minute and you realized you were on the prayer kneeler, frozen over the casket, your hand wrapped in your fathers.
“How long have I been here for?” You were mortified, wishing you were back in that tunnel.
“Doesn’t matter,” he rasped again, his hands strong on yours pulling you to a standing position.
Turning around you saw the packed funeral home, all the seats were filled, the standing room was also pretty full, there was a sea of kuttes, a lot of veterans, people you never met before.
“I can’t do this, Hap.”
“You can,” it was delivered like a demand but it was truly him offering you confidence.
And you did. You threw a handful of buttercups on the casket as they lowered it to the ground, buried your head into Happy’s chest as you sobbed through the prayers and speeches. You weren’t able to get up and talk, when the cries stopped your face was so puffy, your body had no energy to get up let alone say something profound.
Which is why Happy did.
The loss of his body heat next to yours was replaced by Jax as he sat down next to you, tossing an arm around the chair so you could lean into him as Happy went up to the small podium. It was comical, the 6 foot 3 man towered over it, the bright beige pristine podium, only detail being a small layered moulding at the top, but other than that, completely blank. The complete opposite of the biker standing behind it, in a long black sleeve button up, even with the jeans and long sleeve you could see the tattoos on his hands, on his chest, on his head.
Happy was the opposite of all of this, the mourning, the sadness, the properness of it all. And yet, there he was.
“I, uh, got to spend the last year with The Lieutenant," Happy began, gripping the podium and looking down despite not having a piece of paper to read off of. “It started out as Sundays, we’d sit on the porch, watch birds, eat food, play cards if he was up to it. But, uh, Sundays turned into Tuesdays, and Thursdays, and Fridays, and then Mondays, and soon enough everyday.” He smirked a little. “I’d like to say it was just because The Lieutenant was great company, which he was, but it had a lot more to do with me being enamoured by his daughter.” Happy paused, looked at you and offered the softest twitch of his lips. Not a smile, nowhere near one actually, just a soft acknowledgement. “Her ability to put everyone else before herself, her humor, her mind, any moment I could spend getting to know her more was one I’d jump at.” He laughed a little to himself, it wasn’t like him to talk this much, open up about his feelings. “But along with that, came getting to know him, and I can say, I see where his daughter gets it from, her selflessness, her ability to inspire,” he paused and shook his head. “This last year I saw a man lose himself, but never lose who he was. A father, a friend, a brother.” He cleared his throat. “I’m lucky to have met him—a better man to have met him.” He inhaled and looked up at you and nodded. “Gave him a promise that first day I met him, that I’d take care of his daughter, and it’s why I’m standing up here right now, I’ll do whatever is in my power to keep that promise.” His eyes were on yours and you wiped the stray tears away. “Rest easy, Lieutenant."
—
After the funeral, you stayed a total of 1 day at your father’s place before crashing at the clubhouse and once Happy found out you weren’t staying at home, you think Jax called him that night, he brought you to his moms house.
It probably wasn’t the best move, you fell back into caretaker mode without missing a beat. Spending time with Happy’s mom and aunt was different though, it was a lot of laughing, talking about random things, you’d cook, read, relax. It was the feminine touch you didn’t experience when taking care of your dad. He’d eat anything, usually take out, you’d watch sports games and play cards, nothing like this.
But Happy saw it for what it was. You went from one caretaking role to another, not mourning your father just putting a bandaid on the grief.
You were standing by the sink, hand deep into a dutch oven cleaning the bottom of it when the door opened. Looking over your shoulder, you smiled.
“Hey, killer.” You nodded at him.
He made his way over to you in seconds.
“What I say?” He cupped your face in his hands.
“Hey, Hap,” you enunciated.
“Hey,” he placed a kiss on your lips.
“Who cooked?” He frowned looking at the stove where there was a mess of pans and bowls of batter.
“Miles,” you followed his gaze. “Woke up too late and missed breakfast,” you looked back at the dutch oven that used to have a bowl full of pot roast in it. “And lunch,” you laughed. “There’s left overs in the fridge if you want, I’ll join you after I finish cleaning all of this up.”
At that, Happy pulled away from you so fast you barely could register that he was opening the back sliding door.
“Hey!” His voice boomed. “Dickhead!” As he stepped outside, the door slid shut but you could still hear him. “You the one who made pancakes?”
Miles must’ve answered because Happy’s voice echoed even louder. “You gonna clean your shit up?” You couldn’t help but smile, placing the dutch oven on the drying rack you went to dry your hands off. You knew better than to start cleaning what was on the stove, so you left it.
“My old lady ain’t your fuckin’ maid.” Was the last thing out of his mouth when he came back inside.
“Get your things,” he walked right past you and into his mother’s room where you heard his voice a lot more low and calm.
Grabbing your bag, you placed it cross-body and waited for him at the front door.
When he reappeared, he was shaking his head. “No, all of your things, your clothes, your toothbrush, all your bags.”
“We goin’ somewhere?” You asked the question as you walked past him and into the guest room where you had been staying and keeping most of your things, not that it was a lot.
“Yea,” Happy answered, giving no more context.
He grabbed the bag from your hand and opened the front door.
“Keys,” he dropped the bag in the bed of your truck and held his hand up for you to toss him the truck fob.
The ride was silent for a few minutes, but Happy’s knuckles white on the steering wheel showed you there was more going on in his head than he was letting up.
“What’s wrong?” You asked him. “Something happen with the cartel?”
Happy was a man of few words but he’d keep you in the loop on club things the moment things got more serious between you two. With your dad gone he knew that worry would manifest somewhere else, and he didn’t want to make this harder than it already was. He’d say enough for you to get the picture, know what was going down and when. It’s why some of the guys were staying at Happy’s mom’s house and keeping a close eye on the truck in the driveway.
“No,” he kept his eyes on the road.
Alright, if it wasn’t that, then you were at a loss.
“Hap, why do I get the impression that you’re mad at me?” You leaned forward trying to get a look at his face.
“Ain’t mad at you,” he softened slightly. You gave him a look that he saw out of the corner of his eye and he fell back against the seat. “You’re gonna move in with me.”
“Oh?” You lifted your brows. “Glad you made that decision for the both of us.”
“You wanna move back to your Pops?” Happy looked over at you now.
That got you angry. “Don’t be a dick,” you crossed your arms.
“Ain’t being a dick, just being real.”
“Take me home then,” you shrugged. It was the last place you wanted to be, but you felt like you had to prove yourself to Happy right now.
“Yes ma’am,” he nodded and made a u-turn in the middle of the road, no hesitation.
He pulled into your driveway 30 minutes later. The truck’s familiar creaks and rumbles as it pulled into the gravel lot sent a visceral reaction of memory and pain through you. Happy pulled into the spot that still had impressions of the truck’s tires. The way he put the car in park, you could tell he was mad, and how he pulled the ebrake up made it even more apparent.
The weight of being here, seeing the yard, the house, the porch, it made a pit in your stomach, all that tough guy act and needing to prove yourself was gone and replaced with a wobble in your voice as you caved.
“Give me 10 minutes and I’ll be back with my stuff.” You hopped out the car and slammed the door, it felt like the only thing left you could control, your anger.
You walked through the front door, avoiding the back porch because it would be the thing that broke you. Bracing for the worst, you held your breath for a minute, expecting the house to be a disaster. When you got back from the funeral, you didn’t take care of anything, no cleaning, just the bare minimum to get by. Then, you just didn’t show back up. You didn’t hire anyone, you didn’t pay any bills, so you were expecting things to be rotting, much like you. Just a stagnant piece of grief just rotting in place from the inside out.
To your surprise, the house smelled like sea salt, driftwood and clorox. The light switch worked, the clocks were ticking and accurate. Everything was working, the house was kept.
“Happy,” you mumbled and felt your eyes get heavy.
With a deep sigh, you began to pack things up. Taking a few photos from the staircase, you made your way upstairs to your room. Filling four bags of clothes, mementos, and other things, you dropped them by the steps and trekked them down two by two.
As you struggled to make your way through the opening between the stairs and the kitchen, Happy’s tattooed arm extended out and grabbed them from you with no struggle whatsoever.
He held them with such ease, his eyes were doing more of the strenuous work by boring into you.
“You gotta go through this.”
“And if I can’t?”
“You can,” he nodded.
With that, you sighed. Turning to the kitchen and grabbing a plastic bag for a couple more things to take with you. After you did that, you nodded towards the door, the back door. “C’mon. Take me home, killer.” Despite being eternally grateful for everything he did, you were still upset with how he spoke with you earlier. It was your last jab at him, and he knew it, which is why he let it slide, said nothing, and just opened the door for you to make your way to the back porch. He locked the door and began his dissent to your truck, leaving you alone for a few moments. Standing there, you looked at the empty rocking chair, the tears welling up in your eyes. It was then that your eyes jumped up when they saw something speed past. The Towhee bird landed right on the hummingbird feeder that Happy had put up over a year ago. They weren’t the type of bird that liked porch feeders, they were ground birds, foraged in the leaves, it’s why they loved the rain.
“Holy shit,” you mumbled as it flew right onto the rocking chair. It swayed ever so slightly and you stood completely still, hand over your mouth fighting the tears back.
“Hi dad,” you whispered so softly, you weren’t even sure if you said it outloud.
Standing there you looked out to the trees, the bird there too, just watching in silence. And with no warning at all, the bird flew away.
And you were left alone again. But you weren’t really alone.
You needed whatever push this was. Start the true grieving process, not avoid it.
Moments later, you followed the steps down into the driveway and saw Happy leaning against the truck, toothpick in his mouth, looking up at the sky. It was clear he wasn’t eager to leave or rush you, just patiently waiting. He would’ve waited there all night without question.
As you walked up to him, you pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and he looked down at you.
“What do you think about me moving in with you?”
“Would love it.”
“Alright, let’s move me in,” you nodded.
“Yes ma’am.”
“You paid the bills and kept the place clean.” It was spoken as a statement, your eyes soft with appreciation. He didn’t say anything or make any expression, just looked at you. “You didn’t have to do that.”
His chest rose and fell without any acknowledgement again.
“Thank you,” you let the wall down and the tears fell.
He immediately brought you into him, placing your face against his chest. His hand was over your head, his fingers moving slightly against your skull, soothing you.
“Ain’t gotta thank me,” he whispered.
You squeezed him harder and let the wails just escape you. Happy kept comforting you, bringing his other hand around you to hold you just as tight back.
He didn’t say anything else, just let you go through this, like he said earlier, you needed this. It was probably 30 minutes of this, just sobs. When you ran out of tears, you pulled your head out from his kutte. Happy moved his hands to your face, his thumbs wiping the tear stains. He didn’t show affection this way much, it was saved for your more intimate moments, when it was just you, but then again, that’s exactly what this was. Just you.
“I’ll pay you back,” you sniffed.
“No you won’t,” Happy shook his head, dropping his hands.
That made you want to cry again, but there was nothing left. Just the ache in your heart, in your gut.
“I’m gonna come back this week and clean this place out. I don’t know if I want to rent it out or put it on the market.” Changing the topic felt like the only direction to go now.
“We can move in here if you want,” Happy wasn’t taking his eyes off you.
“No,” you shook your head, a deep exhale matching your expression. “The porch is the only place here that holds any good times. Inside is like a fucking hospital wing, it’d be better to let someone else create their own memories than me try to erase the weight of mine. Plus, you got a porch.”
“I do,” he nodded.
You went on your tip-toes, hands resting on his kutte and placed a kiss to his mouth, not a sexual one, but something softer, something intimate that said everything while saying nothing at all, when you pulled away you placed the toothpick back in his mouth and smiled.
“Thank you.” This time it was said without the waterworks, but you meant it just as much.
Happy took the long way back, the one that was your favorite, through the state park so you could see the trees, hear the birds, and feel a little peace.
As you approached the light that brought you back to the main road, he cut through the silence.
