🫧 Authors Note: based on a request from @cupkakes-4life, i love this!! sorry i love angst to much lol
Summary: After years of quiet devotion, Y/N shatters her unspoken pact with Jax by leaving Charming, because his decision to deal cocaine proves he chose the club's bottom line over the safety of Abel and the memory of their son's drug-fueled trauma.
Masterlist
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The smell of motor oil and stale beer was the backdrop to your life, but the scent that defined your mornings was coffee and baby powder. For twenty-six years, your life had been irrevocably tied to Jax Teller and SAMCRO. You and Jax had been inseparable since kindergarten, your lives twining together like the patched-up seams of a favorite denim jacket. You were not a prospect, not an Ol' Lady, and not officially his girlfriend, you were simply his person, the gravity that kept him grounded.
You were in love with Jax. A love so old it felt like breathing, so integrated into your existence that it required no definition. You shared a bed every night, moving with the smooth, undeniable rhythm of a long-established couple. You knew the exact spot on his back where his tension coiled; he knew the quiet sigh that signaled you were too tired to fight the darkness. Everyone in Charming knew you were Jax’s, and he was yours. You acted as partners, lived as a family, but the commitment was a deeply felt, unspoken agreement, never a formal label, a vulnerability neither of you dared to name. He wore a ring of allegiance to the club; you wore the ring of domestic stability he desperately needed.
The need for that stability was immense, born from the chaos that preceded Abel.
Since Wendy had spiraled into the void of her addiction, leaving behind a frail, tiny miracle, you had stepped into the breach. The damage done was your constant shadow. You hadn't just changed diapers; you had fought for his life. You remembered the NICU, the plastic incubator, the sight of his tiny limbs shaking with tremors, the brutal, physical evidence of his mother's choices. The doctors had used clinical terms, explaining the lifelong battles with developmental delays and the struggle for failure to thrive.
That early trauma had scorched Jax, too. He had held your hand as you signed consent forms, he had listened to the nurses tell him his son was suffering withdrawal. Jax saw what the poison did. He watched you spend years monitoring every cough, every feeding, every developmental milestone, terrified he would fall behind. You were hyper-vigilant against the shadows of narcotics because you had scrubbed the residue of addiction out of your child's very cells.
Now, Jax was pulling on his kutte, his eyes shadowed, guarded. “Just more paperwork, baby. It’s about streamlining the guns. Nothing you gotta worry about.”
He was lying. The air in the clubhouse had been thick and heavy, not with simple business, but with a palpable dread. Even Piney, who had lost a daughter to the collateral damage of club life, avoided your gaze.
You watched Abel now, the sun dappling the tiny, blue reaper tattoo Jax had drawn on his arm. That fear, the fear of the needle, the powder, the chemical void, was a scar you carried, and it made you a weapon against the club’s latest move.
That evening, the Church was called. This wasn't a casual meeting; this was The meeting. The air was charged with a mixture of greed and fear.
"Stay back, Y/N," Opie said gently, his hand on your arm as you passed through the yard. His face was a mask of regret so heavy it looked like physical pain. "It's just club business."
"Is it?" you challenged, your voice sharp with cold premonition. "Because I just saw a sedan full of guys in sharp suits drive up, and Happy looks like he’s about to eat his own face. This isn't just 'streamlining guns,' Ope. You know what they’re selling."
He only squeezed your arm once, a heavy, silent apology that confirmed everything, and walked into the clubhouse.
You paced the perimeter, the engine noise of the bikes a restless, guttural symphony of anxiety. You found yourself next to the office wall, near a faulty heating vent where the sounds of betrayal bled through.
You heard Jax's voice, sharper and more defensive than usual.
“...It’s a five-year contract. We clean up the mess when we’re out. This money gets us legit. This gets us out of the guns, out of the shit.” He was selling his soul on a future promise.
Bobby’s gravelly voice followed, laced with powerful hesitation. “But the product, Jax. We agreed we don’t run that. That's not who we are.”
The next voice was unrecognizable, cold and heavy, likely one of the cartel contacts. “The package is clean. It moves fast. The volume is high. We take fifty percent of the profit. This secures our alliance with the Sons. This is the cocaine, Mr. Teller.”
Your blood turned to ice. Cocaine.
Then, the sickening, gut-wrenching moment you knew you'd never forget: the final word from Clay, laced with the satisfaction of a deal done.
“All those in favor of the Galindo deal, which includes the transport and distribution of the product, coke and crack, and a five-year commitment, show of hands.”
A pause. Then, a unified, heavy thudding sound as the hands hit the table. It was deafening, even muffled by the wall.
The vote had passed. They were bringing the poison in.
You didn’t wait for them to come out. You stumbled back to the house, your hands shaking, the reality crashing down on you like a concrete slab. It wasn’t just the drugs; it was the lie. The systemic, deep-rooted lie Jax had woven around you, the breaking of that unspoken pact of honesty and protection.
In the office, you found the tangible evidence, a thick, legal-style contract stamped with the unmistakable insignia of the Galindo Cartel. Section 3: Product logistics, transport of Schedule I substances.
Tears of hot, bitter betrayal streamed down your face. You snatched Chibs' journal, left carelessly on the desk. Chibs, who had helped you rock Abel to sleep more times than you could count, who knew exactly what the withdrawal had looked like.
You flipped to his entry:
"Aye, I voted. For Jax, for the club. But God forgive me. I seen what that shite does tae the wee ones. I seen Abel’s shakes. I cannae look Y/N in the eye, and I’ll be damned if she ever finds out. It's a betrayal of the purest kind."
They all knew. They had looked at the money, the opportunity, the "way out," and decided that the trauma of the drugs, the very thing that defined Abel's early life and your role in it, was a price they were willing to pay. They decided that your pain, the years you spent nursing a broken baby, was irrelevant next to their bottom line.
You felt physically sick. You didn't just feel betrayed by your lover; you felt betrayed by your family.
When Jax finally walked in, the cold, analytical mask he wore for club business was still clinging to his face. He saw you standing in the middle of the room, the Galindo contract clutched in one hand, Chibs' journal open in the other. He stopped dead.
“Y/N,” he started, his voice a low rumble of caution.
“Don’t. Don’t you dare,” you whispered, your voice shaking so hard it barely carried. You hurled the contract at his chest. “'Just streamlining the guns.' You looked me in the eye and told me that. The same eyes you used to comfort me in the hospital, Jax.”
He stepped forward, his eyes pleading. “It’s complicated. We had to do this. We’re in a deep hole, and this is the only way to get us out of the real danger... the cartel connection is already made. We pivot the product, we control the money, and then we're out.”
“The only way?” You took a step closer, your hands curling into fists. “You think I care about the fucking financials? You think I care about money when it’s laced with poison?”
You threw the journal. “They all knew! Opie, Tig, Chibs! The men who helped raise Abel, who knew what his mother put him through! The club that saw him in the NICU, twitching because that venom was still in his system!”
Your voice broke into a raw, painful shriek. “You saw what it did to him! You held my hand while the doctor explained how his development was compromised! And you voted to bring it in! You voted to run the very drug that nearly killed your son and broke his first mother, and you lied to me about it!”
Jax finally reacted, his own mask cracking to reveal the desperation beneath. “This isn’t about Abel! It’s business! It’s controlled! It’s not like what Wendy was doing in a back alley! It’s a clean product, it moves—"
“No! You don’t get to dismiss it!” you screamed, your chest heaving. “This is exactly about Abel! When that filth is on the street, it doesn’t matter if it was Galindo’s clean shit or some backyard crank, it breaks families! It creates children with problems that I have to fix! The second you made that vote, you spit on everything I’ve done for him!”
Tears were streaming down Jax's face. “I did this for his future, Y/N! So we can get out! So I can give him a better life!”
You laughed, a dry, hysterical sound that was pure agony. “You think a better life is built on a foundation of crack and cocaine? You think I can look at you, look at this club, and feel safe knowing you voted for death? We never needed a label to know what we were to each other, Jax. We had a pact, a silent promise, and you just broke it for money!”
You stepped back, the full weight of the truth hitting you: the man you loved was gone, replaced by a club President.
“You didn’t just lie to me about the club, Jax. You lied to me about who you are. You chose the club’s ledger over your son’s peace, and over my sanity. You chose this.”
You looked at the office door, then back at his devastated, pleading eyes.
“I can’t. I can’t live here anymore. I can’t look at you without seeing the man who just handed the thing I fear most to the streets. The thing I spent three years scrubbing out of Abel’s life.”
You turned, walking toward Abel's room. Jax didn't move to stop you.
Jax stumbled forward the moment you disappeared into Abel’s room, his leather-clad body shaking. He leaned against the doorframe, head bowed, the silence of his son’s room a heavier accusation than your screams.
When you emerged ten minutes later, you weren't carrying a suitcase; you were carrying Abel, wrapped tightly in his favorite blue blanket. Your eyes were dry now, cold as the steel on his bike.
“Y/N, stop,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse, finally finding movement. He reached out, his hand hovering over your arm. “Please. Don’t do this. I swear, I’ll find a way out. I’ll make a motion to postpone. I’ll push Clay harder. Just... don’t take him. Don’t leave.”
You stepped around his outstretched hand as if it were a hazard. “You already left, Jax. You walked out the minute you sat in that chair and put your hand down for the coke. I can’t postpone his development. I can’t un-see the tremors. I can’t un-feel the fear. This isn’t a choice I can vote on.”
He moved in front of you, desperation sharpening into a panic. “This is the only way I know how to protect you! To build us a future where we don’t have to live over a strip bar! Tell me what you need, Y/N! I’ll step down! I’ll tell them no! I'll—"
You cut him off, your voice low and final. “You think I wanted a new house, Jax? I wanted an honest man. I wanted the man who knew the cost of that filth and would keep it out of our town. You’re asking me to stay and watch you become the monster that hurt my son. I can’t do that.”
You shifted Abel so the boy’s head rested on your shoulder. You looked past Jax, out the front door, to the dark, indifferent world beyond Charming. “I need space, Jax. Space to breathe clean air. Space where I don't have to look at the man I love and see the next tragedy of addiction riding behind him.”
He dropped his head, his hands falling to his sides. He knew this wasn't an argument he could win with words or promises. This was a consequence.
“Where are you going?” he whispered, broken.
“Gemma’s ranch. She needs help with the horses anyway. It’s far enough away from the clubhouse air.”
The silence that greeted the club when they rode back was chilling. They knew instantly. The bikes rumbled into the yard, but the house was still, the lights off except for a solitary glow in Abel’s room.
Jax emerged from the house, his shoulders slumped, his face pale beneath the road dust. He didn't look like the confident VP who had just secured a massive deal; he looked like a kid who'd lost his mother.
Opie was the first to approach, his eyes wide and sick with dawning realization. “Y/N? Where is she?”
Jax didn't look at any of them. “She knows. She saw the contract. She read Chibs’ journal.”
The air thickened instantly. Chibs looked like he’d been gut-punched. Tig looked away, the usual irreverence gone from his posture.
Opie lowered his voice, heavy with accusation. “We told you, Jax. We warned you she was fragile on this. Abel… you saw the fear in her eyes every time that boy got a fever. And you told us it was just guns.”
Chibs walked toward the house, his guilt physically driving him. He found his journal lying on the floor. He picked it up, reading his own panicked admission. He knew he deserved this.
Minutes later, you appeared, closing the front door firmly behind you. You were carrying one small duffel bag and Abel.
You walked past them, a row of patched-up men who were supposed to be your protectors. You didn't yell. You didn't cry. You simply held Abel tighter and didn't spare a single glance.
As you passed Chibs, who was holding the journal like a grenade, his eyes begging for forgiveness, you stopped briefly. You looked him dead in the eye, and the look of cold, profound disappointment was worse than any verbal assault.
“You, of all of them, helped me clean up the mess,” you said, your voice barely audible, thick with unshed tears. “You know the cost. And you signed off on the invoice.”
You didn’t wait for his response, for Opie’s strangled, muttered “I’m sorry,” or for Tig’s visible remorse. You walked straight to your old truck, strapped Abel into his seat, and drove away, leaving nothing but dust and the hollow, echoing silence of the men who had chosen the club’s ledger over their family's peace. The unspoken pact was broken, and Charming suddenly felt cold and empty.
The silence in the house was a physical weight, pressing down on Jax's chest until it was hard to draw a breath. He walked the perimeter of the small apartment above the clubhouse, but it was all sharp edges and echoing spaces now. The scent of baby powder was gone, replaced by the stench of his own failure. He ran a hand over the empty space beside him in bed, cold cotton where your warmth used to be, a hollow where his anchor had resided.
He didn't sleep. He sat in the dark, clutching Abel's small, worn blanket, the weight of the Journal prophecy, his father's words, suddenly heavy: The Club is only worth dying for if the life you live with it is worth the death. His life, without you and Abel, was worth nothing. He hadn't protected you; he had put a target on your back and then tried to sell you the lie that it was a shield.
