so i actually have no idea how getting a soa man's crow tattoo would work but fuck it
The first time you ever saw Happy Lowman shirtless, it hadn't been because of anything romantic at all; it had been a brutally hot afternoon behind the clubhouse when he'd shrugged out of his flannel after spending hours fixing one of the bikes, sweat gleaming over old scars and faded ink, and your eyes had snagged—not on the muscles or the tattoos that climbed over almost every inch of him—but on the unmistakable black crow spread proudly across his back, the wings stretched wide enough to cover most of his shoulders, worn soft around the edges from years of sun and skin and life.
Someone nearby had casually remarked that every patched member carried one, that it wasn't just a tattoo but a promise, a history written into flesh, and you'd nodded thoughtfully, asking questions because you were genuinely curious rather than trying to impress anyone, and Happy, who rarely volunteered more than a handful of words, had answered every single one of them in that quiet gravel voice of his, explaining the symbolism, the ritual of earning it, the permanence of it, while never once looking directly at you.
After that day, whenever you caught sight of another crow on one of the men, you found yourself smiling a little because you couldn't help associating it with him.
Not the club.
Not the outlaw image.
Just... Happy.
He'd tease you sometimes when he'd catch you staring.
"They're kind of pretty."
"They're crows."
"Crows can be pretty."
"They eat roadkill."
"So dramatic."
"They do."
"I still think yours is nice."
He'd grunt, shake his head, pretend he wasn't secretly pleased by the compliment, and everyone else would roll their eyes because somehow you were the only person alive capable of calling Happy Lowman's intimidating club tattoo "pretty" without immediately being glared into another dimension.
Months passed.
Then a year.
And somewhere along the way the two of you became... whatever this was.
You weren't dating.
Nobody had said the words.
But you were together more often than you weren't.
You brought him coffee exactly the way he liked it without ever asking. He automatically reached for your hand crossing busy streets. You read while he worked on motorcycles. He fixed things in your apartment without being asked. You stole his hoodies. He stopped pretending to want them back.
The club had long since accepted that if they needed one of you, they should probably check wherever the other one was first.
The only people who hadn't seemed to notice were the two of you.
Or perhaps the two of you had noticed.
You were simply both too terrified to risk naming it.
It happened late one evening after most everyone had drifted inside.
The air was warm enough to leave the clubhouse doors open, music spilling lazily into the parking lot while laughter echoed somewhere beyond the picnic tables, and you were sitting on the tailgate of Happy's truck swinging one foot absentmindedly while he leaned against the side beside you, smoking quietly, the comfortable silence between you as familiar now as breathing.
You were halfway through telling him about a horror novel you'd just finished when he stopped listening.
Not because he wasn't interested.
Because he'd started thinking.
Thinking, for Happy, was dangerous.
You noticed it almost immediately.
"...Happy?"
"Hm."
"You've got your thinking face."
"I got one face."
"You don't."
Silence.
"You wanna tell me what's going on?"
Another silence.
Longer this time.
You watched him carefully.
Happy wasn't fidgety by nature.
Happy was stillness incarnate.
Which was precisely why it was so alarming when you noticed his thumb rubbing repeatedly against the seam of his jeans.
Tiny movement.
Barely anything.
But enough.
Enough for you to know something was making him nervous.
You slid off the tailgate and stood in front of him.
"What is it?"
"Nothin'."
"Liar."
His jaw flexed.
Then again.
He looked everywhere except at you.
Toward the bikes.
Toward the clubhouse.
Toward the trees.
Anywhere but your face.
You smiled gently.
"You can tell me."
Another thirty seconds crawled by.
Finally, "...Got a question."
"Okay."
He swallowed.
Actually swallowed.
You'd seen this man stare down federal agents without blinking. You'd watched him walk into gunfire with less hesitation than he was displaying now.
"...You don't gotta answer."
Your smile faded slightly.
"Happy..."
"You say no..." He cleared his throat roughly. "...that's it."
"I know."
"No hard feelings."
"I know."
"You ain't gonna hurt my feelings."
You raised an eyebrow.
"That one feels like a lie."
"It is."
Despite yourself, you laughed.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Then it disappeared just as quickly.
He looked down at the ground.
"I just..." His voice was quieter than usual. "...Been thinkin'."
You waited.
"...If..."
He stopped.
Started again.
"...Would you ever..."
Another stop.
He looked genuinely frustrated with himself.
"C'mon," you whispered, taking one tiny step closer. "You've got this."
He breathed out slowly through his nose.
Then finally forced himself to meet your eyes.
The vulnerability there nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.
He looked...
Scared.
Not anxious.
Not uncertain.
Scared.
The kind of scared that only comes when someone has placed their entire heart in another person's hands before they've even spoken.
"...Would you..." Another swallow. "...Would you ever get... my crow?"
You blinked.
He rushed on immediately.
"You don't gotta."
"I know."
"I'm serious."
"I know."
"I ain't asking because... because I expect it."
"I know."