“Didn’t mean to be a dick,” his hand was resting on the wheel, “when I got back to Ma’s, and I saw you just back in that grind of taking care of shit for other people, especially fuckin’ Miles,” he shook his head, “it ain’t right.”
“I don’t mind, your mom—”
Happy cut you off. “You stopped doing shit for you.”
“I—” you didn’t know what to reply to that. He was right. You did.
“I love that you and my mom and aunt get along, I love that you want to take care of her,
but you have to take care of you, too.”
He was right again.
“I shouldn’t have brought you there.” He shook his head.
“It’s not on you, Hap. I’ll find something to take care of no matter where I am.”
Happy said nothing to that right away, it was like his mind was turning something over. 5 minutes passed as he turned into a parking lot. You saw the Charming municipal building and frowned, but before you could say anything Happy was jumping out of the truck and telling you to follow him. “C’mon.”
With caution, you trailed behind him. Not because you were nervous about where he was bringing you but because you were trying to figure it out in your head first.
As he opened the large metal door for you, you walked in and were met with the sound of barking, tons of it.
The room was just a long hallway of fences and gates, it smelled like a petting zoo, and the sounds of yipping and barking overwhelmed you. Turning around you looked at Happy and he was shutting the door.
“Happy?”
“Pick one,” he pointed at the fences.
You gave him a deadpan stare.
“If you’re gonna find something to take care of, might as well be something that needs takin’ care of.”
“What?” You kept the same expression on.
“Pick one,” he repeated.
You turned to look at the dogs and then back at him.
A smile, he had the biggest grin on his face. One that made you smile, too.
You walked down the hallway, each dog running up to the gate except for the last one in the row. A black staffie mix, the smallest white spot on her snout.
“Her,” you lifted your head up and looked at her informational tag. “Black Dog.” That was it. She had no other information.
“Like the Led Zeppelin song,” Happy walked over and squatted in front of the fence, his finger sticking into the holes of it trying to get her to approach. She leaned forward and sniffed his finger and then began licking him. “Looks like you’re coming home with us.”
—
There was very little to celebrate these days with everything going on at the club. The niners, the gang task force, Opie’s death, and the random home invasions, it had been a lot of negative shit. You could feel it when Happy walked through the door. You really felt it when the home invasions were happening more frequently and he had a prospect, or even more terrifying, Chibs or Bobby take watch if he wasn’t home. They carried a lot of the heaviness too, you could see it in their eyes, their demeanor. The club needed a pick me up.
“My old lady wants to have everyone over this weekend, grill and shit.” Happy’s voice cut through the guys as they walked out of chapel.
“S’not a bad idea,” Jax said, placing a cigarette into his mouth. “Have her call my mom, Gemma would probably love to Donna Reed some shit up. She’ll actually probably want to have it at her place.”
“She’s gonna ask if she can bring Zep.” Happy plopped down on the bar stool.
Jax smirked, “Your dog?”
Happy nodded, “They’re bonded.”
“Fuck it, the more the merrier.” Jax twisted off a beer cap.
—
Gemma’s place was packed. People inside, people outside, people in the driveway, hell there were even some people in the street. It was a mix of crow-eaters, old ladies, families, locals who supported the club, and a sea of patches. Some from SAMCRO, some from other nearby charters. You recognized some faces, a few you’ve known since you could remember and some more newly acquainted faces that knew you not as a Teller family friend but as Happy’s old lady.
You had been hard at work well before the crowd showed up, helping Gemma with food prep, cooking, organizing, all of that.
“This was a good idea,” she said to you as she peeled back the husks of the corn and dropped it into the tin dish. You were placing the bowl of melted butter in the corner of it and getting ready to move to skewers.
“Everyone’s been carrying a lot of shit, they needed something to cut through it,” you said, grabbing the bag of wooden sticks next to her.
Gemma gave you a look, a knowing one. One that said she was impressed with how you settled into club life.
“Never thought you’d end up knee deep in club shit,” she said, moving to the oven now.
You let out an audible laugh at that. “When I was 16 you practically had me married off to Jax, ” you shook your head as you pierced the stick through the chunk of meat.
“I just needed something to distract him from heartbreak,” she was smiling, you could hear it in her voice.
“Nothing could have ever distracted Jax from Tara,” you dropped the skewer into a fresh tin dish.
“Happy’s right,” she said now, more seriously.
“He usually is,” you nodded.
“No,” she laughed. “He’s the right one,” she walked back over to you. “Your dad would be glad, baby.” She let her hand wrap around and squeeze your arm before going to help you with the skewers.
Happy was right. Your dad would be glad.
“He would have loved this,” you nodded to the food, with a chuckle.
Gemma laughed with you. “Oh, he would have gotten here two hours earlier than you to help.” That last word had sarcasm behind it.
“And would have tried everything twice,” you smirked.
“Quality testing,” you both said at the same time and laughed.
You felt the weight almost immediately, it was that reminder of missing him. You loved talking about him, any chance you got, but it always came with this moment, the reminder that it was all you had left, the memories.
You fell silent, your focus shifting to the skewers, at least, so it seemed. Your mind was elsewhere. There had been a lot of growth on your part, but on moments like this, where you were focusing on others, helping out, it weighed on you more.
The focus you had was pulled because one minute you were shoving a pepper down the pointed wooden skewer and the next you were cursing and letting it hit the floor.
“Shit!” You called out and grabbed your palm, moving to the sink and turning the faucet on.
“Cut yourself?” Gemma’s concern sounded from over your shoulder.
It was a slice, not deep, but long, it must’ve slipped while you were in your thoughts.
“I’ll be fine, just gotta wrap it up,” you exhaled as you watched the blood mix with the running water.
“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Gemma was leaving the kitchen to grab the kit from the linen closet.
As you waited, you heard the back doorknob turn and swing opene into the kitchen.
“Hey, I brought Zep, think she’ll be better company with you in here, I don’t want her eating Gemma’s gardenias.” Happy trailed in with the leash and your black staffy.
She didn’t have a tendency to eat plants, but she did get into Happy’s mom’s gardenias last week, but you later found out it was because she was using compost in her soil and Zep loved red bell peppers, in all forms.
“Yeah, you can let her eat the peppers on the ground.” You nodded at it as you held your hand under the water.
“What happened?” Happy ignored you and stepped to the sink to see the blood.
“Sliced my hand, I’m fine,” you said.
Before Happy could answer, Gemma was back in the kitchen. “Relax Smiley,” Gemma said as she could feel the tension coming off him. “I got our girl.”
She had pulled the gauze out already and pulled your hand to wrap it tight.
“Thanks for bringing Zep,” you looked over Gemma at Happy who was staring at your hand. “I’m fine, Hap. Really.”
“Jax told me to tell you that some of the boys from Nevada are coming up,” Happy changed the topic, his eyes still on your cut before moving to pick the skewer off the ground and feed it to Zep.
“Great,” Gemma mumbled. “We’re gonna need more skewers.” She looked up at you and smirked.
—
With the party in full swing, you took to one of the picnic tables in Gemma’s garden. Zep had been sprawled out on Tig’s lap in the grass, enjoying the attention from anyone who would give it to her. Before you knew it, you felt someone move in behind you, his hand wrapping around your waist.
“How’s the hand?” He moved his hand from your waist and up to your hand, turning it up and around so he could see the wrap.
“I’m fine, Hap,” you leaned back into him.
He had no problem cradling his body around yours. Your head rested against his face.
“What did you do today?” His voice was soft in your ear.
It was a question he asked you pretty frequently, it wasn’t so much asking about your day, but asking to make sure you weren’t forgetting to prioritize yourself.
You sighed, “My focus today has been you guys.”
“Shit around here will always be shit around here,” he ran his thumb up and down your thigh. There was a slight tickle against your cheek, the toothpick Happy had in his mouth moved just slightly against you as he spoke. “You can’t forget you.”
“This is for me,” you closed your eyes and pushed more against him, so your entire back was flush against his front.
You felt him chuckle. “Something else,” he grumbled. “Something fulfilling,” it was the same speech you’d gotten over the last few months, just different words as the reminder.
“I could think of something really fulfilling,” your head fell back to look up at him, your hand moving back to graze across his jeans.
Happy let out a low growl, the toothpick in his mouth moving to the complete opposite side so he could pull it out before your lips landed on his. “I have zero complaints,” he mumbled.
You laughed against his mouth and placed a quick peck against his mouth again.
“I love you.”
“I love you,” he nodded, stealing one more kiss from you.
“When did you know?” You asked, the question falling fast from your tongue.
“The moment I fucking saw you,” his answer came even faster.
“That’s a lie,” you shook your head.
“I don’t lie,” he retorted. “I walked up to the bar, oblivious to you and when you pushed
that beer towards me, I fuckin’ fell in love.”
“I’m being serious, Hap.” You tapped his chest with the back of your hand.
“Me too,” he shrugged. “After that night, you wouldn’t leave my mind. Saw you with Jax the morning after, thought I stepped on some shit. Tried to forget it, forget you.”
“And then you saw me at the diner,” you remembered.
“And then I saw you at the diner,” he nodded.
“That day, my dad asked you if you loved me,” you remembered that morning on the porch.
“You didn’t give me the chance to answer him,” he didn’t even need a minute to recollect the memory.
“I didn’t want you to have to lie to him.”
“Wouldn’t have lied. I did love you, he saw that.”
“I know things aren’t great right now,” you looked around at the guys, it had been so long since you saw any of them truly enjoying themselves. “But I need you to promise me you’re gonna be okay.”
“Can’t do that,” despite how he delivered that information, he hated having to say it at all.
“Then promise me you’ll be careful,” you turned your head.
Before he could answer, Jax was approaching you both.
“Sorry to interrupt,” his smirk was smug until it wasn’t. “I gotta run out,” his eyes jumped to Happy’s.
“I’m with you, prez.” Happy nodded, already moving to get up.
The loss of him behind you felt colder due to how you ended or more like how you didn’t end the conversation you were having.
“Sorry for leaving in the middle of your thing,” Jax leaned down and placed a quick kiss to your cheek since he hadn’t even said hello to you yet.
“Two apologies in the span of two minutes, you’re getting soft, prez,” you teased.
He smiled back, he looked like the younger version of him, the one that had fun, that laughed, that teased, that enjoyed life. The one that didn’t have the weight of the club hovering over him.
“Be careful,” you looked at the group of them, your eyes hovering on Happy last.
Happy leaned down now, placing a kiss to the top of your head. “I promise.”
—
You were tired, you had a few beers, ate some food, got to talk with some of the other old ladies, some of the other charter members. Now, you were helping Gemma clean up.
It was late and there were those thoughts gnawing in the back of your head. Were they okay? Did something happen? It had been hours since you heard anything.
“Worrying does nothing but wreak havoc on the heart, darlin’,” Gemma said as she walked beside you.
Your eyes fell to the scar on her chest.
“I should know,” she whispered the joke with a chuckle.
Before you could even smile let alone respond, her phone rang. Your eyes darted to her cell that was on the kitchen table. You knew before you heard anything, you knew something happened.
“Yeah?” Gemma answered and her eyes darted straight to yours. “Alright we’re on our way.”
“What happened?” You heard your heart thumping in your ears.
“Grab your keys, I’ll fill you in on the drive to the club.”
You were chewing the skin inside your mouth at every turn, Gemma was running through stop signs, red lights, going double the speed limit just to get to the clubhouse so it wasn’t like you could do anything else but just wait.
“He’s alright, baby. Jax said it was superficial.”
“I didn’t realize Jax got his medical license,” you were being catty but it was just a product of being worried.
“Easy now,” she warned, but you weren’t worried about Gemma right now.
“Jax said Happy was shot, that it went through his head,” you clarified.
“That it skimmed his head,” Gemma corrected.
“He’s probably fucking basking in the glory of it,” you shook your head thinking about the man you loved.