The next morning, the air in the clubhouse was poisonous. Clay was smug, and the others were twitchy, avoiding Jax’s eye.
Jax walked into Church late, his face grim, and dropped Abel’s baby blanket onto the center of the table. The soft blue cloth, marked with a tiny embroidered bike, was the loudest thing in the room.
“The Galindo deal,” Jax stated, his voice flat and lethal, looking only at Clay. “It moves forward. But not as voted.”
Clay leaned back, his massive hands folded over his belly. “It was a majority vote, Jax. The structure holds.”
“The structure is compromised,” Jax countered, meeting his eyes. “The delivery schedule is too frequent, and the distribution network is too vulnerable. We run the product for three months, three, to honor the initial contract and secure the gun pipeline. After that, we force a renegotiation to only run guns, or we pull out completely.”
“That’s not the deal! We committed five years of product to them!” Clay roared, slamming his fist down.
“You committed five years of product,” Jax corrected, his voice dangerously low. “I committed to staying alive long enough to raise my son. And I will not have Galindo’s poison running next to Abel’s daycare center for five years while I wait for a paycheck. You want to run the coke? Fine. You deal with the fallout when I shut down the network in 90 days.”
Jax didn't wait for the inevitable explosion. He stood, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the brothers, Opie, whose eyes were heavy with understanding; Chibs, whose guilt was a visible scar; Tig, who just looked resigned.
“Anyone got a problem with me protecting the safety of this Charter’s most vulnerable asset?” Jax asked, referring to Abel, but his eyes were fixed on the men who had let you down. No one spoke. The unspoken fear of Jax's rage, now directed at them, kept them silent.
That afternoon, Jax left his kutte hanging over his chair and rode his bike alone, heading out of Charming toward the quiet ranch where Gemma spent her time. He didn't come to argue or demand. He came to prove.
He pulled up to the paddock, the engine roar dying in the quiet, dusty expanse. He found you cleaning saddles in the tack room, Abel happily playing with a worn stick in the dirt nearby under the watchful eye of one of the ranch hands.
You straightened up slowly, your face expressionless when you saw him. The raw anguish of the fight had been replaced by a weary indifference that cut him deeper than any scream.
“You shouldn’t be here, Jax,” you said, wiping your hands on a rag.
“I know,” he replied simply. He didn't approach. He stayed by the doorway, his silhouette blocking the light. “I came to tell you I fixed the timeline. Three months. That’s all the product we run. Then we’re out of the coke business.”
You scoffed, shaking your head without looking at him. “Three months? That’s still three months of dead families, Jax. That’s still three months of betrayal.”
“It’s not what you wanted. I get that. I do. But it’s the only vote I could push through without starting a war in the clubhouse tonight,” he admitted, his jaw tight. “I didn’t come here to ask you to come home. I came here to tell you I’m fighting your fight now. I’m cleaning up their mess. I’m doing the right thing, even if it burns the club down.”
He paused, running a hand over his face. “I need you to know that the man who held your hand in the NICU is still here. I just… I got lost in the noise of the club. I broke our pact, Y/N. I’m sorry. And I’ll spend every day trying to earn back your trust. But you need to be safe. And Abel needs to be safe. That’s my only priority now. It always has been.”
Instead of backing away, he took a hesitant step toward you, closing the physical gap you had created. His eyes, usually guarded and blue steel, were raw.
“I know three months isn’t enough, but it’s a start. I’m ripping us out of this, even if I have to go to war with Clay to do it.” He reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing away a lingering, forgotten tear trace.
He leaned in, his lips finding yours. It wasn't the easy, practiced intimacy of your shared bed; it was desperate, tasting of the road dust and his heavy regret. It was a kiss that pleaded for forgiveness.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he finally spoke the words neither of you had ever dared to say aloud in twenty-six years.
“I love you. More than anything. More than this kutte, more than Charming, more than my own damn life.”
He pulled back, his eyes locked on yours, a fierce, absolute promise. “I’m not leaving Charming. But I’m not bringing this filth home to you, either. Stay here. Be safe. I’ll handle the fire I started, and when it’s out, I’m coming back with the man you deserve.”
Without another word, he turned and walked back to his bike, leaving you standing alone in the quiet tack room, the sound of his engine fading into the dust. The spoken declaration shattered the silence, a desperate foundation laid for a future neither of you could yet see.
🫧 Please do not steal my work. You may NOT copy, republish, adapt, translate, or use my writing in any way on another website or platform.
🫧 Warnings: Fluff, smut
🫧 Authors Note: guys I found this literally in my notes app from like a year ago lol, i tweaked it a bit but its so cute i need him
Summary: She is his quiet sanctuary, and he clings to her as the one clean thing left in his life.
Masterlist
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The only light in the room was the pale silver moonlight, a sliver of white that managed to sneak past the edge of the curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the familiar chaos of Jax's small room.
Outside, the last tired rumble of motorcycles had faded, leaving only the low, steady thrum of the clubhouse generator and the distant croak of frogs down by the creek. But here, cocooned beneath the heavy, dark sheets, there was only silence and warmth.
(Y/N) was tucked perfectly against his side, her head resting just beneath his jaw, a protective arrangement that let her hear the steady beat of his heart, a rhythm that always promised safety. His arm was thrown over her waist, a feather-light anchor, and his touch was soft, a million miles away from the hard edges he wore all day.
His fingers, usually tough and calloused from the grips of his Harley, were now performing a feather-light caress on the small of her back, a mindless, comforting pattern that required no thought. It was the movement of a man completely at ease, completely at home.
"You're smiling," Jax murmured, his voice a low vibration against her hair.
"Am I?" she whispered, though she knew it was true. The smile felt too big for the dark room.
"Yeah. What’s funny?"
"Nothing, really," (Y/N) admitted, tilting her head up to meet his eyes in the gloom. "I was just thinking about Happy today. Trying to butter up Kozik to let him use the new pool table first."
Jax let out a quiet, throaty chuckle, a deep, satisfied rumble that vibrated through her. It was the sound of his soul finally unclenched, and it made her heart ache with pure devotion.
"He does that," Jax agreed, rubbing his thumb along the line where her neck met her shoulder, the spot where he knew she held tension. "He thinks if he’s annoying enough, people just give in."
"It works on you," she teased, reaching up to run a finger over the smooth, clean skin just beneath his chin, the soft part he rarely let anyone see. "You're too soft underneath all the leather, Teller."
Jax leaned into her touch, sighing contently. "Only for you, baby. Only for you."
She got serious, her voice dropping. "Speaking of battles... you were carrying the world tonight, Jax. I watched you with Clay. You can't keep absorbing all that poison. Sometimes I think you should just—"
He didn't let her finish. The sound of her voice describing their troubles felt too rough for the sanctity of this dark room. He simply shifted, leaning down, closing the small gap between them, and captured her mouth in a kiss that was everything the world wasn't: soft, secure, and impossibly slow.
It wasn't about silencing her, but about speaking a truth only their bodies understood, that here, only love existed. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling.
"No talking about the club right now," he whispered, his voice laced with adoration. "Not in here. Not when it’s just us."
(Y/N)’s eyes were wide, glittering with unshed emotion. She brought her hand up to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing the faint line of his stubble. "Okay," she breathed, her voice thick with emotion. "Whatever you need, baby"
He stopped the motion on her back, his hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, his thumb resting gently on her hairline. This touch was him holding onto her, claiming the peace she brought him.
He didn't speak again. The urgency wasn't loud, but a low, steady need for connection. Jax moved, easing them apart just enough to strip off his faded t-shirt, tossing it carelessly to the floor, exposing the intricate ink across his broad shoulders and chest. He watched her face as he did it, searching for the reflection of his own yearning.
She met his gaze, her admiration plain, and slowly, deliberately, she reached for the hem of her own shirt. He watched, mesmerized, as she pulled it over her head. The moonlight caught the curve of her waist as she reached for her shorts, a beautiful, slow surrender.
Jax pulled her back against his chest, their bare skin meeting in a deep sigh of relief. The coldness of the outside world vanished entirely. His hands roamed, finding every smooth, familiar line of her body, his touch reverent, tracing the path from her shoulder blade down to the soft dip of her hip. He found the back of her neck again, his thumb gently pressing beneath her hairline, tilting her head back to meet his lips again. This time, the kiss was deeper, carrying the unspoken weight of years, trust, and shared history.
He murmured her name into her shoulder, a low, guttural prayer. They moved slowly, carefully, guided only by the need to feel closer, to burrow into the sanctuary they had created together. Every touch, every gentle slide of skin on skin, was a confirmation: You are safe. I am here. This is real. They moved together with the quiet desperation of two people holding onto the last, clean piece of their world, culminating in a breathless, tender release that left them both weak, clinging to each other in the moonlight.
Jax shifted his weight, propping his head up slightly so he could look down at her, his blue eyes deep and serious even in the dark. In this light, he just looked like the boy she'd known, grown up and scarred, but still fundamentally hers.
"Just stay here," he said, the request quiet and raw, a plea for permanence in a world built on fleeting moments.
(Y/N) didn't need to ask if he meant for the night, for the morning, or forever. In this space, she was his foundation, his soft place to land.
"I’m home, Jax" she promised, sealing the vow with a final, gentle press of her lips to his collarbone. He kissed the top of her head, a slow, deep breath following the movement, and settled back down, his hand never leaving the intimate warmth of her neck as they finally drifted toward sleep.
Hey girl i love your fics so much i’ve been having this idea for a jax teller fic. So to how in sons of anarchy they vote to distribute drugs for the cartel. I was thinking a fake words. It’s like Jax and reader have known each other for a long time and she’s taken care of Abel since Wendy couldn’t and she finds out Jax voted yes to distributing drugs for the cartel and they get into a fight about it because Jax has seen what drugs can do to someone and dugs effected their son, but hopefully they have a happy ending!! ALSOO reader would feel like so much hurt and betrayal from some of the people in the club because they’ve helped her raise abel and they’ve been around .
thank you 🥹😭
omg I love this!!! i’m thinking a long angsty fic for this one 🤭
🫧 Please do not steal my work. You may NOT copy, republish, adapt, translate, or use my writing in any way on another website or platform.
🫧 Warnings: Fluff
🫧 Authors Note: I literally woke up at 4am and couldn't sleep cause I was thinking about writing this
Summary: The world gets Jax Teller’s fire, but in the quiet hours of the night, she’s the only one who gets his warmth.
Masterlist
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The middle of the night in the Teller house wasn't often quiet, not with the sounds of Charming filtering through the walls and Jax's own troubled sleep patterns, but tonight was still. A deep, heavy blackness had settled over the room, broken only by the thin ribbon of yellow moonlight slicing through the blinds.
Y/N woke up slowly, not because of a noise, but because she was inexplicably hot and completely unable to move.
She wasn't just being held; she was being absorbed. Jax, the President of the Sons of Anarchy, the man who stared down rivals and walked through fire, had somehow managed to turn himself into a human boa constrictor, intent on merging their bodies into a single, sweaty entity.
His left arm was a heavy anchor draped across her waist, his hand firmly clutching her hip. His legs were hopelessly tangled with hers, his knee nudged behind her own, and his breath, slow and deep against the back of her neck, was almost hot. He had maneuvered them both to the exact center of the mattress, creating a dense, inescapable pocket of heat.
"Jax," she murmured, the sound barely a breath against the cotton sheet. He only shifted, pulling her back a fraction tighter, the muscular solidity of his chest pressing into her back.
She tried to wiggle an inch away for air, but his grip instantly tightened, possessive even in sleep.
"Jax, seriously," she whispered, her voice a little more firm now. She reached back and poked his solid bicep.
Instead of moving, he just dipped his head to nuzzle the base of her neck, followed by a grunt that was a thick, low rumble. Sandpaper-rough from sleep and utterly devoid of the commanding edge he used during the day.
“You’re on me, baby,” she whispered, her voice tired but fond. “I’m dying. It’s like a hundred degrees in here.”
“Don’t care,” he murmured, half-smile tugging at his lips. “Need you close.”
She huffed, trying not to laugh. “You’re literally melting me.”
"Good," he sighed, tucking his chin over her shoulder. "Then I know exactly where you are. You're the only place I can breathe easy, baby. Let me stay right here" he mumbled, and the way he said it, so lazy and full of quiet devotion, made her chest ache in that soft, stupid way he always managed to.
Y/N twisted enough to face him, brushing a strand of hair off her damp forehead. His eyes were barely open, that impossible blue turned hazy in the dim light sneaking through the blinds. The tough, sharp-edged man the whole town knew was nowhere to be found right now, just him, her Jax, all warmth and tenderness.
"Where's the big, tough biker who was just talking about cutting the club's taxes this afternoon? The guy who can't stand to have someone in his personal space?"