"I don't want..." He shook his head hard, words tangling over each other in a way you'd never heard from him before. "...Don't want you thinkin' you owe me somethin'. Or that... we're... or... I ain't claimin' you."
Your heart squeezed painfully.
"I know."
"I just..." His voice cracked ever so slightly, so quietly that someone else might have missed it, but you knew him too well. "...Wanted to ask."
He looked almost embarrassed by the confession.
"I've been thinkin' about it for months."
Months.
Months.
You stared at him.
"You've... been thinking about asking me for months?"
He nodded once.
"Couldn't figure out if it'd be selfish."
"It wouldn't."
"What if you felt guilty saying no?"
"I wouldn't."
"What if you only said yes 'cause it mattered to me?"
"I wouldn't."
"What if—"
"Happy."
He stopped immediately.
You reached up carefully, resting your hand against the side of his face.
He leaned into it before he could stop himself.
"I need you to tell me something."
"What."
"Why?"
His brow furrowed.
"Why what?"
"Why do you want me to have your crow?"
He was silent for so long you thought he might refuse to answer.
Instead he whispered, "...'Cause every time I picture forever..."
His eyes closed.
"...You're already there."
Your entire chest ached.
"...Feels wrong."
"What does?"
"That everyone can look at me..." His voice was barely audible now. "...Know who I belong with."
He opened his eyes again.
"...But nobody can look at you and know you're my home too."
The world went utterly still.
"I know that's selfish."
"It isn't."
"It is."
"It isn't."
"I don't..." He laughed once, bitterly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "...Hell, sweetheart, we ain't even together."
You couldn't help smiling through the sting behind your eyes.
"No?"
"No."
"You sure?"
His confused expression was almost painfully adorable.
"You fix my apartment."
"...Yeah."
"You remember my coffee order."
"...Yeah."
"You sleep better when I'm in your room."
"...Yeah."
"You carry snacks because you know I'll forget to eat."
"...Yeah."
"You call me if you're gonna be late."
"...Yeah."
"You've accidentally become my emergency contact."
"..."
"You have."
"I know."
"You hold my hand."
"I..."
"You kiss my forehead."
His ears were turning pink.
"I..."
"You look at me like I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you."
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Nothing came out.
You laughed softly.
"I think we've been dating for quite a while, Happy."
He blinked.
"...Oh."
"Yeah."
"...Huh."
"You really didn't notice?"
"I thought..." He rubbed the back of his neck again, looking genuinely bewildered. "...Thought maybe you were just... real friendly."
You laughed so hard you had to lean against him.
"Happy."
"Hm?"
"I've fallen asleep on your chest."
"...Yeah."
"I've met your mother."
"...Yeah."
"You introduced me as 'my girl' once."
"..."
"...Did I?"
"You did."
"...Huh."
You laughed again, and this time he finally smiled too, small and crooked and wonderfully sheepish.
Then your expression softened.
"I have an answer."
His smile vanished instantly.
He straightened unconsciously.
Bracing.
Almost as though he expected heartbreak.
"If the answer is no—"
"It isn't."
He froze.
"I'd get your crow."
His breathing stopped.
"But."
His face fell immediately.
"But?"
"I'd get it because I want it."
He stared.
"Not because you asked."
"...Okay."
"Not because I feel obligated."
"...Okay."
"I'm getting it because when I imagine my future..." Your fingers slipped into his rough calloused hand, intertwining them gently. "...you're already there too."
He simply looked at you.
As though his brain had stopped functioning.
"I love you, Happy."
The words landed between you with astonishing softness.
No fireworks.
No dramatic music.
Just truth.
Simple.
Steady.
Certain.
"I've loved you for a long time."
He made the smallest sound you'd ever heard from him.
Almost disbelieving.
"You..."
"I do."
He looked utterly overwhelmed, eyes glistening in a way you'd never seen before, lips parting once, twice, as though he had forgotten how words worked altogether, and when he finally managed to speak his voice came out rough with emotion.
"...Been trying real hard..."
"I know."
"...Not to ask for too much."
"I know."
"...Didn't wanna scare you."
"You never could."
"...Didn't wanna make you feel trapped."
"You never would."
He searched your face one last time, making absolutely certain there wasn't the slightest hint of hesitation, and only when he found nothing but affection looking back at him did he lift one careful hand to your cheek, almost reverently, like he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed to touch you this way.
"You sure?"
You smiled.
"So sure."
His forehead rested against yours first.
Then, with all the tenderness hidden beneath the reputation of the most intimidating man in the club, he kissed you.
There was nothing rushed about it.
Nothing demanding.
Nothing desperate except the emotion he'd been holding back for months, perhaps years, all of it poured into one impossibly gentle kiss that lingered just long enough to say everything his words never could—that he loved carefully, that he loved completely, that he had spent so long convincing himself not to ask for more than he deserved that even now, with your hands cupping his face and your smile breaking against his mouth, he still looked astonished that you'd chosen him.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours, and he laughed quietly under his breath.
"What?"