“Chibs is handling it,” Gemma still had her own worry in her tone.
It was silent for the rest of the ride, which was only a couple minutes anyway.
Barreling into the clubhouse, you didn’t freeze when you saw him or the blood. His shirt was soaked, the right side of his head was covered in it, and he was grinning from ear to ear as Chibs held the skin together on the top of his head with two pieces of gauze.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” you called out as you made your way over.
“You’re in for it, lad,” Chibs mumbled to Happy.
“I’m alright,” Happy said, lifting his hand to grab onto your arm.
You gave him a look and then placed your eyes back on Chibs.
“He’s alright,” he nodded at you.
“What can I do?” You needed to be doing something, your adrenaline was racing through your veins.
“Painkillers and alcohol,” Chibs said but Gemma already beat you to it, she was holding up a bottle of booze and a bottle of pills. Chucky had already started putting some sort of cream on the gauze that he was handing to Chibs.
“Hey,” Happy’s rasp pulled your attention and you squatted down to be eyelevel with him.
“You told me you were going to be careful,” you felt your body slow down now, the worry creeping back in but this time more focused on the future, what could’ve happened, what could happen.
“I was,” he nodded. “Shit just got a little crazy.”
“Who was it?” Your voice had venom in it now. You could feel everyone's eyes jump to one another. Chibs to Jax, Juice to Tig, Gemma to Happy to see how he was going to respond.
He didn’t get the chance to though because Nero was walking through the clubhouse and everyone’s eyes fell on him.
There were a few words exchanged as he approached Jax at the bar, they volleyed the exchange back and forth and then Chibs chimed in which gave you all the information you needed.
“One thing I don’t want is this half-bright gang starting a war right outside Charming,” Jax said, firm in tone.
“This was your crew?” You were standing up, moving in front of Nero now.
“Ain’t my crew,” he wasn’t backing down but he wasn’t rude in how he spoke either.
“If you don’t get your fuckin’ boys wrangled, I will.” You spoke through gritted teeth.
“Alright, down killer,” Jax stepped up now, moving between you and Nero.
“Hey,” Happy spoke up now, giving his version of a warning shot.
“If you don’t handle it Jax, I fucking will.” You pulled your attention to your friend for decades, daggers in your eyes.
“No one is going to handle anything, we’re gonna figure it out, alright? Just get him patched up,” his voice echoed off the clubhouse walls before Bobby walked up to him.
You gave a long stare to Jax then to Nero before moving where Gemma just stood up from, right in front of Happy. He was in pain, you could see it on his face as Chibs tried to stop the bleeding, but even with that he was looking at Nero and then Jax, that pull to not let someone talk to you in any way other than cheerily keeping him at the edge of his seat.
“Something tells me you loved every second of the shitstorm you were in,” you leaned forward now, grabbing a cloth to wipe some of the blood clean from his face.
He smirked, completely ignoring Jax heading out on whatever he needed to handle.
Better be this fucking piece of shit gang, you thought internally to yourself.
Happy saw you tense and leaned just slightly to grab your hand which was still wrapped up from the cut. “Where’s Zep?”
“At Gem’s with one of the prospects,” you gave in entirely now, letting your body relax knowing Happy was okay.
“I promised you I’d be careful, you gotta do the same for me,” he let his finger brush over the wrap on your palm.
“Absolutely not the same thing,” you held back a laugh.
He gave you a look, one you knew well.
“I promise I’ll be careful,” you squeezed his hand.
You two didn’t say much more, you cleaned his face off while Chibs worked to sew the skin together and patch him up. Happy never let go of your hand, only giving you one free hand to wipe his face down but it was enough. His fingers danced around yours as you sat there, the time well into the night at this point.
“I got your dorm ready,” Gemma walked over and put a hand on Happy’s clean shoulder. “Figure if I let this one behind the wheel she’s going to drive straight into one of those gangster’s houses,” she gave you a playful smirk.
“I’d love to see that,” Happy grinned.
“Don’t tempt her,” she tapped his shoulder before walking off.
“Yeah, don’t,” you shook your head.
“You come here often?” Happy nodded his head at you, his grin shifting from playful to
fully devious.
“That’s my cue,” Chibs said, standing up off the table and removing the gloves from his hands. “You’re all good, Hap.”
“Thanks,” Happy was taking the cloth you had used just previously and dabbed it along his head, picking up any extra residue he could. “C’mon, I think you oughta show me what you were gonna do to those pieces of shit.”
“I don’t think you want to know,” you were standing up now, eyes glued to the patch up job on his head, anger and upset mixing like a cocktail in your veins, in your thoughts, in your muscles.
“Oh yes I do,” he nodded and gripped your waist, leading you back to his dorm.
—
You woke up to the smell of coffee, strong and with a hint of spice. Based on the power of the aroma, it had to be warm still, if you were lucky, maybe even hot. As your eyes opened, you saw the mug on the nightstand, the reaper image half peeled but still holding strongly printed on the side of the mug staring right at you as the steam slowly lifted over its head.
Sitting up, you grabbed the handle and immediately took a sip, your head falling back as the warm liquid trickled through your body, practically giving you chills. “Fuckin’ perfect.” You hummed.
“Hap?” You called out, thinking maybe he was in the bathroom but you were met with no response.
You picked up the flip phone that was tucked under your pillow after the few sips of coffee started to work their caffeine magic on you. There were no messages or calls. You weren’t expecting anything, Happy wasn’t in the habit of leaving notes behind. Gestures, sure. Hence, the coffee, but no notes.
You shot him off a text, you normally wouldn’t care, but with his head you were just being precautious.
To Happy (6:45AM): Hate when you don’t wake up next to me, the coffee is an appreciated second choice though. How you feeling?
After you hit send, you stood up, tossing one of the many SOA shirts that were kept in the dressers here. With that, you stepped out of the dorm and made your way down the hallway. There used to be a time that when you left Happy’s dorm at this hour of the morning, you’d peer out and make sure there was no one there, no prying eyes, no one to tease you or even know you stayed the night. A time where you stayed true to the idea of a walk of shame. Shoes in your hand verse on your feet, makeup smeared under your eyes, last night's clothes on.
You smirked at the memory and ducked into the kitchen for something to eat, opening the fridge door so you were fully behind it as you looked at the contents inside.
“What are you doing here?” The familiar boyish voice made you smile. As you turned your head around to see the blonde biker, you took in his face. It wasn’t boyish at all, not anymore. Not for a long time. It was worn, heavy, his hair slicked back probably from all the times he stressfully ran his hands through it. It had been a rough night for him. A rough night for everyone. Your last interaction with Jax wasn’t great, but you two tended to bounce back from these things pretty quickly.
You closed the fridge door, making it completely obvious all you had on was a long t-shirt.
“Jesus Christ, you gotta be fucking kidding me,” Jax turned around, almost embarrassed.
“Oh relax,” you shook your head and walked past him, back to the dorm where you grabbed the jeans you were wearing last night. You put them on, hopping your legs through the holes as you made your way back down the hallway. Leaving the zipper and button down, since the t-shirt did a well enough job at covering it. As you walked back into the kitchen, Jax had on a that playful smirk again, he was tossing two pieces of toast in the toaster, the jelly and butter already out on the counter.
“I slept here,” you looked into Jax’s eyes which although were laced with burden, had a hint of humor behind them. “Hap was too drugged up to drive and your mom was convinced I was going to hunt the guys down who shot at you so she set us up in a dorm,” you sipped from your mug.
“Hap’s rubbing off on you,” he laughed, grabbing a beer from the fridge. It wasn’t like his typical morning beer. Not his frat-like beer and bud in the morning before the shenanigans, this was something to take the edge off.
“Oh, definitely,” you nodded, a smirk of your own on your face as you hoped the innuendo would go over his head, your eyes jumped to the toaster as the bread popped up.
“Gross,” he tossed the beer cap at you and twisted his face up.
“I handled it, just so you know,” Jax said before turning around.
“Handled it or figured it out?” You asked curiously, a little jokingly.
“Handled.” He nodded, serious in response.
You nodded back at him, just as seriously, your way of thanking him.
“You and Hap,” he turned to start buttering the toast. “You’re good for each other.”
“Hap just gets me. Always has.” You smiled at Jax, one that came with memories you enjoyed reliving. Something you never expected of your life. He scooped an absurd amount of jelly onto the bread and turned to hand you one with a paper towel under it.
“You know, when your Pops died, I was worried you were gonna get lost in that,” Jax said as he leaned back against the counter, his own breakfast in his hand. “I’m glad to see you’re alright.”
“I’m sorry to see you’re not,” you looked up at Jax, your longest friend, who looked so incredibly different, so incredibly worn. He was the furthest thing from alright.
“I’ll be fine,” he smirked, it wasn’t believable. Your face did no effort in holding that truth back, but you nodded to let him know you wouldn’t push it.
“Maybe you just need to get laid,” you tried to lighten the mood.
“I need a shower and a nap,” he joked, a sigh escaping his mouth. “But only got time to handle shit around here.”
“Shit around here will always be shit around here.” You quoted Happy, although Jax had no idea.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Jax’s face dropped to the version of it you barely recognized.
“You’re gonna drive yourself into an early grave, Jax. Something’s gotta give.” You didn’t know the ins and outs, you knew the club got into shit with the cartel and even without details you understood that was a hard thing to get out of, but you saw how the things that happened changed him, how worn he was, how shit the club had gotten.
“If you could get out would you?” Jax was looking at you now, deep into your eyes, trying to see if you had a tell.
“I’m not in,” you took a bite of your toast.
“You know what I mean,” he dropped his head.
“Happy isn’t the kind of guy that leaves the club, Jax.” You put the toast down next to you.
“And you’ve made peace with that?” His question was curious, like he wanted to see how things worked for you both.
At that moment, a prospect walked into the kitchen for coffee. “Sorry,” Ratboy mumbled as he grabbed the pot and moved back to the bar. Just like clockwork a group of the guys came walking in from outside. Juice, Bobby, Tig, but no Happy. You had a few seconds before they approached you guys in the kitchen. Not enough time to actually have this conversation the way it should be had.
“I haven’t made peace with anything,” you shook your head, kicking off the counter. “This is who he is, Jax. I fell in love with him knowing that. The club is a complicated shitshow, but Happy’s my peace, if I got that, then I’m good.”
It was then that Tig walked in, “Hey, doll,” he whispered to you before placing his hand on the doorframe and then tossing his thumb over his shoulder and looking at Jax. “Bobby’s got Nero on the line.”
“Alright, thanks Tiggy.” Jax kicked off the counter too, his eyes moving from Tig to you.
“We gonna finish this conversation later?” You stepped toward him, he was placing a cigarette in his mouth.
“Nope,” he smiled and pinched your elbow as a form of thanks.
“Tell Nero I’m sorry for bringing the claws out,” you grimaced slightly.
“Oh I’d pay to see that again,” Tig’s face was now against the doorframe, smile so satisfied on his face.
“He gets it,” Jax smiled and began walking out towards Bobby.
“Where’s Hap?” You asked Tig, grabbing your toast again from the counter behind you and when you turned back around you bumped into someone’s firm chest as they towered over you.
“Right here,” he looked down at you, seriousness on his face until a smile crept up. His thumb raised up and swiped at the remnants of jelly on your mouth.
“Hi,” you smiled and he leaned down to place a kiss on your lips.
“I love love,” Tig said before leaving you two alone in the kitchen.
“How’s your head?” Your eyes jumped to the bandage on his skull.
“You tell me,” he had a devilish grin on his face.
“Be serious for two seconds,” you lightly slapped his chest.
“I’m all good,” he brushed his hand over his head. “Could use some of the same medicine you gave me last night.”
“You’re shameless,” you laughed against him now but before you could act on anything, Bobby was walking into the kitchen. “We’re going to meet up with Lin, you good to ride?”
“I am,” Happy nodded and went to kiss you goodbye. “Raincheck,” he mumbled against your lips.