He let out a lazy huff of amusement, a sound that vibrated deep in his chest. "That guy is a pain in the ass," he mumbled, his voice muffled by her shoulder. He kissed her skin lightly, once, then twice, before settling again. She couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face, all warmth and quiet adoration, like he hung the damn stars himself.
He blinked at her, smile crooked. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said quietly, tracing a finger along his jaw. “You’re just… not supposed to be this sweet, Teller.”
“Only for you, darlin’,” he said, voice still thick with sleep. “World gets the rest.”
Her throat tightened at that, at how simple and true it was.
She kissed him softly, just a brush of lips in the dark, and whispered, “Go back to sleep.”
He hummed, already drifting, tightening his hold around her like his body didn’t know how to rest without her in it.
And though the room was still too hot, Y/N let herself melt into him anyway, because there was nowhere safer, nowhere softer, than Jax Teller’s arms when the world finally went quiet.
Summary: Bound by an unspoken arrangement built on comfort and denial, Y/N falls for the broken man who swore he couldn’t love her back, forcing Opie to choose between protecting her heart or destroying it before the club and his ghosts do.
Masterlist
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The rules of the arrangement had never been spoken aloud. They didn't need to be.
It started months ago, a casual, desperate mutual comfort. A shared need for warmth and oblivion in the dark corners of Opie’s quiet cabin, a space always shadowed by the ghosts he carried. Y/N would arrive late, knock twice, the clubhouses were too public, too loud, and they would shed their clothes and their words in equal measure.
The rule was: no future, no feelings, just skin.
But Y/N, waking up that morning, knew she had fundamentally broken her side of the unspoken contract.
She was nestled deep under his arm, the heavy, familiar scent of leather, pine, and residual cigarette smoke surrounding her. Her head rested perfectly in the hollow of his shoulder. Opie’s steady heartbeat thumped against her ear, a grounding, slow rhythm. He wasn't awake, but his arm was a warm, possessive weight across her waist, keeping her anchored.
This was the contradiction that was slowly shattering her resolve.
The sex was fierce, yes, a wild, necessary release. But it was also soft. He treated her like she was fragile. His calloused fingers would trace the curve of her spine as if mapping something precious. He always checked her eyes during the peak of their heat, a silent query she knew was about her pleasure, but felt like a search for her soul.
And then there were the mornings. He never let her leave right away. He’d hold her until the sun was high enough to pour pale light through the cheap curtains. He always made her coffee. And today, sitting on her bedside table, next to the half-smoked pack of his cigarettes, was a simple, delicate bunch of fuchsia tulips.
Tulips. Not a dozen red roses, which would be overt, but just five fuchsia ones, the color of rising passion, or so she’d read once. A silent gift that screamed care while his eyes screamed distance.
Y/N carefully slid out from under him, pulling the quilt up to his chin. He stirred, his dark eyes fluttering open, instantly guarded, though a moment too slow to hide the brief, raw tenderness in their depths.
"Morning," she whispered, grabbing her shirt.
"Hey." His voice was rough, low. He ran a hand over his shaved head, then gestured vaguely at the flowers. "Those are... just because."
"They're beautiful, Ope," she said, managing a smile that didn't quite reach her aching heart. "Thank you."
She had to try. She couldn't live in the space between his hands and his head any longer.
"I was thinking," she began, sitting on the edge of the bed, buttoning her jeans. "About this. About us."
The air instantly thickened. It wasn't just him tensing; the whole room seemed to contract. The easy comfort of five minutes ago evaporated.
Opie sat up, leaning back against the wooden headboard, suddenly needing the space between them. He didn't look at the tulips. He looked out the window.
"Y/N, we talked about this."
"No, we didn't," she countered gently, fighting the urge to soften her tone. "We didn't talk about anything. We just... didn't. We made an assumption."
He sighed, the sound heavy, carrying the weight of years of bad decisions and loss. "We’re good, aren’t we? No pressure. No expectations."
"I know you don't have expectations. But that’s the problem, Opie. I'm starting to have them." She let the truth hang there. "You buy me flowers. You hold me like I belong here. That blurs the lines you're so determined to draw."
He finally met her gaze, and it was cold, the familiar dark abyss she hated. The gentleness was gone, replaced by the grim determination of a man drowning alone.
"Don't do that, Y/N," he warned, his voice low and firm. "Don't complicate things."
"It's already complicated," she argued, standing up completely. "You make it complicated every time you look at me like that."
He swung his legs out of bed, grabbing a discarded t-shirt. The conversation was over; he was physically cutting it short. "Then maybe you shouldn't come back," he said flatly, pulling the shirt over his head.
The simplicity, the brutality of the sentence, hit her like a punch to the gut. Maybe you shouldn't come back. It wasn't a threat; it was a desperate plea for self-preservation, both for himself and for her.
He knew she was in danger of loving him, and he was shutting the door before she could walk through it.
A week passed before she returned. The coldness had lingered, but the need was a primal ache. She showed up during a downpour, not expecting him to open the door.
He did. He didn't ask her in; he simply stepped aside, his expression a mixture of defeat and relief. He didn't touch her, but the unspoken message was clear: I told you not to come back, but thank God you did.
They didn't speak a word about the previous conversation. That night, the sex was less about comfort and more about burying their feelings alive.
She was beneath him, his body heavy and reassuring. The rhythmic grind of hips, the shallow gasps, the scent of rain and desperation filling the small bedroom. He moved with a focused intensity that she loved, his gaze locked on hers.
"Opie," she choked out, running her hands through his hair, pulling his mouth down to hers.
He kissed her, long and deep, a silent apology for the words he wouldn't say. He bit her lip lightly, possessively, then moved to her throat, his breath hot against her skin.
But as he surged into her, powerful and demanding, his face contorted, not in passion, but in a flash of deep, buried pain. It was a fleeting mask, a glimpse of the demons he fought constantly, the ones that made him believe he wasn't worthy of happiness, or that he’d only ruin anyone who loved him.
He was fast, chasing the release, the brief moment of silence when the noise in his head stopped. He brought her with him, his gentleness returning in the final throes as he murmured something indistinct against her ear, but the moment the physical intensity subsided, he collapsed beside her, facing away.
Y/N felt the tears welling, silent and hot. She reached for him, resting her hand on the tense, scarred skin of his back.
"Opie," she tried again, her voice thick. "Look at me."
He didn't move. "Don't, Y/N."
"Why are you so afraid?" she pushed, hating herself for the weakness in her voice. "I see how you look at me. When I'm sleeping, when you think I'm not watching. I see it."
"You see a man who's tired," he corrected, his voice flat. "That's what you see. I told you what this is."
She pulled her hand away as if burned. "This isn't a transactional thing! You don't buy tulips and spoon all night for a transaction! You hold me like you’re afraid I’ll disappear and you look at me like I'm the only thing that matters!"
He sat up swiftly this time, his eyes blazing, pushing her back with the sheer force of his withdrawal. He looked like he was about to put on his cut and ride out into the night to escape her, to escape his own vulnerability.
"I'm giving you space, Y/N," he bit out, the cruelty intentional. "I'm giving you an out. Look around. You want to tie yourself to this? To a man who's already given pieces of his soul away to a club and a graveyard? I'm broken. You're not. Walk away before I break you too."
He was using his pain as a shield, pushing her away to protect her from the darkness he knew would follow him until his last ride. His love, and she knew, deep down, it had to be love, was manifesting as rejection.
The final breaking point arrived two months later, in the suffocating heat of late summer.
Opie had been doing runs for the club, scarce for days. When he finally showed up at Y/N's small apartment, he was bruised and exhausted, the club’s burdens heavy on his shoulders.
He didn't ask for sex. He just needed to lie down.
Y/N stripped the cuts and bloodied shirts from him, tending to a gash on his arm. He submitted to her care, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and shallow. She felt the depth of her devotion then, the quiet, powerful urge to protect this gentle giant from the world that kept trying to chew him up.
As she finished bandaging him, he opened his eyes, and instead of the usual guardedness, she saw something loose, vulnerable.
"Stay," he rasped.
She didn't move, just sat on the edge of the bed watching him.
"You should get some sleep," she said softly.
He reached up, his hand catching her jaw, pulling her face down to his. It was a slow, deliberate kiss, not fueled by lust or need, but by a profound sense of here.
"I got something for you," he mumbled, pulling a worn, small wooden box from his jeans pocket.
Y/N's breath caught. It was a handcrafted box, the kind you’d keep a wedding band in. Her heart hammered against her ribs, daring to hope.
She opened it slowly. Inside wasn't a ring, but a delicate silver locket, engraved with a small, simple crow. The crow was the symbol of their club, the life she was supposed to stay away from.
"It's from my mother," he explained quietly. "Before... before everything. It used to be hers. I want you to have it."
It was the most meaningful, most profound gesture he had ever made. He had given her an anchor to his past, a piece of his family, a token of a life he refused to share. It was a declaration of permanent significance, all without uttering a single commitment.
"Opie," she whispered, tears blurring her vision. "I can't. I can't take this."
He frowned, hurt flickering in his eyes before he hardened them. "Why? It's just a necklace, Y/N."
"No, it's not just a necklace!" she cried, the dam finally breaking. She stood, tossing the box onto the mattress. "It's a tie, Opie! You give me flowers, you give me your mother's locket, you sleep next to me all night, but you won't give me your word!"
The angst was a physical thing, suffocating them both.
"I need to know what this is," she pleaded, her voice shaking. "I'm in love with you. I’m in love with the man who buys me flowers "just because" and makes me coffee in the morning before I even wake up. I need to know if I'm your person, or just the girl who keeps your bed warm until you run back to the club and forget about me."
The silence stretched, agonizing and complete. His face was a closed book, the kind of quiet that meant he was locking the vault.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. "I told you. I can't be your person."
"Why?"
"Because I'll kill you," he said, the words blunt, final, tearing the air apart.
He sat up, taking the locket and forcing it into her hand. "This life? It drags everything down. Every woman I have ever loved... they either leave broken, or they get caught in the blast radius. You are too good, Y/N. You are light. I'm a ghost, and I won't let this darkness pull you under. This arrangement ends now, because I can’t stop doing things that make you think it’s something more. I can't. And I won't let you hang your heart on a man who won't be around to catch it when it falls."
Y/N felt a cold resolve wash over her. If he wouldn't make the choice for himself, she would make it for them both.
"Then go," she said, her voice raw but steady. "Go home, Opie. Get out."
He stared at her, recognition of the finality dawning in his eyes. He didn't argue. He just snatched his clothes, pulled on his boots, and walked out the door without another word.
Y/N stood in the center of her apartment, the silence suddenly deafening, the silver locket burning in her palm.
Outside, the streetlights cast long, sickly yellow shadows. Opie moved with the blind, furious energy of a caged animal. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to go back inside, crawl into her skin, and hide there forever. But he had chosen the graveyard over the garden.
He reached his bike, the heavy Dyna waiting patiently at the curb. He slammed his helmet against the pavement, the plastic cracking with a sickening crunch. A half-full can of cheap beer from his saddlebag hit the brick wall of the building across the street, spraying foam.
He leaned against the bike, his head bowed, fighting the urge to shatter every window on the block. He was bleeding from the gash she'd bandaged, and he didn't care.
With a deep, guttural roar of pure anguish, he lifted the motorcycle and shoved it hard onto its side, the chrome screeching against the asphalt before it fell with a devastating, final thud. He stood over the defeated machine, the only thing he dared to break, a monument to the ruin he had just created. He had protected her, but he was utterly, irrevocably alone.
Summary: He thought keeping her out of it would protect her, she’s done pretending his lies don’t hurt, and he’s left watching the only person he ever loved walk out the door.
🫧 Authors Note: WOW thank you so so much for the love on this lil series! let me know what you want me to write next! this was so fun to write & im so so proud of it x
Summary: When Y/N finally learns the brutal truth behind Jax’s lies and apologises for walking away, they vow to face Charming together, but honesty means new rules, new risks, and a love that could cost them everything.
Masterlist
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The hum of the old washing machine in the small, hot laundry room was a strange contrast to the heavy silence in the rest of the clubhouse. Y/N was folding a pile of Jax’s dark clothes, the familiar scent of leather and motor oil a painful comfort.
She was still stiff, moving slowly, trying to conserve her energy before the inevitable tension of the night’s run set in. She was staying, she was committed, but the fear of what the "truth" would cost them was a constant, cold pressure.
Jax appeared in the doorway, already wearing his kutte and boots, the heavy weight of the patch reminding her of the danger he was about to face. He paused, watching her fold a black t-shirt with meticulous care. He looked ready to ride out, but hesitated, checking his watch.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said, his voice low. “I could’ve gotten someone to—"
“I know you could,” she interrupted, not looking up. “But I can’t sit still. I need to be useful, Jax. And doing this… this is safe. Just like you promised me the mission is.”
He stepped closer, moving into the small space, the heat of his presence surrounding her. He gently leaned against the wall next to the washing machine.