“Be. Careful.” You gripped his kutte before he walked away.
He nodded in agreement, all jokes and sarcasm wiped from his face. “Promise.”
—
Two Years Later - The Cemetery
“So yeah, I guess that’s really it,” you sighed as you wrapped up the entire story of you and Happy. “I realized, I never told you any of it because you were so grossed out that first time, then we hid it for so long and then it just…was.” You leaned against the gravestone that held the name of your childhood best friend on it.
Jackson Nathaniel Teller.
"We got another dog, named him Opie,” you smirked. “Club got out of guns, Happy, Chibs, and Tig made sure of it.” You heard branches behind you snap and as you turned your head, you saw Happy there, no kutte on his body. Just a plain white t-shirt, hands in his pocket waiting for you patiently.
“You asked me that time all those years back if I could get out, would I?” You took a deep inhale. “I wish I just said yes. Maybe it would’ve sparked something in you.”
“It would’ve been a lie,” you shook your head. “I gave you the only truth I knew. The one that remains true today. Happy’s my peace, if I got that, then I’m good.” You turned around and saw Happy just staring off, making sure you were okay but giving you your privacy.
—
The Funeral
It wasn’t an open casket. The damage had been too extensive to fix to a point of a proper viewing. Not that any of this was proper, this was pure SAMCRO when it came to the burial. The construction on the original clubhouse was renovated enough to have the service here first before bringing him to the cemetery. It was right, for this to be the place you all memorialized Jax.
You wished you could’ve been in a tunnel for this. Be so out of it that you were almost
numb. But that was the thing about healing, it meant you had to go through everything instead of bury it or ignore it. So you felt it. The loss of your longest friend. His death. His suicide.
Happy came up behind you, his hand moving around your waist as he stepped next to
you. Resting your head on his shoulder, you sighed.
“I should’ve made him promise me he’d be careful,” you whispered.
“He was,” Happy’s bandaged arm moved from your waist to your arm. The arm that was shot as a cover story. The one thing regarding the club Happy gave you every single detail on, leaving nothing out, none of the general overview, you two sat for hours discussing this.
As you arrived at the cemetery, you dropped your sunglasses from the top of your head to over your eyes, your face stoic, but still tear stained.
After everyone dropped flowers on the casket, it was Chibs’ turn to speak but you saw him leaned over, sobs coming from his mouth.
Standing up, you squeezed Happy’s hand and smiled at him. Mouthing 3 words to him you vowed to say everyday when you got married last year. The small ceremony at Happy’s mom’s place, she wasn’t able to leave home and you both knew it was something she wouldn’t want to miss. Gemma hung up string lights, cooked a shit ton of food, it was a glorified barbeque and it couldn’t have been any more perfect. Jax spoke, a short speech, but one that you’d remember forever.
As you walked towards the podium, you let your hand rest on Chibs for a moment before you kept going.
“For those of you who don’t know, I’ve known Jax since we were kids. He beat the shit out of Sean Heston when he saw him breaking into my locker and stealing my weed and lunch money, he made me do his math homework,” you chuckled through a slight lump in your throat. “He took the fall for me when I was caught passing notes to Tara in class, he took me to my prom, just so my father could see me go with a date, he helped me with my sick father, in every way imaginable.”
You swallowed. “Jax was a brother to me in such a similar way that he was a brother to all of you.” You gripped the podium. “When I got married last year, Jax gave a speech, he said the thing he’d always tell Hap once he knew him and I were together, that he’s never known Happy to know peace outside of mayhem until he met me. To which my loving groom would reply: there is peace in mayhem.”
“Jax knows peace. So when I cry, when I miss him, when I miss my brother, I’ll know through all this mayhem, he finally knows peace.”
—
The Cemetery
“I hope you did find your peace, Jax.” You looked over your shoulder again, Happy was in the same spot, hands in his pockets still, patiently waiting.
“He left today,” your eyes were still on Happy as you spoke. “We both think this is what you’d want. What my dad would want.” You shrugged. “I hate how this is how things are now. Guessing what you two feel or want,” you sighed but shook your head.
“But I guess what’s more important is it’s what we want. We gotta do this for us.”
At that you kissed your hand and then the headstone before standing up and walking up to Happy.
“You come here often?” You teased as you approached, tucking your hands between the open spots between his arms and waist and wrapped around him.
He smirked, kissed you and picked up a white cup that was resting next to a tree root.
Coffee, dash of cinnamon, dash of nutmeg. Grabbing the cup you took a sip and closed your eyes. Perfect. Always perfect.
“Got the dogs in the truck, bags in the back, bike in the trailer and hitched it.”
“You gonna miss it?” You were worried he’d regret this, the club was all Happy knew, it was in his blood, embedded in his DNA.
“Probably,” he never lied to you.
His response made you uneasy.
“Hey,” he raised his brows. “Did you have a nice morning?”
“Yes.” You nodded, you got to talk to your best friend.
“Have a good time last night?” He smirked, devilishly.
“Yes.” You smirked back.
“Tell me something you’re looking forward to.”
“Smoking a fat joint when we get to the new house.” You were exhausted, packing and wrapping things up here, it was a lot.
“Ask me what I’m looking forward to.” He lifted his head in a nod.
“What are you looking forward to?”
“Riding out with you,” he rasped. “And peace,” he nodded, a tension in him releasing, you could feel it under your grip on him.
“S’how we stay okay,” you agreed with him.
Happy reminded you every day for years to do something for yourself, that’s how you stayed grounded, how you stayed okay. Now it was about time you two do something for both of you. Something that took you out of the day-by-day. Something that would offer you permanent peace. No more fighting for little daily joys. Life would be the joy.
So as you climbed into the passenger seat of your truck, you looked back at the two dogs whose tongues were hanging out and their tails wagging at the sites of you and smiled.
“You know, Gemma had everyone calling us The Caretaker and The Killer,” you looked back at Happy.
“Wonder what people will call us now,” he pulled the gear shifter down.
“Hopefully nothing,” you lowered your window and let your hand rest out as the wind picked up against your scarred palm. “And if it’s something, hopefully just ‘in love’.”
Happy looked over at you and smirked.
“My old lady, the romantic.”
“Come on, Hap. Take me home.”
💀SOA Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @kmc1989 (Let me know if you’d like to be added!)
summary the prospect didn't know the name. his president said the other one. happy made sure the message landed personally.
prompt – established relationship, age gap (22/30), prospect doesn't know who happy is, tacoma killer, smiley tattoo threat, protective happy
warnings – unwanted advances, age gap comments, intimidation, threatening language
word count – ~2.5k
note – "or you'll be another smiley face" happy lowman you terrifying man.
requests are open :)
⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆
The visiting charter had come in that afternoon.
Happy knew most of them. Webb he knew well — solid president, tight charter, never given him a reason to think otherwise in the years their paths had crossed.
What Webb apparently hadn't fully accounted for was his newest prospect.
She'd been there from early.
She was always there — comfortable in the space the way people got comfortable in places that became theirs through time and presence. Happy was across the room when the prospect first approached her and he clocked it immediately.
He watched.
She could handle herself. Two years had made that very clear. But he watched anyway because that was just what he did when it came to her, had been doing it since the beginning, and had stopped trying to explain it to himself a long time ago.
The prospect's name was Danny.
Twenty three. Newly patched. The specific energy of someone who had been told they were impressive and was testing the edges of that.
"You here alone?" he said, appearing at her elbow.
"No," she said. Even. Polite.
"Boyfriend here?"
"Yes."
He looked around with the performative scan. "Don't see anyone rushing over."
She said nothing. Took a sip of her drink.
"How old are you?" he said.
"Twenty two."
The recalibration on his face was visible. "Yeah?" He smiled. "Girl your age — you seem too young to be tied to some older guy."
She looked at him. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
"Come on." Slightly closer now. The voice drop he thought was smooth. "What's his name even? Maybe I know him."
"Happy," she said.
Danny blinked. A beat. Then the smile — the wrong one, the one that meant he'd made a decision. "Happy?" A short laugh. "What kind of name—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Because Happy was already there.
He'd been moving since girl your age.
Not running — he never ran. The walk. The one that cleared space without requiring anything to be said, that arrived with its own atmosphere before the words did.
He stopped directly behind Danny.
Danny felt it before he heard anything — the shift in the room, the specific change that happened when Happy entered a situation — and turned around.
Happy looked at him.
That was all. Just looked at him, flat and unhurried, with the full weight of his attention.
Danny's smile disappeared.
"What were you saying," Happy said. Quiet. Even. The voice that got quieter the more serious the situation got.
"I—" Danny started. "I was just—"
"About the name," Happy said. "Finish it."
Danny looked at him. At the cut. At the scars. At the expression. The mathematics were happening fast — too fast, not fast enough.
"I didn't mean—"
"About her age," Happy said. Same tone. Same volume. "What you said about her being too young. Finish that too."
Danny said nothing.
Webb appeared at Danny's shoulder. He'd been moving since he'd clocked Happy crossing the room and he'd been moving fast but not fast enough.
"Happy—" Webb started.
"Give me a minute," Happy said. Not to Danny. To Webb.
Webb stopped. Looked at his prospect with the expression of a man watching a situation he could no longer manage and had decided the best course of action was stillness.
Happy looked back at Danny.
"You know who I am?" he said.
Danny looked at the cut. At the patches. At the name. "Happy Lowman," he said. Uncertain.
"Ask your president what else they call me," Happy said.
Danny looked at Webb.
Webb looked at Danny with the flat expression of a man delivering information he wished he didn't have to deliver. "The Tacoma killer," he said. "That ring a bell?"
The colour left Danny's face.
Happy watched it happen. Let the silence sit for exactly the right amount of time.
"You made comments about her age," Happy said. "You made a comment about my name." He took one step forward — not aggressive, just present, in the specific way that was considerably more serious than aggression. "And you kept talking to her after she told you to walk away."
Danny said nothing. There was nothing to say.
"Look at me," Happy said.
Danny looked at him.
"You come near her again," Happy said, very quietly, "you speak to her, you look at her in a way I don't like—" he paused, one deliberate beat, "—you'll be another smiley face."
He said it the way he said everything — flat, certain, entirely without performance. Like it was just information being shared rather than a threat being made.
Which, for Happy Lowman, was what made it land the way it did.
Danny had gone completely still. The kind of still that happened when someone understood something completely and was processing the full weight of it.
"Say you understand," Happy said.
"I understand," Danny said. Very quietly.
Happy looked at him for one more second.
Then he looked at Webb.
Webb nodded once. The nod of a man who was going to handle his prospect thoroughly and privately and for a very long time after tonight.
"Danny," Webb said.
Danny moved. All the way across the room, all the way to the far wall. He stood there for the rest of the night and did not speak to a single person and did not look in their direction once.
Webb looked at Happy. "I should have had better control."
"Yes," Happy said. "You should have."
"Won't happen again."
"No," Happy said simply. "It won't."
Webb went after his prospect.
Happy turned to her.
She was looking at him with the composed expression that was managing several things at once. He read underneath it the way he always read underneath it — the things she didn't put on the surface because she was careful about what she put on the surface.
"You good," he said.
"I'm good," she said.
He looked at her. The full check — unhurried, thorough. She held it and let him do it.
"The smiley face thing," she said, after a moment.
"What about it."
"Was that necessary."
"Yes," he said. No hesitation.
She looked at him. "Happy."
"He needed to understand the full picture," Happy said. Entirely unbothered. "Now he understands the full picture."
She pressed her lips together. The almost smile — the one she was managing and not quite managing. "You're going to give that poor kid nightmares."
"Good," Happy said.
She laughed despite herself. The quiet helpless one. He saw it and the almost version of his own appeared in response — the specific thing his face did that was his version of the full thing.
"Eight years," she said, softer now. Putting it down between them the way she did sometimes.
"I know," he said.