“The hit is business,” Jax confirmed, meeting her gaze. “It’s about policy, not panic. I gave Opie and Happy the same briefing I gave you. No tangents. We get him, and we’re back before midnight.”
She nodded, satisfied with the honesty. She folded the last shirt, placing it on the clean pile. Then she looked up at him, her expression shifting from practical resolve to deep regret.
“I owe you an apology,” Y/N said softly, the words catching in her throat.
Jax blinked, completely thrown. “What? For what?”
Reaching out to rest a hand on his forearm, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the leather vest. “I didn’t handle it right. I was so angry, so focused on running from the monster you might become, that I didn’t fight for the man you were. I just walked out. I abandoned you when you were hurting and trying to hold everything together.”
She squeezed his arm. “I pushed you away because I was scared, Jax. I was angry about the lies... I knew it was just you trying to protect me but I was just so angry at you that I saw past that. I’m sorry I left you to handle the pain alone.”
Jax stared at her, the unexpected grace of her admission hitting him with the force of a blow. He hadn't expected to be forgiven for his sins; he certainly hadn't expected her to claim some of the blame for the fracture.
He reached down, his large, calloused hand covering hers on his arm. “Don’t,” he whispered, his eyes thick with emotion. "I built the wall, Y/N. The second you walked out, I realized I’d rather be bleeding out on the floor than be clean without you.”
Then, he did it: he lowered his head until his forehead rested against hers.
It wasn't a Hollywood embrace; it was just a moment of quiet, weighted relief. He breathed out, and the small puff of air tickled her skin.
“We start over. No more running. No more hiding. We face the filth together, or we both drown, right here in Charming.”
“Me and you” she confirmed, the words a renewed vow.
"God, I love you," he muttered, the words almost lost in the space between their faces. They weren't poetic; they were just true. They were the one uncomplicated thing he knew.
She closed her eyes, letting his presence anchor her. "I love you too, Jax."
He stayed there, solid and still, for another moment, just breathing with her. Then, he shifted his head back just enough to look at her again, a rare, uncomplicated smile finally touching his lips.
He pulled back, his professional mask settling back into place, but his eyes were warmer, lighter. "I need to go. Opie’s waiting."
"I know," she said, leaning up to kiss him again, fiercely, injecting all her love and fear into the gesture. "Be safe and come home. All of you."
"I will." Jax turned, retrieved his helmet from a hook, and walked out of the laundry room, the heavy sound of his boots echoing down the hall.
Y/N listened as the low rumble of three Harleys, Jax’s, Opie’s, and Happy’s, fired up outside, a sound that usually brought dread, but today, brought a strange sense of stability. She knew the mission was dangerous, but for the first time in months, she knew the truth of it.
She walked back to the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat at the battered counter, ready to wait. The silence in the clubhouse was now a shared burden, not an isolating lie.
Y/N heard the distinctive rumble of the bikes pull into the yard just before midnight. The sound, normally a source of anxiety, brought a wave of profound relief. She stood instantly, her hands clammy, and moved toward the back door of the clubhouse.
Jax, Opie, and Happy walked in, the cold night air and the smell of diesel and something metallic clinging to their cuts. They were tired, quiet, and carried the heavy residue of necessary violence.
Opie gave Y/N a brief, confirming nod as he headed straight for the whiskey bottle. Happy simply grunted and started peeling off his gloves. The atmosphere was grimly routine, efficient, and honest.
Jax peeled off his kutte, tossing it over the back of a chair. He walked straight to Y/N, his eyes tired but focused only on her.
"We're clean," he stated, his voice low. "No witnesses. No trace. He's gone. It was club policy, Y/N. A message sent. Nothing more."
Y/N let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She knew what "gone" meant, and while it was dark, the knowledge that Jax had honored his promise and maintained the line between vengeance and necessity meant everything.
A slow, genuine smile spread across her face. "Thank you" she whispered, stepping toward him.
Jax finally allowed himself to relax. He stepped forward and pulled her into his chest, holding her tightly, burying his face in her hair. This hug was different, it was one of mutual relief and shared burden.
"I need a shower," he muttered, pulling back. "And then we talk, for real."
Twenty minutes later, Jax walked out of his room, the water still dripping from his hair, wearing a clean t-shirt. He found Y/N waiting for him at the kitchen counter, having reheated the coffee.
"It went down just like Opie said it would," Jax began, taking the seat opposite her. "He put up a fight, but he was sloppy. Ended it fast. No complications."
"Good," she replied simply, accepting the brutal detail without flinching. She lifted her mug. "To honesty."
Jax raised his mug and took a long, hot drink. "Now that you know what's on the table," he said, setting the mug down, his expression serious. "We have to draw some new lines. You wanted the truth, you got it. But the truth comes with absolute risk, and I need you to honor the sacrifice I just made."
Y/N nodded, ready. "What are the rules now?"
Jax leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter.
"First: When the heat is on, you run with the family. No more trying to find your 'clean road.' The club is your safety net, Y/N. If there's trouble in Charming, you go straight to Gemma's house and you don't answer the door for anyone but me, Opie, or Chibs. No detours. No second-guessing. You hear gunfire, you disappear."
"I hear you," she affirmed. "No solo acts during conflict."
"Second: You don't talk to anyone about what you know. Not the Mayans, not the deals, and definitely not the clean-up. You're an ear for me, Y/N, not a voice for the club. What I tell you stays locked down. If the knowledge gets out, you won't be safe, and I will have compromised the entire charter for the sake of our relationship. You can't let that happen."
"My lips are sealed, Jax," she promised, her face grave. "I know the difference between a partner and a gossip."
"And third," he finished, his voice dropping low, his blue eyes holding hers. "You wanted to be an asset. Fine. Your job is to keep my head straight. When I start lying to myself, or when the rage starts overriding the strategy, you're the only one who can pull me back. You're my moral compass, Y/N. Don't let me lose the man you stayed for."
He reached across the counter, taking her hand. "If I fail that, you can walk out. I won't stop you. But you fight like hell to keep me honest first."
Y/N squeezed his hand, a profound sense of relief washing over her. These weren't the chains of a possessive lover; these were the ground rules of a trusting partnership.
"I can live with these rules, Jax," she said, her voice steady. "Because they're built on honesty, not fear. And I promise you, I will fight for that man. Every day."
She leaned in, her eyes shining. "Now, tell me everything about the Mayans' new distribution route. I want to look at the manifest and tell you where I think they're most vulnerable."
Jax let out a short, surprised laugh, the sound of true joy. He hadn't expected her to jump straight into the tactical planning. The club life was often ugly, but sitting here, sharing the burden and the risk with his partner, felt cleaner than any lie ever could.
"Pull up the laptop," Jax said, pulling his chair closer. "We start with Phoenix. It's time they understood the price of burning down a warehouse."
Summary: He thought keeping her out of it would protect her, she’s done pretending his lies don’t hurt, and he’s left watching the only person he ever loved walk out the door.
The Weight of the Badge
Summary: Despite their intense, destructive love, y/n walks out on the ruthless motorcycle club President Jax Teller, choosing self-preservation and a clean life for his son over remaining a casualty in his inevitable, bloody demise.
Gasoline and Guarded Hearts
Summary: Jax Teller confronts his bartender Y/N, telling her to drop her defensive guard because the bar won't protect her from the club danger he wants to shield her from.
The Last Ride Home
Summary: Inspired by the song exile by Taylor Swift
The Anchor
Summary: Hidden in the darkness against Jax, she felt protected, his strength a solid barrier against the internal noise that haunted her.
Charming Ain't Safe For Love
Summary: As Opie's childhood friend who returned to Charming to care of his father, Piney, Y/N falls into a desperate romance with Vice President Jax Teller, but their secret plan to leave SAMCRO is violently shut down by President Clay, who threatens Y/N's life to keep Jax in the club.
Midnight Comfort
Summary: The world gets Jax Teller’s fire, but in the quiet hours of the night, she’s the only one who gets his warmth.
Just The Quiet
Summary: She is his quiet sanctuary, and he clings to her as the one clean thing left in his life.
The Vote
Summary: After years of quiet devotion, Y/N shatters her unspoken pact with Jax by leaving Charming, because his decision to deal cocaine proves he chose the club's bottom line over the safety of Abel and the memory of their son's drug-fueled trauma.
Summary: When struggling with the intense post-tour comedown, Harry isolates himself and his partner Y/N, until she leaves, forcing him to overcome his fear of the public eye and step back into the messy real world to fight for their relationship.
The Cynic and the Hopeless
Summary: Betrayed by their exes, a stubborn and emotionally guarded celebrity and a hopeful romantic find unexpected trust and love while writing music, only to have her past fears threaten their connection.
Love On The Vineyard
Summary: Retreating to the quiet Tuscan countryside after his world tour, Harry slowly finds peace in the simple life of local artist Y/N, the "daughter" of his vintner friend Luca, as he falls for her grounded nature.
Summary: When Tim Riggins falls off the wagon and stands up Y/N after a big promise, she demands total radio silence and real effort before agreeing to the ultimate test: a sober day trip to the Hill Country where one wrong move means losing her forever.
Messy Feelings
Summary: Y/N finally confronts the self-destructive man she’s always loved, forcing both of them to face the messy, painful truth of their feelings and the damage they’ve done to each other.
🫧 Authors Note: 1 more part after this one!! please let me know your thoughts, i'm so proud of this story!
Summary: When Y/N walks away after one lie too many, Jax Teller is forced to confront the brutal truth that his need to protect her might be the very thing that destroys them both.
Masterlist
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“You don’t get it, do you?” she whispered, tears finally blurring her vision, tears she’d held back through the pain and the escape. “That’s your choice. That’s the blood you choose to put on your hands. But you won’t do it for me. You’ll do it because my injury is a weakness in your perimeter. You’ll kill him to prove to yourself and the club that you still have control.”
She pulled her arm free with a sharp tug. “I told you, Jax, I can handle the blood! What I can’t handle is the lying! You lied to me about the job, you lied to me about the danger, and now you’re lying to me about your motives! You’re not trying to save me; you’re trying to possess me!”
He ran a hand roughly over his face, the exhaustion and the alcohol making his defenses crumble. “What the hell do you want me to say, Y/N? That I’m terrified? That I wake up every morning and hate the man I am because the only way I can keep you safe is by doing the things you hate? That I am nothing without you?”
“Yes!” she yelled, the sound breaking with a sob. “I wanted you to say, ‘This is the risk, the risk is real, but I need you to know it all because we face it together.’ I needed the truth! You lied everyday to keep my hands clean, but I was choking on your secrets, Jax! I couldn't breathe! You chose to treat me like a delicate secret, not a partner.”
Jax stepped back, his expression shattering as her words finally found their mark. He saw the cold, hard canyon they had been digging between them for months, and now, finally, he understood he was standing on the wrong side.
“You told me you didn’t need the shield I provided,” Jax said, his voice raw, pointing a shaking finger at her bandaged side. “You walked out that door for sanity and got cut up by a drunk in less than a week! What does that tell you about the world, Y/N? It tells you that the clean road is just as bloody, only out here, there’s no one to watch your back!”
“It tells me that the fight is constant, whether I'm with you or without you! But at least when I’m alone, I’m fighting for a future that isn’t dictated by your fear! I’m fighting for my truth, not your calculated lie!”
He stared at her, the devastation in his eyes instantly twisting into agony. The words were too real, the distance she was creating too final. He couldn't speak, couldn't counter the truth.
He moved on instinct, fast, seizing her uninjured arm. His expression was not rage, but a desperate, heartbroken panic. He didn't kiss her or crush her; he simply pulled her, dragging her backwards, toward the open hallway that led to the private rooms.
He shoved the door to his small, Spartan room open with his shoulder and slammed it shut behind them, twisting the lock with a loud, metallic clack.
She stumbled, clutching her side, fury returning. "You think forcing this is going to fix it? You're proving every damn thing I just said!"
He released her arm and stumbled backward, turning his back to her, leaning his hands against the wall near the doorframe. The fury was gone, replaced by a violent, shuddering silence. He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. His whole body began to shake, his shoulders heaving once, then twice.
Y/N watched, her anger momentarily forgotten, replaced by shock. She had seen Jax furious, reckless, and cold, but never truly broken.
Jax slowly pushed off the wall and turned, his blue eyes bloodshot, wide, and utterly raw. Tears were streaming down his face, silent, thick tracks cutting through the grime of his exhaustion. He stood there, the President of SAMCRO, completely exposed, unable to hide the monumental grief and fear that was consuming him.
“I can’t,” he managed, his voice a thick, broken rasp. “I can’t do this. I can’t breathe.” He covered his face with his hands, letting out a single, soundless sob that shook his massive frame. “I'm trying to hold on, trying to fix this club… but I'm broken, Y/N. I'm so lost. I don't know where to look."
The sight of his complete collapse, the genuine, agonizing surrender of his defenses, shattered the last of Y/N’s resolve. The anger she felt was instantly eclipsed by the overwhelming, painful love for the broken man standing before her.
She dropped the medical supplies, the small bag hitting the floor with a muted thud. She moved toward him slowly, tentatively, until she was close enough to touch. She reached up, placing her hands gently on either side of his face, forcing his gaze to meet hers. Her thumbs gently wiped the tears from his cheeks.
“Oh, Jax,” she whispered, her own voice thick with unshed tears. “Look at what you’re doing to yourself.”
He leaned into her touch, a sound escaping him that was half-gasp, half-sob. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close, resting his head against her shoulder, his grip tightening with a desperate, life-or-death force that ignored her injury.
“I love you. I love you,” he repeated into her neck, the words a desperate prayer. “Please. Just stay. I’ll try. I swear, I’ll try to be the man you need. Just stay.”
She held him, the heat and panic radiating off his body an overwhelming sensory flood. This was the man she loved, the terrified boy buried beneath the cuts and the kutte. She knew this moment was not a true fix, but a volatile, temporary truce. But in the face of his utter brokenness, she couldn't walk away. Not yet.
She closed her eyes, clutching the back of his shirt. “I hate that I need you this much,” she confessed, the phrase a confession of her own failure to stay gone.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes burning with intense, raw relief. He gently backed her toward the small, worn bed. It wasn't about sex; it was about possession, about staking a physical claim in the only way he knew how to halt the emotional bleeding. The patch, the lies, the bloodshed, it was all forgotten in the desperate, terrifying need to reclaim the only clean thing he had left.
Outside the locked door, Opie, Chibs, and Happy stood motionless. Opie finally walked over to the bar. He poured four fingers of whiskey, drank it, and then wordlessly poured another. He knew this wasn't mending; it was a desperate complication, a volatile, temporary truce forged in fear and blood.
The room was quiet, lit only by the grey, hesitant light filtering through the cheap blinds. Jax was awake, propped up against the headboard. Y/N was curled into his side, her head resting on his chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of a man whose heart had finally been allowed to beat in peace.
The physical connection had been desperate, quiet, and necessary - a silent, urgent reaffirmation that the emotional bond was still there, however fractured. But the intimacy hadn't erased the fight. It had only bought them a few hours of painful truce.
Jax reached up, his fingers gently tracing the edge of the bandage on her ribcage. He looked down at the pale, exhausted woman beside him, and the cold terror from the night before returned, but this time, it was mixed with a fragile hope.
He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. "You didn't leave." His voice was a thick, grateful rasp.
Y/N stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She looked up at him, her gaze clear and serious. "The man who showed me his heart, not the patch, that's the one I stay for, Jax." She sat up slowly, adjusting her position, wincing slightly as the movement pulled her stitches.
"Does it hurt?" he asked instantly, his hand tightening protectively on her side.
"Yes," she replied, her tone gentle but firm. She pulled away enough to look him directly in the eye. "Don't mistake last night for a surrender, Jax. Or for the old days. I'm not back. I'm here now, on a trial run. This changes nothing about my terms."
Jax nodded slowly, his face grim. He knew the fight was just starting. "Tell me the terms. I'll take anything."
Y/N reached out and gripped his hand, her gaze unwavering. "My terms are simple. And they are absolute. I told you, I'm strong enough to handle the blood. The lies stop, Jax. Completely."
She listed them, her voice steady:
"No more manifest fairy tales. When you ride out, you tell me the destination and the level of threat. If you're running product, I know the weight. If you're going to war, I know the target. No more 'supply runs' when it’s an execution."
Jax swallowed hard, this was the hardest demand. It compromised his shield. "Y/N, the less you know, the safer you—"
"Stop!" she cut him off sharply, her eyes blazing. "That's the old lie! The less I know, the more I'm blindsided, and the more you become the enemy. If I know the danger, I can prepare. I can be an asset and I can be there for you. You have to treat me like a partner who's running support, not a child who needs a blanket. Deal?"
He let the weight of her words - the less I know, the more I'm blindsided - sink in. He finally saw the brutal irony: his attempts to keep her clean hadn't shielded her from the ugliness of their world; they had only built a wall that separated them inside of it. His secrecy wasn't a shield; it was a barrier that isolated them both. It gave her no anchor to him and gave him no peace from the constant deceit. He finally understood: the lie was killing the man she loved faster than any bullet ever could. He was wrong.
"The shield is gone," he gripped her hand tighter. "You get the truth."
"You deal with the club business, but you deal with the emotional wreckage too. Last night... that," she nodded toward his damp shirt on the floor, "that can't be a one-off. When the pressure hits, you talk to me before you smash the bar or ride off looking to die. You use me as your anchor, not your distraction."
"I will," he promised, reaching for her hand again, his touch reverent.
"And," she concluded, her voice dropping to a low, painful whisper, "the man who cut me... you promised him death. I know that's the club's way, and I know that's your rage. You will not ride out on a vengeance run driven by our personal breakdown. That man will be dealt with through club business, not through my injury. If you make this about reclaiming me, you prove you only care about ownership, not partnership. Promise me you won't use this as an excuse for reckless violence."
Jax's jaw clenched. The thirst for revenge was still a cold knot in his stomach, but her logic was undeniable. If he rode out now, he proved her right, that he was only driven by fear and possessiveness.
"I won't use it as an excuse," Jax finally agreed, his voice rough. "It will be business. We'll l hit him as a statement on encroachment, not as a personal vendetta. He'll pay the price for raising a blade to a member of the family."
Y/N searched his eyes, and seeing the cold, focused command replacing the chaotic grief, she gave a slow, painful nod. "Family. Okay."
She shifted closer, resting her head back on his shoulder. "I'm not back, Jax. But I'm staying for now. You have to prove that this vulnerability is real, and that the honesty is going to stick."
He held her tightly, inhaling the scent of her hair. "I know. And I will. But you need to promise me one thing, too."
"What?"
"Don't ever walk out the door bleeding again. If you're hurt, you come home. No matter what we're fighting about. No more lying about your own pain."
Y/N didn't reply immediately. She just nodded, clutching his shirt. "Deal."
Jax leaned back against the headboard, feeling a weight lift that had been crushing him for days. He had his lifeline back, but it came with a heavy, dangerous price: he could no longer hide the truth, or himself, from the woman he loved. The truce was set, and the first test, the fate of the man who cut her, was already looming.
Opie was at the splintered bar counter, nursing a mug of coffee and watching the locked door to Jax's room. Chibs was meticulously cleaning the glass-stained patch on the wall. Tig was trying to restore some order to the wrecked area. They didn't speak; they didn't need to. The knowledge of what had transpired, the shouting, the lock clicking, the ensuing silence - hung thick in the air.
"He shouldn't have done that," Bobby muttered finally, his voice low, referring to Jax locking the door. "Feels desperate. Like holding onto a grenade with the pin pulled."
"He was desperate," Opie corrected, without looking up. "He saw her walking away, and he just panicked. He's been trying to build a wall around her for years, and when she tore it down, he didn't know what the hell to do."
Chibs paused his cleaning, his face tired. "She had the right. We all know it. Every man in this room has had to live with his old lady knowing the price, or walking out because of the lies. Y/N grew up in this life; she knows the smell of trouble. Lying to her? That was his disrespect."
The bedroom door finally unlocked and opened. Jax stepped out first, looking markedly different than the wild-eyed wreck from the night before. He was clean-shaven and dressed, but his face was lined with exhaustion and the raw vulnerability hadn't entirely left his eyes. He looked heavy, weighted by the truce he’d been forced into.
He looked at Opie. "Get the coffee ready. Church in ten."
Then Y/N stepped out behind him.
She was wearing a fresh shirt, but her posture was stiff, her hand resting subtly on her bandaged side. She walked with quiet determination, meeting the eyes of every man in the room. There was no defiance, only weary resolution. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod to Chibs, acknowledging his help.
The three men stood up. There was no anger, no judgment, only a deep, abiding respect for her tenacity.
"Welcome back, Y/N," Opie said, his voice quiet but genuine.
"Never left," she replied simply, looking directly at Jax. "Just needed air."
🫧 Authors Note: it will be a happy ending eventually... promise x
Summary: When Y/N walks out after a fight over the lies he told to protect her, Jax trades his heart for the presidency. Rising as a cold, ruthless leader who burns a rival cartel to ash while trying (and failing) to bury the one thing that still hurts: her.
Masterlist
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Jax arrived at the clubhouse just after 7:00pm, he was showered, dressed in a fresh, clean kutte, and his posture radiated a cold, focused menace that instantly silenced the few brothers scattered in the main room. This wasn't the manic rage from the night before; this was the dead stillness of a hunting shark.
He slammed his hands on the Church table, scattering loose papers and bringing the remaining leadership running.
“Church now,” Jax commanded, his voice low, steady, and entirely devoid of emotion. “Everyone inside. Now.”
The silence that followed was heavy with compliance.
Jax didn't waste time on pleasantries or apologies for the damage he’d caused. He pushed a grainy satellite photo across the table, a compound of industrial warehouses on the outskirts of Stockton.
“Mayan territory,” Jax stated, tapping the image with a calloused finger. “This is where they offload the fentanyl they’re trying to move into our territory. It’s their new hub. We hit their supply, we hit their money, we hit their confidence. We hit it tonight.”
Tig frowned, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Tonight? Jax, that’s deep in their backyard. We don’t even have clean bikes right now. We need intel, we need a path in and out. This smells like a suicide run.”
“This is what a compromised President does, Tig,” Jax said, meeting his eyes with unwavering blue intensity. “The Mayans took a prospect’s life and half a kilo of product. They saw weakness. They see a President who just lost his Old Lady and smashed up his own bar. They’re coming for Charming next. We hit them before they can even draw up the map.”
Opie spoke up, his tone measured. “What’s the play, Jax? They’ll have a dozen patched members on rotation there, plus prospects and security.”
Jax leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his plan terrifying in its simplicity and brutality. He pulled out a hand-drawn schematic of the warehouse complex, marking points with the tip of his knife.
“The load is moving from the south warehouse at 0300. That’s their central distribution point. We’re not taking the cargo, we’re turning it into a liability. We're running a six-man detail. Minimal bikes, maximum noise on the exit.”
“We don’t go in loud. We go in silent and we go in dirty. Happy, you and Rat get the intel on the night shift rotation, specifically the muscle watching the main dock. I want four bodies minimum. Two in the compound, two on the perimeter.”
Jax glanced at Chibs. “Chibs, you, Tig, and Juice secure the exits. We create a diversion on the far side, a burning car, an electrical fire, something big enough to pull every eye away from the main door and the escape route. Then we go in fast.”
He looked at Opie, his closest friend. “Ope, you’re with me. We secure the shipment, and we secure the clean kill. I want their sergeant-at-arms, or whoever is running that show, dead. I want their execution to be messy enough to send a clear message, but clinical enough that local law knows it wasn’t a turf war gone sideways, it was a message. No witnesses. Not a trace of SAMCRO.”
The air thickened with apprehension. This wasn't a skirmish; it was an execution order, designed to leave a signature of cold, devastating power.
“Jax,” Chibs said finally, his accent heavy with caution. “This has gotta be clear, son. This cannae be about the rage you had last night. This is business. This is about keepin' the patch clean. You look… detached. Like you don’t care if you come back.”
Jax offered a mirthless smile, a chilling sight. “You’re right, Chibs. I don’t care. The man who cared is gone. He walked out the door with Y/N. All that’s left is the President. And the President has a job: to bury our enemies. If I go down doing it, then I went down doing my job.”
Tig shifted uncomfortably, pulling his cigarette lighter out and snapping it open and shut, over and over. “Look, I like a good bloodbath as much as the next guy, but you’re throwing logic to the wind. Why hit the supply? Why not just execute their President, or the guys who hit the truck?”
“Because a hit is a debt repaid. This is a debt compounded,” Jax hissed, his eyes flicking to Tig. “We don’t want them to fight us, we want them to be too busy scrambling for capital to organize a counter-strike. We hit their wallet and their confidence. They need to bleed cash, not just blood.”
Opie met Jax’s eyes, a deep, sorrowful understanding passing between them. He saw the genuine emptiness behind his friend’s gaze and knew that the only way to pull Jax back from the void was to follow him through the fire.
“We’ll hold the line, Jackie,” Opie promised, but his voice carried the weight of a funeral oath. “We’ll get the job done. But if you try to take a bullet for the club just to feel something, I’ll be the one to put you down, understand?”
Jax just gave a curt nod. “Understood.”
Happy, the club’s enforcer, just grinned, enjoying the shift to brutality. “Clean kill and no witnesses. That I can do.”
Jax pushed away from the table, his shadow stretching long across the floor. He hadn't asked if they agreed; he had simply told them what was happening. And they, seeing the cold precision of his grief-fueled resolve, knew they had no choice but to follow. The war had officially begun.