"People are going to keep—"
"I know that too."
"And you're going to keep threatening people with smiley face tattoos."
"If they give me a reason," he said.
She looked at him for a long moment. At the cut, at the scars, at the face she'd been learning for two years.
"I'm with you," she said. Simply. "That's the only part that matters to me."
He held her gaze.
Then his hand found hers at her side. Fingers closed around hers — brief, certain, the contact that was always there when he decided it should be.
He stayed beside her for the rest of the night.
Nobody said anything else.
Nobody ever did, after Happy Lowman said what he'd just said.
Warnings: mention of swearing, blood, fighting, derogatory language (misogyny- not from jax) 
JAX TELLER IS KNOWN TO BE A CONNOISSEUR ON WOMEN AND YET HE HASN’T MET ANYONE LIKE YOU.
It’s common knowledge in the town of Charming that Jax Teller was, to simply put it, a man-whore.
He’s so popular among the women of Charming that his promiscuity should be taught as a history lesson in the local schools.
It wasn’t exactly rocket science to figure out exactly why he was so popular amongst women. Jax Teller was an attractive young man, who had that brawny vibe to him. So naturally, his words of charm came effortlessly and women fell immediately.
Until you came along.
You began working at the bar with Gemma, in which she sought you out and asked you to bartend for her. She figured your pretty face and fierce attitude would keep sales up.
You gradually met majority of the members throughout your first couple of weeks working as a bartender. You pulled your weight just as much as everyone else did, working behind the bar and handling the chaos the club brought without ever needing to be told twice. It didn’t go unnoticed.
But it wasn’t just the physical work you put in, it was the way you carried yourself, the patience you had with the members, and the genuine love you brought in. You were like a breath of fresh air in a place that always felt too heavy.
A shot of espresso, if you will.
You became Tig and Chib’s gossip buddy while they drank and you wiped countertops. You were Juice’s wingwoman and constantly advised him on how to successfully land a woman. You made Opie your taste-tester for new drink ideas. You were even Happy’s sit in silence and “enjoy the quiet” friend.
And yet, you hadn’t officially met Jax Teller.
Although he had seen you in passing, he never actually got the opportunity to meet you. After all, being the vice president of a motorcycle club can keep a man busy.
All the blonde haired brute would hear about was how great of an addition you were to this fucked up found family.
he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in you, from the small glances he’s seen you in, theres no doubt you’re beautiful. From what he’s heard, it’s like you were meant to be in the club.
but Jax has yet to see how loyal you are.
It was another party night at the clubhouse, the kind where the music echoed loudly through the speakers and laughter filled the room. Drinks covered nearly every surface and the entire place carried that familiar feeling of chaos.
Jax had one clear goal in his head tonight, meet you.
As he walked in, he headed straight for the bar in which he spotted you drying glasses. Your low rise jeans, fitted black shirt with the words “Reaper Crew” plastered across the chest (a gift from Chibs) and black patent leather pumps all made it harder for Jax to pry his eyes off of you.
“need a drink? you look like you need one” you say breaking his train of thought.
Jax smirks at your words as he takes a seat at the bar. “yeah, something like that. You Y/N?”
“yeah, something like that” you reply making him grin even wider in response.
You slide a bottle of beer across the table into jax’s hand and return back to wiping down the counter top. “I would say it’s on the house but you are the house so…” Jax barks out a laugh.
The rest of the night was spent with Jax seated by you, the two of you talking effortlessly as one conversation morphed into the next. Very quickly, he understood exactly what everyone else seemed to see in you. Your company was refreshing and comforting. If it were up to Jax, he could have stayed right there by your side, talking with you until the sun came up and set the next day.
Unfortunately, good moments always get spoiled.
A drunken man stumbled his way up to the bar, weaving through the crowd with an unsteady gait. There wasn’t much about his appearance that drew your attention, except for the leather kutte draped over his shoulders, marking him as a member of another branch. Of course, it wasn’t nearly as recognizable or as respected as the one Jax Teller wore.
“what does a guy gotta do to get a drink around ere?” the man slurs his words as he leans against the bar towards you, gaining an eyebrow raise from Jax.
“just gotta ask, what can i get you?” you responded with as much decorum as possible, you could already tell this guy was gonna be a problem so you quickly tried to get his order over with.
“i’ll take another beer and ya number sweetheart.” The man mumbled again, you scoff a laugh out of uncomfortableness.
“I can do the drink but not the number, sorry buddy”. You reply coyly, handing him his drink and moving on with your shift. Jax continues to just watch as the conversation goes on, waiting for the moment he needs to jump in.
“that’s the problem with you biker whores, you never loosen up unless it’s for money”
Jax doesn’t hesitate to immediately grab the drunken biker by the collar and throw him up against the nearest wall.
“don’t think i heard you, wanna fuckin say it again?” Jax’s words seethe through his mouth. You swore that the look on his face could kill the guy alone.
You step out from behind the bar and make your way towards Jax’s angry figure.
“Teller cmon it’s alright” you keep repeating as his hands continue to tighten around the intoxicated man’s neck.
“Jax seriously it’s alright” The touch of your gentle hand on his shoulder along with the sound of your voice saying his name snaps him out of his fit of rage. His eyes find yours and they slightly soften at the sight of your concerned face.
Jax eventually lets go of the biker who disrespected you and proceeded to walk away just because you asked.
Which was surprising because Jax Teller listened to no one.
You wanted to move on and leave it alone until you heard him speak again.
“That’s right, walk away before you end up like your old man, Teller!”
Before Jax can even react to his harsh words, you turn around and throw the hardest punch across the drunken bastards face, the sound of his nose breaking crackles through the loud music.
As the man goes flying back, you flick your knuckles a couple time to get the feeling in it back.
“Get him outta my bar” you say loud and stern in which Happy and Juice gladly pick him up and throw him outside to deal with.
“you alright there darlin? that was one hell of a punch.” Jax asked, observing the blood on your knuckles.
“i’m fine and he deserved it.” you scoff with disdain in your voice, you still couldn’t believe how bold that bastard was to say that.
“Don’t think a woman has ever thrown a punch like that for me before” he says with slight grin on his face.
you chuckle at his teasing words. “have you met your mother? pretty sure shes out there guttin him right about now”
“either way, thank you. It was one hell of a sight to see.” he replies, keeping his eyes trained on yours.
“well there’s a first time for everything Teller” you say with a cheeky smile before walking back to your previous spot at the bar.
Jax’s eyes follow your walking figure and nods his head in agreement.
“couldn’t have said it better myself sweetheart”. Jax muttered before following you, continuing the night without interruption.
AN: would u believe me if i told u i wrote this entire thing bc i found a pair of black pumps in my closet🌝
Sitting on Jax's lap.
It starts because there's no where else to sit. It's a bit awkward at first and then over the course of the evening it becomes comfortable.
Eventually, over months, you start sitting on Jax's lap all the time, even when there are seats available. The Samcro boys give you guys so much shit.
When a girl starts flirting with him, the normal, you go to sit with someone else. Jax follows like a lost puppy.
The first time you sat on Jax Teller’s lap, it was purely accidental.
At least, that’s what you told yourself.
The clubhouse was packed shoulder-to-shoulder that night. Loud music rattled the walls, bottles clinked together behind the bar, and the entire main room smelled like beer, cigarettes, leather, and grease. SAMCRO had just finished handling some run two counties over, and everyone was in a rare good mood.
Which meant chaos.
Half the charter was drunk already.
Happy was winning money off prospects with some card game nobody else fully understood.
Chibs was arguing with Tig over Scottish versus American whiskey.
And Gemma had claimed the couch like a queen guarding her throne.
You arrived late after your shift at the garage, exhausted and starving, only to discover there wasn’t a single empty seat left in the room.
“Aw, sweetheart,” Tig called immediately when he saw you scanning the room. “You snooze, you lose.”
“You’re in my seat,” you shot back.
“There are no assigned seats.”
“You say that every time somebody steals your chair.”
“That’s different.”
You rolled your eyes and moved farther into the room, trying to ignore how everyone suddenly looked entirely too interested in where you were going to sit.
The problem with SAMCRO was that once they noticed something, they became vultures about it.
“Sit on the floor,” Happy offered.
“You sit on the floor.”
“I am on the floor.”
You looked down.
He was.
Cross-legged.
Like some terrifying tattooed monk.
Before you could respond, Jax Teller looked up from where he sat in the armchair near the bar, beer bottle balanced against his thigh.
“C’mere.”
Simple as that.
You blinked. “Where?”
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.
“Use your context clues, sweetheart.”
Several heads immediately turned.
“Oh, shit,” Juice muttered under his breath.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Little bit.”
There really wasn’t anywhere else to sit.
And honestly, you and Jax had always existed in each other’s space naturally anyway. You’d known him for years. He stole your fries. You stole his hoodies. You patched up his knuckles when he got reckless. Somewhere along the line, affection had become second nature.
Still—
His lap?
In front of everyone?
Your hesitation must’ve shown because his expression softened slightly.
“Ain’t a big deal.”
That somehow made it worse.
Because suddenly you were very aware that it could become a big deal.
You tried to act casual as you crossed the room.
“You’re all assholes,” you muttered to the others.
“Correct,” Chibs answered cheerfully.
Jax shifted slightly, one hand bracing against the arm of the chair to give you space.
The second you lowered yourself carefully onto his thigh, the entire room went silent for one dramatic beat.
Then:
“OHHHHH, SHIT!”
You closed your eyes immediately.
“Jesus Christ,” you groaned.
Tig nearly fell off the couch laughing.
“Look at his FACE,” Juice wheezed.
“What?” Jax snapped automatically.
“That’s the softest expression I’ve ever seen on a human being,” Opie muttered into his beer.
Jax flipped him off without looking away from you.
And unfortunately?
They were right.
Because the moment you settled against him, instinct kicked in.
His arm slid automatically around your waist to steady you.
Firm.
Warm.
Protective.
Like it belonged there.
Your stomach did a weird little flip.
You were suddenly hyperaware of everything.
How broad he was beneath you.
The heat of him through denim.
The way his fingers rested against your hip absentmindedly.
“You good?” he murmured quietly near your ear.
“Yeah.”
Your voice came out embarrassingly soft.
He smiled slightly.
And somehow that made it easier.
Conversation resumed around you after that, though the occasional smirk still got thrown your way. But after ten minutes, the awkwardness started fading.
After twenty, you stopped sitting so rigidly.
After forty-five, you leaned back against his chest without thinking about it.
Jax’s fingers tapped lazily against your side while he talked business with Chibs.
At some point you stole his beer.
He didn’t complain.
At another point his chin briefly brushed your shoulder when he leaned closer to hear you over the music.
Neither of you moved away.
By the end of the night, you’d forgotten entirely that you were sitting on his lap.
Unfortunately, everyone else remembered.
“Jesus,” Tig said as you finally stood to leave. “They nested.”
“Like fucking lovebirds,” Juice agreed.
“More like a stray dog that followed Jax home,” Happy added.
Jax snorted.
You pointed at all of them accusingly. “You’re the reason women avoid bikers.”
“We’re charming.”
“You’re emotionally illiterate.”
“Also true.”
Jax watched you the whole time you argued with them, smiling into his beer like he couldn’t help it.
It happened again three days later.
Then the next week.
Then constantly.
At first it was always circumstantial.
No room at the bar.
No free chair during church prep.
Packed booth at the diner.
But eventually?
You stopped pretending.
Sometimes there were three empty seats available and you still walked straight toward Jax automatically.
And every single time, without fail, he spread his knees slightly to make room for you before you even reached him.
Like muscle memory.
Like instinct.
The club noticed.
God, did they notice.
“You know chairs exist, right?” Chibs asked one afternoon while you sat sideways across Jax’s lap eating fries off his plate.
“They do,” you answered.
“So why are ye sittin’ there?”
You shrugged. “Comfort.”