The yard behind the clubhouse was a symphony of low-volume preparation. The usual roar of the Harley engines was muffled; the air smelled of gun oil, gasoline, and the faint, metallic tang of cold steel. Every man was stripped of his colors, wearing black hoodies and dark jeans, ghosts preparing to ride.
Jax stood by his customized Dyna, meticulously cleaning his SIG Sauer, the process ritualistic and soothing. He was no longer Jax Teller, the conflicted son and heartbroken lover; he was the President, a tool of retribution.
Chibs walked over, holding two black ski masks. He tossed one to Jax.
“This ain’t the time to be sentimental, Jackie-boy,” Chibs said softly, watching Jax check the magazine. “Y/N’s choice was her own. Don’t turn this into a death wish.”
“It’s not sentimental, Chibs,” Jax replied, his voice flat. He looked up, and for the first time, Chibs saw that the fire of heartbreak had been replaced by a thin sheet of ice. “I’m clearing the table. I’m eliminating the external threat so that when I deal with the internal one, the one that drives us all insane, it won’t take the club with me. This is me securing the borders, not me dying for a woman.”
Opie walked up, his shotgun resting on his shoulder. “Jax, we got the bikes ready. Rat and Juice secured the perimeter cams at the warehouse. We got a twenty-minute window to hit the dock and be back on the 58.”
Jax put the SIG into his waist holster. He pulled on the black mask, covering his face. His blue eyes, the only things visible, were hard and unreadable.
“Let’s ride,” Jax commanded.
The engines roared to life, a deep, unified thunder that shook the ground. Jax led the column, his bike cutting through the dense night air, the collective silence of the men replaced by the purposeful sound of the engines. They were leaving Charming behind, riding towards Stockton, where the Mayans would pay the price for Jax Teller’s broken heart.
The industrial outskirts of Stockton were a maze of corrugated steel and forgotten concrete under the weak glow of sodium lamps. At 3:00 AM, the only sounds were the distant drone of the 5 and the heavy, mechanical hum of the warehouse fans. Six figures, cloaked in black, moved like synchronized shadows.
Jax, leading the two-man kill team, pressed himself against the cold metal siding of the Mayan warehouse, the air sharp with the scent of stagnant bay water and illicit chemicals. He ran through the kill loop in his head - entry, target, exit - divorced entirely from feeling. He was nothing but muscle memory and bone-deep training.
A sharp, crackling whoosh followed by a pillar of angry orange light erupted from the north end of the complex, Chibs's diversion. Sirens started screaming instantly from inside the compound as every security focus snapped to the explosion.
"Go," Jax whispered, his voice dry.
Opie kicked in the auxiliary door lock silently, and they slipped inside. The air was heavy with the sweet, synthetic dust of fentanyl and gasoline. They kept to the deeper shadows of the shelving units, the rhythmic pulse of their suppressed SIG Sauer pistols their only soundtrack.
They found the central office exactly where Rat's intel said it would be. Jax paused at the flimsy aluminum door. Opie nodded, checking the hallway.
Jax didn't hesitate. He kicked the door hard once, snapping the internal latch. He rolled into the small office, the SIG already extended. The Mayan Sergeant-at-Arms, a heavy-set man named 'Gallo,' was already standing, reaching for a weapon tucked behind his desk.
Jax's finger tightened on the trigger before Gallo's hand even closed on the grip. Two rounds, perfectly placed, shattering Gallo's chest and sending him backwards over his chair, papers fluttering down over the pooling blood. Jax didn't check for a pulse.
He moved on instinct to the stack of cardboard boxes nearby, which contained the plastic-wrapped blocks of fentanyl. He doused them quickly with the gasoline can he carried.
As Opie secured the perimeter inside, a young Mayan prospect, eyes wide with fear, stumbled into the office, drawn by the sound of the falling chair. The kid didn't even have a chance to raise his hands or form a plea.
Opie froze, ready to engage, but Jax beat him to it. Without turning his head or pausing his work, Jax simply fired one more, precise round over his shoulder. The prospect dropped instantly, a lifeless heap by the doorway.
Jax finished dousing the cargo and stepped back, pulling a flare. He spared a single, cold look at the two bodies, the powerful man and the terrified boy, and felt nothing. Not the exhilaration of revenge, nor the crushing weight of the blood. Just the stillness of completion.
"Burn it," Jax commanded.
Opie, shaking off the sudden, brutal shock of the unnecessary kill, lit the pile. The flames caught instantly, roaring to life. Jax shoved Opie out the door, and they sprinted back to the bikes, leaving the complex to the sound of escalating sirens and the sight of thick, poisonous black smoke billowing into the sky.
As they pulled onto the 58, the cold morning wind hitting his face, Jax didn't look back at the inferno. He looked straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the empty road, already focused on the next order of business, the man Y/N loved gone, replaced by the President who felt nothing.
The ride back was silent, the dawn painting the horizon in hues of bruised purple and grey. It was the color of a fresh wound. Jax led the column, his movements economical, the black ski mask pulled down around his neck. The smell of burnt diesel and blood, not his own, but theirs, clung to his leather vest.
The raid had been a textbook execution. The diversion worked flawlessly, pulling the bulk of the Mayan security to the north side of the complex. Jax and Opie had moved like shadows inside the warehouse. The silence, broken only by the muffled, professional sounds of suppressed gunfire, was chilling. Jax hadn't raged; he hadn't sought retribution; he had simply processed the task. He found the sergeant-at-arms in a makeshift office and dispatched him with two swift, clean rounds to the chest. No speech. No emotion. Just efficiency. They lit the supply on fire, creating a stunning visual chaos that would burn the Mayans’ capital for weeks.
They arrived back at the clubhouse as the sun broke free, illuminating the destruction Jax had wrought on his own bar the night before. The stark contrast was crushing: he could execute a complicated, high-stakes military operation for the club flawlessly, yet he couldn't maintain a simple conversation with the woman he loved.
As the bikes were parked and the weapons secured, Opie pulled Jax aside, his expression a mixture of fatigue and deep concern.
“That was cold, Jax,” Opie stated, his voice quiet. “Too cold. You went in there like a machine, man. You didn’t even flinch when that prospect walked in on us. It wasn’t necessary, but you didn’t hesitate.”
Jax was wiping his knife with a rag, his hands steady. “He was a witness, Ope. Loose ends. You wanted a clean kill; I gave you one. It was a successful operation. The Mayans are crippled. We won.”
Opie shook his head, running a hand over his face. “We won the war, maybe, but you lost yourself. You know that kid you put down? He was barely older than Abel. You looked at him like he was furniture.”
Jax finally met his gaze, and Opie recoiled slightly. There was nothing there, no remorse, no anger, only an infinite, terrifying void.
“He was business, Ope,” Jax stated, the words flat and toneless. “Y/N called me on the way out. She said goodbye. She said she loved me, and that’s why she had to leave. The man she loved is dead. He died when she left. Now there’s just the President, and the President has no time for furniture, loose ends, or sentimentality. That’s how we survive.”
He tucked the clean knife into its sheath. “You wanted me to deal with my mess? I did. The mess is gone. Now, let’s go finish cleaning up this bar. Then we figure out how to lean on the One-Niners while the Mayans are burning.”
Opie stared at his friend, seeing only a handsome mask carved out of ice. The pain was still there, but it was buried under an impenetrable layer of calculated indifference, a cold shell that was far more dangerous than any drunken rage. He realized that Jax wasn't trying to scare the Mayans; he was trying to scare himself into feeling nothing at all. He had traded his heart for a patch, and the cost was laid bare in the stillness of his blue eyes.
Opie didn't say another word. He just nodded grimly, knowing he was riding alongside a ghost now.
It was late Friday night. Three days had passed since the Mayans' warehouse burned, three days of cold, focused club business, and three nights of Jax drinking himself into numbness in his destroyed corner of the bar. The splintered counter had been crudely stabilized, but the atmosphere in the clubhouse remained tense, the emotional debris heavier than the physical.
Jax was in the Church, running a final, emotionless debrief on the new distribution routes, when the back door creaked open. Only Happy was in the main room, meticulously sharpening a hunting knife, his face shadowed and impassive.
Y/N slipped inside, moving like a thief in the shadows. She wore a heavy, borrowed jacket despite the warm night, and kept one hand clutched tightly to her side. She had counted on the club being out on a run, or at least occupied in Church, giving her a window of silence.
She felt a wave of nausea, half from the pain in her side, half from the sheer panic of being back in the space she had so definitively rejected. The air here was heavy with the familiar, suffocating mix of leather, stale smoke, and danger.
Her eyes darted immediately toward the storage closet near the kitchen, that's where they kept the medical supplies. The club's First Aid kit wasn't just commercial bandages; it was hospital-grade equipment, including suture kits and heavy-duty analgesics, all acquired through their network. The bar fight had left her with a deep, jagged cut on her lower ribcage. She had stitches, but they were tearing, and the meager supplies she bought at a roadside pharmacy weren't enough. Without insurance, and unwilling to go to an emergency room that would ask too many questions about a deep knife injury sustained in a roadhouse brawl, SAMCRO’s illegal supply was her only option.
She didn't see Jax’s bike. She didn't see his boots. She had calculated the risk, and it looked clear.
She took three silent steps toward the closet when a low, rough voice stopped her cold.
“Looking for something, Old Lady?”
She froze, every muscle locking up. Happy hadn't moved a visible inch, yet his voice was instantly chilling.
“Happy,” she managed, trying to keep her breathing steady. “I just… I left something in the closet. I’ll be quick.”
Happy slowly tilted his head, the movement unnerving. He put the knife down with a soft metallic clink. “A few days ago, you were hauling boxes of your life out of here, saying goodbye. Now you’re sneaking in for a band-aid?”
“It’s personal,” she snapped, taking a defensive step back.
“Everything here is club property, Y/N. And nothing here is personal anymore. You lost that card when you walked out.” Happy stood, his massive frame blocking the path to the closet, his eyes narrowed with possessive loyalty. “I gotta tell the Prez you’re here, don’t I? Unless you wanna tell him yourself.”
The door to the Church slammed open, the heavy sound echoing the finality of her situation. Jax emerged, followed by Opie and Chibs, all wearing the grim exhaustion of serious business.
Jax stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes, still cold from the raid and the subsequent days of forced neutrality, fixed on her. The sight of her - haggard, pale, and clutching her jacket - instantly shattered the fragile ice around his heart.
“What the hell is this?” Jax's voice was low and dangerous, a coiled wire of pain and rage.
Y/N didn't have time to run, or even to fabricate a lie. She just stared at him, unable to bridge the distance.
“I came for the kit,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “The trauma kit. I need supplies.”
“You need supplies?” Jax advanced, taking slow, deliberate steps toward her. The space around her shrank with every movement. “You’ve been gone for five days! You left because you couldn’t stand the lies, and now you’re back crawling for the club’s black-market first aid?”
“I don’t have insurance anymore, Jax!” she shot back, the frustration boiling over. “My old job cut my coverage the day I left Charming. I got into a fight at a truck stop bar on the 5, a drunk prick with a razor blade. I couldn’t pay the hospital bill in the next county, and the stitches are splitting.”
She winced as she shifted her weight. Jax was close now, close enough to smell the faint traces of blood and antiseptic beneath the sweat and diesel fuel. He reached out, his hand snapping onto her arm, his grip hard.
“Show me,” he commanded.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, trying to pull away, but he was too strong.
“You walk out, you cut me out, you break my goddamn heart, and you think you can sneak back in bleeding and tell me not to touch you?” he roared, the ice finally cracking, revealing the fury beneath.
He seized the collar of her jacket and ripped it down her torso. The denim shirt underneath was stained a worrying dark red down her right side, clinging stickily to her skin. Beneath the fabric, the ragged, partially open wound was visible, angry and inflamed.
A stunned silence fell over the main room. Opie looked away, shaking his head. Chibs stiffened, his hand unconsciously dropping to the knife at his waist.
Jax stared at the wound. The mechanical detachment he had maintained since she left evaporated, replaced by a devastating cocktail of possessive terror and white-hot rage that eclipsed even the grief of the raid.
“Who did this to you?” Jax’s voice was barely a sound, a flat, chilling echo of the man who had ordered Gallo's death.
“It was just a random guy. Drunk. I defended myself. He didn’t know who I was,” Y/N said quickly, trying to defuse the impending explosion. “It’s fine. I just need the kit and I’m gone. I swear I won’t come back.”
Jax released her, taking a quick step back, his eyes still locked on the wound, calculating the depth, the angle, the pain.
“Fine,” he breathed, turning his back on her. “Happy. Get the club box. The surgical kit. Chibs, get the cleaning solvent. Now.”
Happy and Chibs moved instantly, relieved to have an action to perform rather than watch the implosion. Jax walked over to the ruined bar, picking up a shard of splintered wood, his knuckles white.
“You think you’re safer out there?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, still not looking at her. “You think that clean road you’re looking for is worth getting cut up by some drunken douchebag who can’t even hold a knife? You leave my protection, the only thing that keeps the animals off your scent, and you walk into a bar fight? This is what your clean choice gets you?”
“It gets me a chance to breathe, Jax!” she yelled, tears of pain and frustration finally stinging her eyes. “It gets me the truth! I didn’t know I’d be bleeding out over it, but at least I know where I stand.”
Jax spun around, throwing the piece of wood against the wall where the whiskey bottle had shattered.
“The fact is, you’re bleeding! And you came back to my house, to my club, for the supplies you swore you hated! Don't you dare look at me and tell me you don’t need the shield I provide! You’re my girl, Y/N. And whether you’re on the road or in this bed, you are always my responsibility!”
Opie intervened gently, stepping between them. “Jax. The kit’s here. She needs patching. Not a fight.”
Jax stared over Opie’s shoulder at her, his expression a chaotic mix of fury, terror, and possessiveness. “Patch her up, Chibs. Then she leaves. And Y/N? If you ever show up here bleeding again, I swear to God, I’ll haul you back here and lock you in the house myself.”
She stood her ground, even as Chibs gently pulled her over to a clean table to start cleaning the wound. “You wouldn’t have to lock me up if you had just been honest. I can handle the blood, Jax. I can’t handle the lie.”
Jax watched as Chibs carefully cleaned the laceration, his focus absolute. He saw her flinch and bite her lip against the sting of the antiseptic. The sight of her vulnerable, yet resilient, was a physical agony. He clenched his jaw, turned on his heel, and walked back into the silent darkness of the Church, unable to watch the man she hated fix the pain the world had inflicted on her the moment she stepped away from him.
Chibs, with quiet efficiency and the practiced skill of a medic who has seen far too much, stitched the lacerated edges of her shirt together, packed the deep wound, and secured the thick, medical-grade bandages. He worked in silence, his expression sympathetic but professional.
“He’s a mess, lass,” Chibs murmured as he finished. “He’s lost, and you leaving just took the last bit of the good man with you.”
“I didn’t take him, Chibs,” Y/N replied, adjusting her jacket. “He chose to leave himself. I just got out of the way of the crash.”
Y/N adjusted the jacket over the fresh bandages, the stiff, thick gauze a physical reminder of the life she was escaping. She looked at the heavy door to the Church, where Jax was silently caged.
“Tell Jax thank you,” she whispered to Chibs, who was leaning against the table, his expression grave.
Chibs simply nodded. “I will. But I don’t think he wants my words. He wants yours.”
Y/N shook her head. “My words are what got me cut up in the first place, Chibs. Sometimes silence is the only way to survive.”
She took a decisive step toward the front door, the small bag of extra medical supplies clutched in her hand.
Before she could reach the threshold, the heavy door to the Church groaned open. Jax stood there, framed in the darkness, his posture radiating a dangerous, contained fury. He wasn't running anymore; he was stalking.
He didn't move toward her; he simply blocked her path with his presence, his blue eyes locking onto hers, demanding a response.
“You’re not leaving yet,” Jax commanded, his voice low, steady, and chillingly devoid of the manic rage he’d shown earlier. He had collected himself, replacing the fear with a cold, terrifying control.
“I was patched up. The debt is paid. I’m leaving, Jax,” Y/N replied, trying to sidestep him.
He moved faster than she did, seizing her arm just above the bandaged wound, his grip like iron. “The debt is never paid with us. You don’t get to walk out of here bleeding and not look me in the eye. That cut on your side is on my soul, Y/N. That's my failure to protect you walking out the door.”
He dragged her to the center of the room, indifferent to the three silent men who watched the volatile confrontation.
“You want the truth? Fine. Here it is,” Jax hissed, leaning down until his mouth was inches from her ear. “That random drunk in the truck stop? He’s going to be dead before dawn. I’m going to find him, and I’m going to make sure that the next woman he touches remembers the SAMCRO patch for the rest of her life.”
Y/N stared at him, not with fear, but with a chilling, dead clarity that instantly froze his rage.
🫧 Please do not steal my work. You may NOT copy, republish, adapt, translate, or use my writing in any way on another website or platform.
🫧 Warnings: Lots n lots of angst, swearing, violence, alcohol, trauma, mentions of death/ loss
🫧 Authors Note: lol i love angst sm
Summary: He thought keeping her out of it would protect her, she’s done pretending his lies don’t hurt, and he’s left watching the only person he's ever loved walk out the door.
Masterlist
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It was 3:17 AM. The light on the kitchen clock glowed a sickly green, illuminating the cold condensation ringing the bottom of the empty mug in your hand. You hadn't moved for an hour, sitting sentinel at the island, listening to the silence of the kitchen that felt less like peace and more like a held breath. Your knuckles were white from clenching the cheap foam take-out container containing Jax’s abandoned dinner.
You didn't need a call or a text to know where he was or what he was doing. You just needed the patterns. The rumble of the bikes, the timing of the radio silence, the specific kind of weariness on the few brothers who had straggled home earlier. You had been raised in the club’s orbit, your father was a former Nomad, your older brother had worn a patch, and you spoke the silent language of the MC fluently.
The front door finally burst open, not with a bang, but with the heavy, exhausted thud of a man collapsing against the frame. Jax stepped inside, smelling of adrenaline, gasoline, and something metallic and sharp that you knew was trouble.
He shrugged his kutte off with a tired sigh, attempting to hang it casually on the coat rack, but his hands shook slightly. He didn't look at you immediately, focused instead on the simple, mundane task of kicking off his boots.
“You’re late,” you stated, your voice flat.
“Hey, didn’t think you’d still be up,” he mumbled, his voice thick with fatigue, trying to deflect. “Supply run took a while. Had some issues with the manifest.” He finally turned, flashing that practiced, weary smile, the one meant to smooth over everything and assure you he was just tired.
You didn't return the smile. You stood slowly, placing the cold container on the granite counter with a small, decisive click that sounded deafening in the quiet house.
“‘Issues with the manifest’?” you repeated, your voice dangerously low, almost a purr of disbelief. “That's your go-to now, isn't it? That’s what you tell the old ladies so they don’t get nervous?”
He sighed, his shoulders tensing. He hated confrontation when he was bone-tired. “Look, Y/N, it was a rough night. Just let it go.”
He took a step towards you, but you held up a hand, stopping him dead. “No. I won’t let it go. It wasn't a supply run, Jax. You ran the new product up the 58 to meet the One-Niners, only the Mayans decided to jump the convoy. Happy’s truck didn’t just lose a windshield; he took three rounds through the door. You lost half a kilo of product and, more importantly, a kid who was running support for the first time. It was a bust, and it turned bloody.”
His face drained of color. He didn't deny it; he didn't have to. The shock was clear that you knew the specifics, the location, the rival club, the casualties.
“How the hell do you know that?” he demanded, his irritation spiking into real anger. “That’s privileged information, Y/N! That's club business! You’ve been sniffing around the radio again, haven't you? Listening to things you shouldn't be!”
“I grew up listening to things I shouldn’t be!” you yelled, finally letting the frustration explode. “My childhood soundtrack was the police band scanner and my dad’s coded phone calls! You think my eyes were closed for twenty years? I know the smell of sulfur and fear, Jax. I know the rhythm of the lies. And you know what the worst lie is? The one you keep telling me by assuming I’m too weak to know the truth.”
You moved closer, closing the distance he had tried to keep between you. “I don’t need you to protect me from the club, Jax. I need you to trust me in this life. When you lie, when you minimize the danger, you don’t keep me safe, you just tell me that you don’t see me as your partner. You see me as something delicate you have to keep pretty and stupid to survive your world.”
Jax reached out, grasping your arms, his grip hard and desperate. “That’s not fair! I do this so you can sleep at night! So you don’t have to picture what I see out there! I’m trying to keep a piece of clean road for us, Y/N!”
“That clean road is the lie itself!” you pulled free, backing away from the heat of his touch. “The distance isn't the club, Jax. It’s the constant, calculated deceit. I can look a Mayan in the eye and feel safer than I do looking at you when you’re spinning me a fairytale about ‘cargo manifest issues’.”
He watched you, his blue eyes wide, raw, and finally shattered. He saw the cold, hard canyon you had been digging between you for months, and now, finally, you were standing on the other side.
“I’m terrified, Y/N,” he confessed, the anger collapsing into a ragged, broken plea. “I’m terrified you’re finally going to look at me, truly look at the blood on my hands and the decisions I make and you’ll see my father’s ghost staring back. You’re the only thing that keeps me from becoming that, and if I lose you, I lose the fight completely.”
He held his breath, the raw, ugly truth hanging between them. When he saw only the cold resolve in your eyes, the vulnerability instantly curdled into desperate fury. He'd shown his deepest weakness, and when you didn't offer the lifeline, he felt betrayed.
“And you call this trust?!” he roared, the sudden volume shocking. "I just gave you the worst thing in my head, and you stand there judging me! You’re playing spy! You’re the one who was sniffing around the radio, looking for dirt so you could have something over my head the second I walked in the door!” he spat, the exhaustion making him reckless. “You think you’re better than us just because your hands are clean? You want to be trusted? Then stop acting like a cop and start acting like my Old Lady!”
“A cop?” you whispered, the final word sharp enough to draw blood. The tears were finally falling now, not tears of grief, but of profound, exhausted disappointment. "I’m not the fucking ATF, I am your Old Lady, Jax! I live this. I breathe this! All I ever wanted was for you to treat me like a partner, to trust me with the ugly truth, because I'm strong enough to handle it and I deserve to know if I'm preparing for dinner or for your funeral! I'm not judging you, I’m fighting for us, and you throw back lies and accusations! You’re too scared of the monster you’re becoming to trust the woman who already sees the blood on your hands and loves you anyway!” You shook your head, the fight draining out of you, leaving only cold certainty. “You want someone who knows nothing? You got her. You won’t have to worry about what I know anymore.”
You turned and walked into the dark hallway leading to the bedroom. You didn't slam the door; you simply closed it quietly, the soft click echoing louder than any gunshot.
Jax stood paralyzed for a long moment. He didn't move until he heard the distinct sound of a duffel bag dragging across the floor, then the rustle of clothes being stuffed inside. He threw himself against the bedroom door, his voice thick with panic.
“Y/N! Stop! You’re not thinking straight.”
The lock clicked. “I’ve never been clearer, Jax. You wanted someone blind, find a woman who can't see the truth.”
He heard the zipper, the shifting of weight, and then, the sound that truly broke him the scrape of the bedroom window opening and closing as she left. No engine rumble, no car door slamming. Just the slow, methodical silence of her walking away.
He didn’t move for ten minutes, his ear pressed against the wood, waiting for her to come back. When the silence held, he staggered back, grabbed his kutte, and fled the house, riding manic through the early Charming dawn.
He pulled up hard at the clubhouse, the kickstand ringing loudly as he killed the engine. It was nearly 6:00am. Only a few patched members were up, mostly cleaning up the back lot.
Jax went straight for the cabin at the back where he knew Opie would be nursing a coffee. He burst inside.
“Ope! You seen Y/N? Did she come here? Did she say anything?” Jax was wild-eyed, his hands twitching.
Opie looked up from his mug, his face impassive but heavy with sympathy. “Slow down, brother. Yeah, I saw her.”
Jax sagged against the doorframe in relief. “Thank God. She just needed to cool off, right? Where is she? I need to talk to her.”
Opie took a slow sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving Jax’s. “She wasn’t here to cool off, Jax. She was here about an hour ago. She had a box and a couple bags. She went to the storage unit, got the rest of her things.”
Jax blinked, the reality of the statement taking several agonizing seconds to sink in. “The rest of... what are you talking about? She left a few things, that’s it.”
“Nah, man,” Opie said quietly, placing the mug down. “She was thorough. She cleared out her storage unit, took the last of the stuff she had left in the clubhouse. She was hurting, Jax. She just... she needed out. Said she couldn’t stand watching you lose yourself to the club anymore. She wanted you to know she was done with all of it, man. Done with Charming. Done with us."
Jax stared, his mouth opening but no sound coming out. The world suddenly felt too loud and too bright, and the bitter taste of fear was overwhelming. He stumbled backward, hitting the door frame hard, the physical pain barely registering over the complete, horrifying certainty of loss.
A shadow fell across the threshold. Gemma Teller, ever the force of nature, strode into the room, a coffee cup in hand. She took one look at Opie’s grim face, the exhausted fury radiating off Jax, and the silence that felt like a scream.
“What the hell happened here?” Gemma asked, her voice sharp. “Did the Mayans follow you back? Jax, what’s going on?”
Opie intervened quickly. “It’s Y/N, Gem. She left. Took her things from the storage unit. She’s gone.”
Gemma paused, her eyes narrowing as she processed the information. She slowly lowered her coffee cup onto Opie's small table, her gaze settling on Jax. Jax expected the fury, the blame that he'd let the family break again. Instead, her voice was low, filled with grim finality.