Jax’s hand rubbed slowly up and down your thigh absentmindedly while he read paperwork.
Nobody missed it.
Tig looked physically pained by how disgustingly domestic the two of you had become.
“You guys are revolting.”
“You cry during Disney movies,” you reminded him.
“That is unrelated.”
“You cried during Finding Nemo.”
“He LOST HIS SON.”
Jax laughed against your shoulder.
The sound vibrated through you warm and low.
And maybe that was part of the problem.
Because sitting with Jax became easy in a way nothing else was.
You fit together strangely well.
His hands always found you naturally.
Your body relaxed around him automatically.
There was never hesitation anymore.
You’d curl into him during long nights at the clubhouse while he talked business.
Sometimes his chin rested on your shoulder.
Sometimes your fingers played with the rings on his hand absentmindedly.
Sometimes he’d arrive late, exhausted from a run, and the first thing he’d do was sit down and tug you into his lap like he needed the contact.
Nobody said anything during those moments.
Not even the guys.
Because underneath all the teasing, everyone could see it.
You made Jax softer.
And Jax made you feel safe.
The girl appeared six months after the first lap incident.
Blonde.
Tiny shorts.
Too much perfume.
The type that walked into the clubhouse already looking for attention.
She spotted Jax almost immediately.
Which wasn’t unusual.
Women flirted with him constantly.
You normally ignored it.
But tonight was different.
Because she didn’t just flirt.
She touched.
Hands on his shoulders.
Fingers trailing down his arm.
Leaning into him while she laughed too loudly at things that weren’t funny.
You were sitting beside him on the couch at first.
Not on him.
Just close.
But suddenly you felt weirdly out of place.
Which was stupid.
You and Jax weren’t together.
Not officially.
Even if everyone treated you like you were.
Still—
Something ugly twisted in your chest watching her smile at him like that.
So before the feeling could get worse, you stood quietly.
Jax glanced up immediately.
“Where you goin’?”
“Nowhere,” you answered lightly. “Need another drink.”
But instead of coming back to him, you crossed the room and dropped into the empty seat beside Chibs.
The table went weirdly silent.
Because everybody noticed.
Especially Jax.
The blonde blinked at the sudden shift in his attention.
“You were saying?” she purred.
He barely looked at her.
His eyes stayed on you across the room.
You were laughing at something Chibs said now, but it sounded forced even to your own ears.
Jax frowned slightly.
Then the girl touched his chest.
“You wanna get outta here later?”
“No.”
She blinked. “No?”
“No,” he repeated distractedly.
Then he stood up entirely.
Actually stood up.
And walked away from her mid-conversation.
The entire clubhouse erupted instantly.
“OH MY GOD,” Juice screamed.
“She got dumped in real time!”
Tig was choking laughing.
The blonde looked furious.
Meanwhile Jax crossed the room directly toward you like he was being physically pulled there.
You looked up as he stopped beside your chair.
“What’re you doing over here?”
You blinked innocently. “Sitting.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
Chibs immediately got up. “Actually, I need another drink.”
“You just got one.”
“Aye. Tragic.”
He disappeared before either of you could stop him.
Leaving only one chair.
Yours.
Jax looked at it.
Then at you.
Then finally said, quieter this time:
“C’mere.”
Your heart stumbled.
“You have a seat.”
“Don’t want it.”
The room had gone suspiciously attentive again.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Jax—”
“Baby,” he interrupted softly, “get over here.”
The endearment hit like a gunshot.
Dead silence filled the clubhouse.
Happy actually looked up from his knife.
Your face burned instantly.
Jax seemed to realize what he’d said about half a second too late.
But instead of taking it back—
His expression just softened.
You stood slowly.
Walked toward him slowly.
And the second you settled onto his lap again, his arms wrapped around your waist so tightly it almost felt desperate.
Like he’d been off-balance the entire three minutes you were gone.
The boys lost their minds.
“There they are!”
“Nature is healing!”
“Took Romeo long enough!”
“Somebody kiss somebody already,” Tig shouted.
You buried your burning face against Jax’s shoulder immediately while he laughed quietly into your hair.
But his grip on you never loosened.
Not once.
And later that night, long after the music died down and most of the clubhouse stumbled home drunk, you were still curled in Jax’s lap when he finally tilted your chin upward gently.
“You jealous?”
You opened your mouth immediately. “No.”
His grin widened.
“Liar.”
“She was hanging all over you.”
“She was,” he agreed.
Your stomach twisted again.
Then he brushed his thumb softly along your jaw.
“But I spent the whole time waitin’ for you to come back.”
The air disappeared from your lungs.
Jax’s eyes searched yours carefully.
“You know why?”
You shook your head slightly.
“Because every place else feels wrong now.”
Your heart nearly stopped.
And judging by the way he looked at you after saying it?
His might’ve too.
When he kissed you, finally, the entire world seemed to settle into place around it.
Soft at first.
Careful.
Like both of you were realizing this had been inevitable for a very long time.
Then your fingers slid into his hair and he made this low sound against your mouth that nearly melted you alive.
Somewhere across the clubhouse, Tig yelled:
“FUCKIN’ FINALLY!”
Neither of you even looked up.
Especially not when Jax pulled you closer into his lap like he intended to keep you there permanently.
Summary: a moment before the battle of Helm's Deep and one after it reveal your mutual feelings
Warnings: sfw, no use of y/n, gender neutral reader, reader has long(ish) hair, author has no idea how chainmail armour works, there's a slightly suggestive scene (very mild I promise), 1.2k words
Author's note: this is my first time posting a lotr fic, so I'm a bit nervous... I hope I did Aragorn justice... also a BIG thank you to my beta reader @entishramblings (check out her fics they're SO good). I might write a part 2 where things won't be as sfw as in this one...
Fic under the cut!
The moment of the battle was getting closer with each passing hour. The fortress of Helm's Deep was swarming with preparations for the fight, You could hear orders being shouted and swords being sharpened. You, too, were busy with getting ready, but not without problems. Sparring with a sword or a dagger and shooting with a bow weren't skills unknown to you, but participating in actual warfare was new. This led to your current dispute with the fastening of the chain mail you were supposed to be wearing. Was this thing even the right way around? The string of curses you muttered under your breath covered the noise of footsteps entering the room.
"Would you like any assistance with that?"
You flinch in surprise, turning around to see Aragorn leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
You sigh, defeated, and hand him the chain mail, trusting his experienced hands to fix whatever mess you had created with the piece of armor.
While he works on that, you turn your back to him and discard your old shirt, quickly putting on a tunic instead, to better shield your skin from the rough metal rings.
Aragorn averts his gaze, feeling somewhat embarrassed despite having lived similar scenarios before with you throughout all the time you two have traveled together He had never particularly cared before.
You reach behind your back to fasten the laces that would close the back of the tunic. A recent injury to your shoulder made you clench your teeth, the dull pain undermining your mobility. Aragorn notices as he always does, for his eyes having trained themselves to follow your every movement when possible, to assure him you're alright.
He sets the chainmail on a table before stepping closer to you. "Allow me" he says, his voice soft.”
"Thank you. This injury is more annoying than the orc who caused it," you reply, moving your hair away from your back to allow him to work on the fastening of the tunic.
He stands behind you, hesitating.
"Are you certain you don't wish to join the women and children in the caves?"
Your head turns to glance at him. "I'm sure. I want to do what I can to defend this place," you affirm determinately.
He nods, but his heart weeps at the thought of sending you into battle, despite knowing that you can hold your own. The very same determination he admires you for is now troubling him. His fingers start to fasten the lacing of the tunic. The air seems to get heavier with each delicate brush of his fingers against your skin. He slows down, stopping about halfway. His eyes fix on the skin between your neck and shoulder. The warmth of your body tempts him, the smoothness of your skin seems to be awaiting the touch of his lips. Slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away or stop him, should you wish to do so, he leans down. His lips brush tentatively against your shoulder, not heavier than the flutter of a butterfly's wings.
Your breath hitches but you don't move. Instead, your neck cranes slightly, giving him more room. As if in a trance, he trails his lips until they're pressing against the side of your neck, his stubble tickling your skin.
Suddenly, the noises of approaching footsteps reaches his ears: a warning from someone who knows exactly how to walk without making a single noise.
He pulls back as if burned by an incandescent object and goes back to fastening your tunic just in time before Legolas enters the room.
His eyes meet Aragorn's while you put your chainmail on The future King of Gondor can clearly make out an amused glint in his friend's eyes.
"The orcs are quickly approaching," the elf announces.
The three of you leave the room and join Gimli and Theoden's men on the walls that hug Helm's Deep, ready for the battle.
Men and Orcs clash for a long time, each of them fighting strenuously, but in the end humankind is granted victory.
The aftermath of the fight is just as tiring as the fight itself: there is rubble to remove, wounded to tend to, everyone who has fought is hungry (and tired). It's not until late noon that you get a moment to rest. You manage to sleep for a couple of hours before a hand on your shoulder wakes you up. Legolas is asking you to help him look for Aragorn, because the king wants to speak with him. He tells you more details, but you keep dozing off, and he has to wake you up every time. In the end he manages to get you up and asks you to check the upper floors of the building while he searches in the stables.
You're too tired to protest or voice that Aragorn has no reason of being in the stables right now. So you drag yourself up the stairs and begin your search.
It's not long before you find him, asleep, laying on a chaise. You catch yourself staring at his sleeping face, your eyes taking in his peaceful expression, the straight line of his jaw and the curve of his nose. Sitting on the edge of the chaise, you call his name. You wait for a moment, but he doesn't wake up. You guess he must be really tired. You've seen him wake up to the bare rustling of leaves before.
You put your hand on his shoulder and shake him gently while calling his name again.
He slowly opens his eyes, clearly still exhausted from the battle.
As he comes back to his senses he hears you talking. "Legolas is looking for you. He said something about Theoden, but I'm afraid I wasn't really listening..." the sentence fades out as your gaze meets his. You feel like you're drowning in his irises, the same colour of the sky during a stormy dawn. You can't deny to yourself that it's been long since you stopped seeing Aragorn as a mere friend and, in this moment, the air is so charged that you feel like it might be the same for him, the sheer intensity of his gaze revealing his own feelings.
As if following a silent order from both of your hearts, you slowly lean down over him.Your hand caresses the side of his face while your lips brush against his. You pull back quickly, as if realising your impulsive action.
Aragorn, not giving you a chance to regret what you've done, moved his hand to cup the back of your head and pull you down again.
Surprised, but definitely not about to complain, you follow his lead and your lips meet again in another gentle touch. One of your hands moves to rest on his chest, giving you some stability and allowing you to feel the slightly accelerated beat of his heart under your palm.
His lips chase after yours, one kiss after the other, his hand moving from the back of your head to the side of your face.
When you finally pull back, both of your breaths are heavy, the love that passes through your meeting gazes could warm even Mordor's cold lands and its cruel inhabitants.
In a silent agreement, you decide to ignore the fact that Legolas is looking for Aragorn (and weirdly enough, he doesn't show up to ask you if you've found him...). You spend the rest of the evening together, with you cuddled up against his side, his fingers carding through your hair as you exchange soft words often spoken between lovers, words that both of you have been wanting to say to the other for a while.
Everyone in Charming loves you.
You’re warm, optimistic, genuinely good.
Jax becomes increasingly horrified by how badly he wants to drag you into his world anyway.
Gemma absolutely adores you which somehow makes everything worse.
The first time Jax Teller saw you cry, it was over a stray dog.
Not a person.
Not a tragedy.
A half-starved mutt with one torn ear and burrs stuck in its fur sitting outside the grocery store on Main.
You were crouched in the parking lot in the middle of Charming in a sundress and worn sneakers, whispering softly to the shaking animal while a bag of dog food sat beside you.
Jax had been across the street fueling up his bike.
He should’ve kept riding.