“Good,” Gemma said, shocking both men.
“Good?” Jax echoed, his voice cracking. “Gemma, she walked out! She left me!”
Gemma crossed her arms. “And what did you expect, Jackson? You treat that girl like she’s a tourist passing through, spoon-feeding her lies about ‘manifests’ when she knows damn well you’re pulling triggers. She was raised on this life. She didn’t need protection, she needed respect. And you denied her both.”
“I was protecting her!” Jax shouted, pushing off the doorframe.
“No, you were protecting yourself!” Gemma countered, her own voice rising. “You were afraid she’d look at the monster. But that girl loved the man you were, Jax. You drove her away by showing her the man you wanted to be, a liar. You gave her no choice but to leave. She chose sanity over the sickness, and honestly? She’s smart for it.”
Jax stared at his mother, the last person he expected to validate his loss. The rejection from both the woman he loved and his mother hit him like a physical blow, sinking him further into the despair of his failure.
The silence inside the borrowed pickup truck was deafening. It wasn't the sound of peace; it was a vacuum where Jax's voice and the constant rumble of his engine used to be. You drove until the morning sun was high, the Central Valley stretching out ahead, not like freedom, but like a terrifyingly blank canvas. You pulled the truck over at a nameless diner fifty miles outside of Charming because the sheer panic of having nowhere to go finally made your chest seize.
Sitting in the booth, the full, crushing weight of what you had done finally settled. It hurt. A deep, visceral ache in your chest, a sickening, physical withdrawal from the only life you had ever allowed yourself to crave. You stared at the chrome countertop, watching the sun hit the table, and the quiet voice of doubt started to whisper: Did you make a mistake?
Every mile was a deliberate choice toward self-preservation, but it felt like a slow, painful amputation. Maybe the danger was the price you were supposed to pay for the passion. Maybe the life of a lie, but with him, was better than the empty road without him. You felt a wave of regret so strong it almost made you turn the truck around.
But then, the thought of the lock clicking on the bedroom door returned, and you knew: the pain of leaving was acute, but the pain of staying was terminal. You picked up the map, circling a small, unfamiliar town near the coast. It wasn't a plan; it was just a dot on the paper, a necessary distraction from the ghost you had become the moment you drove away.
That evening, the club meeting was a heavy, suffocating affair. Word had traveled fast, Jax was erratic, Gemma was quiet, and Y/N’s empty space was palpable.
Jax sat at the head of the table, his usual coiled intensity replaced by a numb, dangerous stillness. He was running on pure adrenaline and rage, avoiding eye contact with everyone, especially Opie, who sat quietly beside him.
Chibs, never one to mince words, was the first to speak after Jax finished a terse, emotionless update on the Mayan situation.
“Jax,” Chibs started, his Scottish brogue soft with concern. “We know Y/N left. It’s felt like a hole in this room all day.”
Jax slammed his fist down, rattling the table and the scattered papers. “It’s not on the agenda, Chibs! The only thing that matters right now is the club, and the damage the Mayans caused! We focus on the business!”
Chibs held his gaze, his voice hardening with paternal wisdom. “Aye, we know you were trying to protect her, Jackie-boy, we understand that much. But trying to keep the blood off her hands with lies, that was always a lost cause with a woman who grew up in this life. You had to choose: trust her with the ugly truth, or lose her completely to the lie. And you chose the lie.”
Tig, leaning back, observed Jax with a weary expression. “Easy, brother. We are focused on the business. But Y/N was part of this. And Jax, look at you, man. You’re spinning. You can’t bleed out on the asphalt and pretend it doesn’t affect the ride.”
Happy, usually silent, grunted from his spot. “She was good. She saw the lines before we did. She saw the lies.”
Jax felt the weight of their collective judgment. He realized that Y/N hadn't just walked out on him; she had revealed a weakness in the foundation of his leadership, a weakness built on fear and lies. He stood up abruptly, scattering papers onto the floor.
“The only thing she saw was a way out,” Jax snapped, his voice tight. “And she took it. Meeting adjourned.”
He left without a backward glance, the hollow sound of his boots echoing on the concrete floor, the sound of a man completely alone, left only with the blood and the business he tried so hard to keep hidden.
The hours bled into night at the clubhouse bar, the silence heavy with the absence of Y/N and the thick, suffocating smell of Jax's despair. He was in his usual corner, his back to the wall, a bottle of Jack Daniel's reduced to a quarter, and a dirty tumbler his only company. His eyes, usually an intense, vibrant blue, were now dull and bloodshot, fixed on nothing.
He wasn't just drunk; he was trying to erase the last eighteen hours. The alcohol brought only fragments: the sound of the zipper on the duffel bag, Gemma's voice calling him a liar, the crushing weight of the club's quiet disapproval.
His phone lay on the bar top, the screen lit up with your contact photo, a picture from a summer trip, both of you laughing on his bike. He picked it up, his hand shaking so badly he had to cradle his wrist with his other hand just to steady it. He had tried calling, texting, leaving garbled voicemails filled with self-pity, and failing every time.
He hit your number for the tenth time in an hour.
Call Failed.
He tossed the phone down, grabbed the bottle, and took a long, burning swallow. He didn’t want to beg, but the panic of her absence was a fist tightening around his throat. He just needed to hear her voice, one last sound before the silence consumed him.
"You're making yourself sick, Jax," Opie said quietly, stepping up to the bar.
Jax didn't look up, his voice slurred. "She's supposed to be here, Ope. She's supposed to be waiting up. She doesn't just... disappear."
"She ain't, man. That's the part you gotta let sink in."
"I can't. I can't live without her," Jax muttered, running a hand over his face. He picked up the phone again, his thumb hovering over the dial button. One more time. Just once.
He hit the call button, listening to the agonizingly slow ringing, expecting the same failure. The liquor in his blood screamed at the impending rejection, blurring the edge of his vision. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall.
On the fifth ring, the silence of the bar was brutally interrupted by a click.
Jax’s eyes snapped open. He lifted the phone to his ear, his breath catching in his throat, the sound of his own ragged heartbeat suddenly louder than the silence. The liquor evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold wave of sobriety and pure dread.
A voice - tired, distant, and utterly devoid of the warmth he remembered, answered the phone.
"Hello?"
Jax could only manage a ragged whisper. "Y/N? God. Y/N, don't hang up. Please, don't—"
Her voice was clinical, quiet. "You've called too many times, Jax, I answered this one. Make it fast and make it the last time, okay? I need you to stop."
Jax unleashed a torrent of slurred apologies. "Stop? How the hell am I supposed to stop, babe? I'm sorry. I messed up, I know I did. I was scared, I was stupid. I'll fix this, I swear I will. I'll leave the patch on the table for a week, okay? Just tell me where you are."
A long sigh came across the line, pure exhaustion. She knew what he was trying to do.
"Tell me where you are. Just tell me the damn town, Y/N. I'll ride out there right now. We'll talk this through, face to face. We can fix this."
A long, ragged sob traveled across the line, pure heartbreak replacing the previous exhaustion. "God, I love you! Do you hear me? I love you, and that's why I'm leaving! You keep pushing me away with this... with all of it! I don't care about the club's rules, I care about you! I want to be let in, Jax! I want to be the one standing next to you! But you won't let me. You just keep driving me away with your fear! You hide behind this kutte and you treat me like a distraction, not a lifeline! I can't stay here and watch you become something that hates the man I love." Her voice was a wet, ragged whisper for the final words. "I'm done begging you to be my partner, Jax."
The line went dead with a soft, final click.
Jax stood motionless, the phone slipping from his numb fingers to hit the dusty concrete floor. For a beat, there was an unnatural stillness, a silence that wasn't peace but a crushing void where his future used to be. Then, the control snapped. With a guttural roar of pure agony and impotent fury, Jax grabbed the remaining Jack Daniel's bottle and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the far brick wall with an explosion of glass and brown liquor, staining the SAMCRO patch painted there. He seized a heavy, brass-studded barstool and slammed it repeatedly against the counter, splintering the wood and sending debris flying, until the stool was nothing but broken legs and foam padding. He sagged against the bar, breathing in ragged, hysterical gasps, the violence having done nothing but leave him bleeding and spent.
Opie, watching silently from the end of the bar, finally pushed off the wall. He didn't offer a word or a hand. He just looked at the wreckage, the destroyed corner, the broken glass, and the man who was now just a raw nerve of failure - shook his head slowly, a profound exhaustion on his face, and walked away. The only sound left in the clubhouse was Jax's hoarse, broken breathing, alone with the ruins he had created.
The next morning, the smell of stale beer, burnt coffee, and bourbon hung thick in the air of the clubhouse. The main room, usually chaotic but functional, looked like a hurricane had hit. Broken glass sparkled ominously on the concrete floor, and the once-sturdy countertop was jagged with splintered wood.
Tig was sweeping up the bulk of the debris, his face carefully blank, while Chibs stood by the booze stained wall, shaking his head.
“A childish mess,” Chibs muttered, pulling a cloth from his back pocket and wiping the brick where the liquor had hit. “He can break up half the bar, but he cannae fix what he broke with his own two hands.”
Tig paused, leaning on his broom. “I ain’t gonna lie, I haven’t seen him this gone since… since Donna. This is worse. This is self-inflicted, you know? It’s not rage, it’s panic.”
Opie walked in, carrying a fresh pot of coffee, his eyes grimly taking in the damage. He didn’t look surprised.
“He's not in the house,” Opie stated, pouring three mugs. “The bike’s gone. He’s running.”
Chibs took the coffee, blowing on the steam. “He can run the road all he likes, but the problems he created are sittin’ right here. We got a Mayan issue, a dead prospect, and now a President whose head is halfway up his own arse.”
Tig pointed the handle of the broom at the shattered counter. “We can clean this up. But what about the Mayans? We need his head clear for the vote on retaliation. We can’t roll out on a half-cocked plan driven by his personal self-loathing.”
“Then we deal with it,” Opie said simply, planting his coffee mug on a safe patch of the pool table. “The club doesn’t stop spinning because the President lost his Old Lady. You and me, Chibs, we hold the line until he can ride straight.”
Gemma found Jax later that afternoon at the cabin, staring out at the lake, his eyes reflecting the murky water. He hadn’t showered, and his jeans were ripped where he’d scraped himself on the broken stool. He looked less like a President and more like a ghost of the boy she’d raised.
“You look like shit” she said, her voice dry, without an introduction. She lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around her, creating an immediate shield of control.
Jax didn’t turn around. “Go away, Mom. I don’t need the lecture.”
“You don’t need a lecture, you need a slap,” she corrected, taking a slow drag. “You acted like a goddamn teenager last night. Throwing bottles? Breaking furniture? You know what that shows the rest of the table? It shows them that the only thing holding you together was a skirt, and now that skirt walked, you’re worthless.”
He finally turned, his eyes blazing with hurt and fury. “Don’t call her that! She was more than just some skirt, she was—”
“Forget what I said, she was a weakness, Jax! And she proved it by leaving!” Gemma cut him off, her voice cracking like a whip. “She was too good, too clean, too moral for this life, and she finally decided she didn’t want the price. You should be angry at her weakness, not destroying the one thing that can’t leave you, this club!”
Gemma walked closer, using her height and presence to tower over him, pressing the emotional advantage.
“Your father lost his mind worrying about the clean road, Jackson. It got him killed. You lose the woman, you let the club hold you. You lash out at us, and you show everyone that you don’t have the balls to do what needs to be done: put your personal mess aside and focus on the club’s survival.”
She threw a crumpled newspaper at his feet. The headline was buried deep inside, mentioning a triple homicide connected to a gang fight on the 58.
“The Mayans are sending a message. That dead kid was a warning, and your little rampage just told them their President is mentally compromised. You think they’re afraid of a man who cries over his Old Lady? They respect strength, Jax. They respect retaliation.”
Jax looked down at the paper, then back at his mother. The pain of Y/N leaving was still a fresh wound, but Gemma’s words were the acid he needed to cauterize it. They shifted the focus from his failure to external threat.
“So what do I do?” he asked, his voice rough.
“You get clean. You shave. You call a new meeting. You look Chibs and Tig in the eye and you promise them that the next time you lose something, it’s going to be the Mayans’ blood spilled, not your whiskey,” she commanded, the Queen directing her Prince. “You use this pain. You turn this despair into retribution. That is the only way this club survives. That is the only way you survive.”
He nodded slowly, a cold, hard resolution settling over his features. The broken-hearted man was being replaced by the vengeful President.
“They crossed the line,” Jax whispered, picking up the newspaper. “The Mayans crossed the line.”
“They did,” Gemma agreed, a predatory smile touching the corner of her lips. “And now you show them what a man who has nothing left will do.”
Jax turned, walking back towards his bike. He didn't look like he was running anymore. He looked like he was hunting.