Instead, he stood there with the nozzle still in his hand and watched you coax the dog closer like the world had never once given you a reason to fear it.
That was the problem with you.
You moved through Charming like it was safe.
Like people were good.
Like nobody in town had blood under their fingernails.
And the horrifying thing was that somehow, against all logic, people became better around you.
Even the worst of them.
Especially the worst of them.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” you murmured to the dog. “I know. I know. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”
The mutt finally pressed against your knee.
You smiled like you’d just been handed something priceless.
Jax stared too long.
Because you were beautiful, yeah.
Anybody with functioning eyes could tell that.
But it was more than that.
You looked… warm.
Safe.
The kind of woman men like him were supposed to stay far away from.
Instead, he found himself crossing the street.
“You gonna take him home?” he asked.
You looked up.
And Christ.
That smile hit like a fist.
Open. Bright. Completely unguarded.
“Someone has to.”
Your gaze flicked over his kutte, the Harley, the tattoos.
Most people either got nervous or tried too hard to act like they weren’t nervous.
You just looked at him like he was another person standing in a parking lot.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
“You know dogs?” you asked.
Jax huffed a laugh. “A little.”
“Can you help me get him into my car?”
That should not have affected him the way it did.
The trust.
Immediate and easy.
Like the thought of him hurting you never even crossed your mind.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I can help.”
Charming loved you long before Jax Teller did.
That was probably part of the reason he fell so hard.
You worked at the little community bookstore near the park—the one with flower boxes under the windows and handwritten staff recommendations taped to shelves.
Kids adored you.
Old ladies adored you.
Half the damn sheriff’s department adored you.
You remembered birthdays.
You carried groceries for elderly customers.
You volunteered at school events.
You once organized a fundraiser for a family whose house burned down and somehow raised fifteen thousand dollars in three days.
People trusted you instinctively.
And you trusted them back.
Which made Jax feel sick sometimes.
Because he knew exactly what kind of monsters existed in Charming.
He was one of them.
“Jesus Christ,” Gemma muttered one afternoon, watching you laugh with Abel in the Teller-Morrow office lobby. “She’s adorable.”
Jax didn’t look up from the paperwork in front of him.
“Don’t.”
Gemma smirked instantly.
“Oh, sweetheart. Too late for that.”
“She’s not—”
“She’s exactly your type.”
Jax barked a humorless laugh.
“My type is emotionally unavailable women who ruin my life.”
Gemma tilted her head.
“That girl smiles at people like she means it. You’ve been staring at her for three months.”
“I don’t stare.”
“You practically orbit her.”
“She’s nice to everybody.”
“Mm.” Gemma sipped her coffee. “And yet somehow you look ready to commit murder every time another man talks to her.”
Jax glared.
Gemma grinned wider.
That should have warned him.
Nothing good ever followed Gemma taking interest in his love life.
Unfortunately, you and Gemma met properly two weeks later.
And then everything got worse.
You came by Teller-Morrow because your car was making a weird rattling noise.
That was it.
Simple.
Normal.
Jax still blamed Chibs for what happened next.
“She’s the bookstore girl,” Chibs had said when he spotted you climbing out of your car. “The sweet one.”
“The sweet one?” Jax repeated flatly.
Chibs shrugged.
“Everybody calls her that.”
That irritated him more than it should have.
Because it fit.
You walked into the garage carrying homemade muffins in a paper box because, apparently, you brought baked goods to mechanics.
Happy looked genuinely alarmed when you handed him one.
“You made these?”
“Yeah.”
“…Why?”
You blinked.
“Because you’re fixing my car?”
Happy stared at the muffin like it might explode.
Jax had to walk away because he was dangerously close to laughing.
You wandered through the garage chatting with everyone while the guys looked increasingly confused by your existence.
You complimented Juice’s tattoos.
Asked Tig about his dog.
Told Chibs his accent was “ridiculously cool.”
Within twenty minutes, half the club was ready to adopt you.
Then Gemma arrived.
“Oh, honey,” she said immediately. “You’re even prettier up close.”
Jax closed his eyes.
You smiled warmly. “You must be Gemma.”
“I am.” Gemma looped an arm through yours like she’d known you for years. “You eaten yet?”
“Not since breakfast.”
“Unacceptable. Come with me.”
“Mom.”
Gemma ignored him entirely.
You looked over your shoulder at Jax while Gemma dragged you toward the office.
“Am I in trouble?”
Your expression was teasing.
Playful.
Jax felt his heartbeat stumble in the middle of the garage.
“No,” he muttered. “Not yet.”
Gemma heard that.
The smirk she shot him was evil.
You started showing up at Teller-Morrow more often after that.
At first, there were reasons.
Oil change.
Brake issue.
Battery trouble.
Then eventually you just… appeared.
Dropping off coffee.
Bringing leftover cookies.
Checking on Abel after he got sick.
The club loved you with terrifying speed.
You remembered details about people.
That was your dangerous talent.
You asked after Chibs' migraines.
You noticed when Juice looked exhausted.
You brought Bobby old vinyl records you found at garage sales because he’d mentioned liking classic rock exactly once.
Nobody knew what to do with someone like you.
Least of all Jax.
Because every single time you smiled at him, something in his chest pulled tighter.
And he knew better.
Christ, he knew better.
You deserved clean hands.
You deserved normal.
Not guns and violence and buried bodies.
Not him.
Which would’ve been easier if you weren’t obviously falling for him too.
“You keep looking at me like that.”
Jax glanced up from his beer at the clubhouse.
You sat beside him on the porch swing, knees tucked beneath you in a pale sweater.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying very hard not to.”
That earned a reluctant laugh from him.
“You always this observant?”
“Usually.”
The evening air smelled like rain and cigarettes.
Inside the clubhouse, someone shouted over a poker game.
You looked weirdly at peace here.
That bothered him deeply.
“You shouldn’t be around this place so much,” he said quietly.
Your expression softened immediately.
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The thing you do.”
Jax frowned.
“You push people away when you care about them.”
The accuracy of that irritated him enough to make him defensive.
“You don’t know me that well.”
“I think I know enough.”
You turned slightly toward him.
And there it was again.
That unbearable warmth.
“You’re good with Abel,” you said softly. “You’re gentle with people when they’re hurting. You pretend you’re harder than you are.”
Jax stared at you.
Nobody had ever accused him of gentleness like it was a virtue instead of a weakness.
“You got no idea what I am,” he said roughly.
Your eyes held his.
“Then tell me.”
God.
That nearly broke him right there.
Because you meant it.
No fear.
No games.
You would’ve listened.
Maybe even stayed.
And Jax wanted that so badly it scared the hell out of him.
Instead he stood abruptly.
“You should head home.”
Hurt flickered across your face before you covered it with a smile.
“Okay.”
You always did that.
Protected other people from your disappointment.
It made him feel monstrous.
“You’re an idiot.”
Jax looked up to find Gemma standing in the kitchen doorway.
He was halfway through a whiskey and already irritated enough to snap.
“What now?”
“She likes you.”
“I noticed.”
“And you like her.”
“No shit.”
Gemma leaned against the counter.
“So what’s the problem?”
Jax laughed bitterly.
“The problem is she’s the kind of woman people build lives with.”
“And?”
“And look where I live, Mom.”
Gemma’s expression shifted slightly.
Not softer.
Just more honest.
“She knows what the club is.”
“She knows the version everybody sees.”
“And what version do you think she sees when she looks at you?”
Jax didn’t answer.
Because that was the problem.
You looked at him like he was salvageable.
Like there was still something good underneath all the violence.
And maybe there had been a time that was true.
But now?
Now he wasn’t sure.
Gemma crossed the kitchen and squeezed the back of his neck.
“She makes you look peaceful,” she said quietly. “That’s rare.”
Then she ruined the moment immediately.
“If you don’t ask her out soon, I might adopt her myself.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m serious. I already love her.”
“Please stop saying that.”
Gemma only laughed.
The first time Jax kissed you, it happened because you got hurt.
Not badly.
But enough to scare him.
You were helping organize booths for Charming’s fall festival when a wooden display collapsed beside you.
One of the shelves clipped your shoulder hard enough to knock you sideways.
Jax saw it happen from across the street.
And suddenly the world narrowed into something violent and sharp.
By the time he reached you, you were sitting on the pavement looking dazed.
“I’m okay,” you insisted immediately.
“You hit your head?”
“No.”
“You dizzy?”
“A little.”
“Jesus Christ.”
You blinked up at him.
Then— unbelievably —you smiled.
“Hi.”
Jax crouched in front of you, furious with relief.
“Don’t smile at me right now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to be pissed off.”
“At me?”
“At the entire damn universe.”
That made you laugh softly.
Someone nearby said you probably just needed ice.
Jax ignored them completely.
His hands cupped your face before he could think better of it.
“You scared me.”
The words came out rough.
Too honest.
Your expression changed instantly.
Something vulnerable moving beneath your smile.
“Oh,” you whispered.
And then, because apparently neither of you had any self-preservation left, you kissed him.
Right there in the middle of Charming.
Soft.
Tentative.
Warm.
Jax made a low sound in his throat and kissed you back like he was starving.
People wolf-whistled nearby.
Someone yelled finally.
He barely heard them.
Because your fingers were trembling against his jaw and suddenly he understood something awful:
He was already gone.
Dating Jax Teller felt, at first, like standing in sunlight.
Which was unfair.
Because you should have known better.
Everybody in Charming knew who SAMCRO was.
Not specifics, maybe.
But enough.
You weren’t naïve.
You knew there was danger around the edges of the club.
Violence.
Crime.
Fear.
You just… also knew Jax.
The man who read to Abel in silly voices.
The man who fixed your porch light without being asked.
The man who held you like something precious.
That version of him was real too.
And unfortunately, you loved him.
“You look disgustingly happy,” Tig informed Jax one night.
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. It’s upsetting.”
“She made him banana bread,” Juice added mournfully. “From scratch.”
“No,” Tig said immediately. “You smile now. It’s creepy.”
The club laughed.
Jax flipped them off.
But later that night, lying in your bed while your fingers traced lazy patterns across his chest, he realized they were right.
He was happy.
Truly happy.
And that terrified him more than anything else ever had.
Because happiness in his world never lasted.
“You love her.”
Jax looked over at Opie sharply.
Opie sat beside him outside the clubhouse nursing a beer.
“You just figuring that out?” Jax muttered.
Opie smiled faintly.
“You got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’d burn the world down for somebody.”
Jax leaned back in his chair.
The silence stretched.
Finally, he admitted quietly:
“She deserves better.”
“Probably.”
Jax snorted.
“Helpful.”
“But she chose you anyway.”
That didn’t ease the guilt.
If anything, it made it worse.
Because you trusted him with your whole heart.
And Jax knew exactly how dangerous that was.
Gemma adored you so much it became a genuine problem.
“She’s coming to dinner Sunday,” Gemma announced one afternoon.
Jax frowned. “Who?”
Gemma stared at him.
“The love of your life. Keep up.”
“Mom—”
“She offered to help me repaint the kitchen.”
“That sounds like emotional warfare.”
Gemma pointed a spoon at him.
“You listen to me. That girl is sunshine. You don’t get many sunshine people in this life.”
Jax looked away.
Too late.
Gemma saw the fear immediately.
“Oh, baby.”
“Don’t.”
“You’re scared.”
“No kidding.”
Gemma softened slightly.
“She knows your life isn’t clean.”
“Not all of it.”
“No woman ever knows all of it.”
“That’s not comforting.”
Gemma sighed.
“You think you’re protecting her by keeping her at arm’s length. But all you’re really doing is hurting both of you.”
Jax rubbed a hand across his face.
Because the worst part?
She was right.
The first real fight happened six months in.
Not because of jealousy.
Not because of another woman.
Because you saw blood on his hands.
Literal blood.
Jax came to your apartment late at night looking exhausted and furious and carrying violence like a second skin.
You opened the door smiling.
Then saw the crimson staining his knuckles.
And froze.
The silence that followed nearly killed him.
“What happened?” you asked quietly.
“Nothing.”
“That’s blood, Jax.”
“I know what it is.”
Your face fell slightly.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Shut me out.”
He stepped inside anyway.
You closed the door behind him slowly.
“Was someone hurt?”
Jax laughed once.
Humorless.
“You really wanna know the answer to that?”
“Yes.”
That honesty hit harder than anger would have.
You stood there in oversized sleep clothes looking heartbreakingly worried about him instead of yourself.
Jax felt exhausted down to the bone.
“I handled something for the club.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“No,” he snapped. “It doesn’t.”
You flinched.
Instant regret slammed into him.
“Hey,” he muttered immediately. “Hey. I’m sorry.”
“You scared me.”
The quietness of that nearly undid him.
Not dramatic.
Not accusing.
Just true.
Jax leaned against the counter and closed his eyes.
“You should hate me.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t even know half the things I’ve done.”
“Then tell me.”
Again.
Always that impossible openness.
Jax looked at you for a long moment.
Then shook his head.
“If I start talking,” he said quietly, “you’re not gonna look at me the same anymore.”
You crossed the kitchen slowly.
Took his injured hand carefully in both of yours.
And whispered:
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
God.
God, he loved you.
It was unbearable.
After that night, things changed.
Not worse.
Just more honest.
You stopped pretending SAMCRO was harmless.
Jax stopped pretending he wasn’t dangerous.
But somehow, impossibly, you stayed.
And the deeper you got pulled into his life, the more everyone around him fell in love with you too.
You brought food to the clubhouse when members got hurt.
You helped Gemma organize charity events.
You sat with Juice during panic attacks without making him feel ashamed.
You remembered birthdays.
You remembered grief.
You remembered people.
The club started treating you like family long before either of you said the word aloud.
Which only made Jax more terrified.
Because family in SAMCRO came with collateral damage.
“Do you ever think about leaving?”
The question slipped out one rainy night while you lay tangled together on your couch.
Jax went still beside you.
“Leaving what?”
“The club.”
Thunder rolled outside.
You traced circles against his arm absentmindedly.
“You seem tired lately.”
Jax stared at the ceiling.
“You asking me to quit?”
“No.”
That answer surprised him enough to look at you.
You smiled sadly.
“I know the club matters to you.”
“It’s complicated.”
“I know.”
Your fingers brushed his jaw.
“But I think part of you wants peace.”
Jax swallowed hard.
Because nobody had ever looked at him and seen exhaustion before.
They saw violence.
Leadership.
Danger.
You saw the man underneath all of it.
And that was infinitely more frightening.
“You make me want things,” he admitted quietly.
Your expression softened.
“What kind of things?”
“A house.”
You blinked.
Jax laughed once under his breath.
“See? That face right there. That’s why I don’t say this stuff out loud.”
“What else?”
He hesitated.
Then:
“More kids.”
Your eyes went glassy immediately.
“Jax—”
“Normal shit,” he murmured. “Dinner at the same table every night. You bitching at me for leaving tools around. Abel growing up somewhere safe.”
You kissed him before he could finish.
Slow.
Emotional.
Like your heart was breaking open.
And Jax realized with sudden terrifying clarity that if you asked him to leave everything behind right then—
He might actually do it.
The problem with loving someone good was that eventually you started wanting to deserve them.
Jax had spent years surviving.
Fighting.
Bleeding.
Killing.
Then you arrived with your soft smile and gentle hands and impossible optimism, and suddenly he found himself imagining futures he’d never allowed before.
It made him reckless in entirely new ways.
“You’re distracted,” Clay warned during a meeting.
Clay Morrow narrowed his eyes across the table.
Jax leaned back in his chair.
“I’m listening.”
“No, you’re thinking about your girl.”
Several members laughed.
Jax didn’t deny it.
That was probably the most alarming part.
Later, after the meeting dissolved into arguments and cigarette smoke, Chibs caught up beside him outside.
“You okay, Jackie?”
Jax exhaled slowly.
“She deserves a better life than this.”
“Aye.”
That immediate agreement startled a laugh out of him.
“Thanks.”
“But she loves you.”
“That’s the problem.”
Chibs studied him for a second.
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think she reminds you there’s still parts of yourself worth saving.”
Jax looked away.
Because that hit far too close to the truth.
You got hurt because of him eventually.
Of course you did.
That was the inevitable part.
It happened on a Thursday.
You were closing the bookstore alone when a man came in asking questions about Jax.
Not unusual.
Except his smile never reached his eyes.
You told him to leave.
He grabbed your wrist.
And unfortunately for him, several Charming residents adored you enough to intervene immediately.
By the time Jax arrived, the situation was already chaos.
Deputies outside.
Shattered glass.
You shaken but unharmed.
And the man bloody on the pavement after half the town decided collectively that nobody was allowed to touch you.
Jax barely heard any of it.
Because you were crying.
Not hard.
Just quiet frightened tears you kept trying to wipe away before anyone noticed.
Something black and murderous opened up inside him instantly.
“Where is he?” Jax asked.
“Jax,” you whispered immediately.
“Where.”
Your fingers caught his cut before he could move.
And somehow that stopped him better than violence ever could.
“He didn’t hurt me.”
“He put his hands on you.”
You looked terrified then.
Not of the attacker.
Of him.
That realization slammed into Jax like a truck.
Your voice shook.
“Please don’t go.”
God.
He hated himself in that moment.
Because your first instinct was to protect him from what he might do.
Jax closed his eyes briefly.
Then pulled you against him carefully.
“I got you,” he murmured.
Your breathing hitched.
“I’m okay.”
“No,” he whispered honestly. “You’re really not.”
Neither was he.
That night changed things.
Not because you blamed him.
You didn’t.
That somehow made it worse.
“I knew who you were when I fell in love with you,” you said quietly later while sitting in his lap at your apartment.
Jax held you tightly enough to feel your heartbeat.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
“Maybe not.”
“You could leave.”
You touched his face gently.
“But I don’t want to.”
That should have comforted him.
Instead it felt like someone driving nails into his ribs.
Because you trusted him enough to stay.
And he wasn’t sure he deserved it.
“You know what scares me?” he asked eventually.
You shook your head.
“You still look at me like I’m a good man.”
Your eyes filled instantly.
“You are.”
Jax laughed bitterly.
“You don’t know half of it.”
“Then maybe I love all of you.”
That broke him a little.
Quietly.
Permanently.
He buried his face against your shoulder and held you while the rain battered the windows.
And for the first time in years, Jax Teller let himself imagine survival.
Not just for himself.
For both of you.
Gemma found you crying exactly once.
You’d had an argument with Jax earlier that evening.
One of the bad ones.
The kind where he shut down emotionally and pushed you away because he was scared and angry and didn’t know how to carry both love and violence in the same body.
You ended up at Gemma’s house accidentally.
She opened the door, took one look at your face, and said:
“Oh, that idiot.”
You laughed wetly.
“I don’t wanna cause problems.”
“Honey, you could never.”
Gemma made tea while you sat at the kitchen table trying not to cry harder.
“He thinks he’s poison,” she said eventually.
You stared into your mug.
“And maybe part of him is.”
Gemma nodded once.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
The honesty surprised you.
“But he loves you bigger than anything I’ve ever seen.”
Your throat tightened.
“He gets this look around you,” Gemma continued softly. “Like he can finally breathe.”
You wiped at your eyes.
“I just don’t know how to help him.”
Gemma smiled sadly.
“You already are.”
Jax found you there an hour later.
He walked into Gemma’s kitchen looking exhausted and furious at himself.
The second he saw your red eyes, all the anger drained out of him.
“Baby.”
You looked down immediately.
That destroyed him faster than shouting ever could have.
Gemma smacked the back of his head as she passed.
“Fix it.”
Then she left.
Jax crouched beside your chair slowly.
“I’m sorry.”
You nodded faintly.
“I know.”
“No, I mean it.” His voice cracked slightly. “I keep trying to protect you by shutting you out and all I do is hurt you.”
You finally looked at him.
And there it was again.
That unbearable softness.
“You scare me sometimes,” you admitted quietly.
Jax closed his eyes.
“Yeah.”
“But you also make me feel safe.”
His face twisted slightly like the words physically hurt.
“You shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Then:
“I love you anyway.”
Jax kissed you like a dying man finding religion.
The proposal wasn’t planned.
That felt appropriate somehow.
It happened after one of the worst weeks of Jax’s life.
Violence.
Threats.
Club chaos.
Three straight nights without sleep.
He showed up at your apartment after midnight looking wrecked beyond words.
You opened the door immediately.
No questions.
Just concern.
“Hey,” you whispered.
Jax stared at you.
At the warm light behind you.
At the tiny apartment filled with books and blankets and safety.
At the woman who still opened the door for him after everything.
And suddenly he couldn’t imagine surviving another year without you.
“You should marry me.”
You blinked.
“What?”
Jax laughed once.
Tired.
Disbelieving.
“I didn’t plan that.”
A startled laugh escaped you.
“Jax—”
“I’m serious.”
Your eyes searched his face.
“You haven’t slept.”
“I know.”
“You’re overwhelmed.”
“Probably.”
You stepped closer slowly.
“Do you mean it?”
That question nearly killed him.
Because it wasn’t accusation.
It was hope.
Jax cupped your face carefully.
“I think I loved you the second I saw you trying to save that damn dog in the parking lot.”
Tears filled your eyes instantly.
“You make me wanna be somebody Abel can look up to,” he whispered. “You make me want a future. And I know my life is messy and dangerous and probably unfair to you, but Christ, baby… I can’t keep pretending I don’t belong to you.”
You kissed him before he could spiral any further.
Laughing and crying at the same time.
“Yes,” you whispered against his mouth. “Yes, okay.”
Jax held you so tightly it almost hurt.
Like he still couldn’t believe something this good existed.
The club reacted exactly how you’d expect.
Tig screamed.
Juice nearly cried.
Happy stared at the ring for a long moment before muttering:
“Huh. He finally did it.”
Chibs hugged you both hard enough to bruise ribs.
Gemma openly sobbed.
“I knew it,” she declared dramatically. “I knew she’d save you.”
“Mom,” Jax groaned.
“What? It’s romantic.”
Clay looked deeply exhausted by all of it.
Abel just wanted cake.
You fit into the chaos strangely well.
Like you’d always belonged there.
That scared Jax sometimes still.
But less than before.
Because somewhere along the way, he realized something important:
Loving you didn’t weaken him.
It anchored him.
You became the line he refused to cross.
The future he refused to destroy.
And maybe redemption wasn’t a single dramatic act.
Maybe it looked like this instead.
Coming home.
Choosing softness.
Trying again.
Months later, you stood in the Teller backyard under strands of hanging lights wearing a simple white dress while Charming gathered around laughing and drinking and crying.
Gemma had planned almost everything.
Aggressively.
The ceremony itself was small.
Intimate.
Perfect.
Jax couldn’t stop staring at you.
You noticed halfway through the vows and started laughing quietly.
“What?” you whispered.
“You’re real?”
Your smile turned impossibly fond.
“Last time I checked.”
Jax shook his head slightly.
“You’re gonna ruin my reputation.”
“You had a reputation?”
The guests laughed.
Even Chibs snorted.
Jax grinned despite himself.
Then his expression softened.
Completely.
“I spent most of my life thinking good things didn’t last,” he admitted quietly. “Then I met you.”
Your eyes filled with tears immediately.
“And now?” you whispered.
Jax took your hands carefully.
“Now I think maybe they fight to.”
Silence fell over the yard.
Warm summer air.
Motorcycles nearby.
Abel grinning from Gemma’s side.
Your fingers trembling in his.
Jax kissed you slowly beneath the lights while Charming cheered around you.
And for the first time in a very long time, the future didn’t feel like something to fear.