"I spent six months workin' up the nerve to ask about a tattoo."
"Mhm?"
"Probably should've just asked if you'd marry me."
You blinked.
His eyes widened.
"...That wasn't..."
"You know what?"
He groaned softly.
"I am absolutely saying yes to that too."
For perhaps the first time in his life, Happy Lowman was completely speechless.
Then he gathered you into his arms, holding you so securely that it felt less like an embrace and more like finally coming home, and somewhere behind you the clubhouse door opened just long enough for someone to glimpse the two of you standing there wrapped around each other before quietly closing it again, deciding, for once, that whatever joke they could have made wasn't worth interrupting the moment everyone had been waiting for except the two people who mattered most.
You're on pain meds after surgery and become clingy, specifically with Happy.
Meanwhile Happy is trying to survive the experience.
The first time Happy Lowman ever heard you scream in genuine pain, something inside him quietly, permanently changed.
He had seen gunshot wounds. He had seen broken bones shoved back beneath skin with nothing stronger than whiskey and a strip of leather between a man's teeth. He had watched brothers bleed out on dirty concrete while they laughed through blood because there wasn't another choice. Pain, to Happy, had always been simple. You endured it. You survived it. You moved on.
None of that prepared him for finding you folded nearly in half on your apartment floor with one trembling hand pressed against the lower right side of your stomach, your face ghost-white, sweat soaking your hairline despite the cool air, stubbornly insisting through clenched teeth that you were "probably fine."
You were not fine.
By the time he had gotten you to the emergency room, you could barely walk without crying.
That...
That sound.
It lodged itself somewhere behind his ribs.
Happy had never admitted fear to another living soul, but sitting in a stiff plastic hospital chair while nurses wheeled you away for scans had been the closest he'd ever come to understanding outright panic.
Appendicitis.
Your appendix was close to rupturing.
Emergency surgery.
Words that doctors delivered calmly because they said them every day.
Words that sounded like execution orders to Happy.
He barely remembered signing papers they shoved toward him. Barely remembered Chibs arriving after Happy apparently called him without remembering doing it. Barely remembered anyone speaking.
He only remembered the operating room doors closing.
And waiting.
Jesus Christ.
Waiting.
For two hours Happy sat completely motionless except for one habit nobody had ever seen before.
His thumb rubbed slowly across the edge of your necklace.
Your necklace.
Because they'd handed your belongings to him.
Phone.
Wallet.
Necklace.
Shoes.
Like pieces of you.
Every few minutes someone would tell him surgery was routine.
Routine.
Happy wanted to put his fist through every wall in the building every time someone used that word.
Routine wasn't watching someone you—
...
Someone who mattered.
Someone whose smile had quietly become the best part of every damn week.
Routine wasn't hearing you cry because you hurt too much to stand.
Routine wasn't imagining every possible thing that could go wrong while being completely unable to do a single damn thing about it.
He hated helplessness.
More than bullets.
More than jail.
More than death.
Because helplessness meant all he could do was sit there while strangers cut you open.
When the surgeon finally appeared and said,
"She's okay."
Happy actually had to close his eyes.
Just once.
Just long enough that everyone noticed his shoulders finally drop. Wisely, no one commented on it.
Recovery apparently came with narcotics.
Narcotics, Happy would soon learn, turned you into someone entirely different.
The nurse smiled knowingly as she wheeled you into recovery.
"You might notice she's... affectionate."
Happy frowned.
"...Affectionate."
"Oh, yes."
"..."
"...Very affectionate."
He didn't understand.
Not until your sleepy eyes opened.
Your gaze wandered around the room before landing directly on him.
Your entire face lit up with drugged, blissful delight.
"Haaaaaappy."
The word came out stretched into several unnecessary syllables.
His heart immediately did something deeply inconvenient.
He stepped closer.
"I'm here."
"There you are."
"...Yeah."
"I missed you."
"You've... been asleep."
"I know." You smiled dreamily. "I still missed you."
The nurse made a suspiciously muffled sound behind him.
Happy ignored her.
You lifted one hand weakly.
"Come here."
He already was.
"No."
You frowned dramatically.
"Closer."
He leaned in another inch.
You frowned harder.
"Happy."
"What."
"You're too far."
He was approximately eight inches away.
Without another word, he moved until he stood directly beside the bed.
Apparently still unacceptable.
You reached out with surprising determination, grabbed the front of his kutte, and tugged.
"Closer."
"I'm right—"
"Closer."
"..."
He leaned over.
Immediately both of your hands found his face.
The nurse outright smiled.
Happy pretended she didn't exist.
"There."
You sighed happily.
"Perfect."
Your thumbs lazily stroked his cheeks.
"You have nice face."
"...Thanks."
"So grumpy."
"..."
"But nice."
He had absolutely no response prepared for being complimented by someone—you—high on pain medication while they held his face like he was made of glass.
"So handsome."
The nurse definitely snorted.
Happy stared at the wall.
"You should stop talking."
"No."
"No?"
"I like talking about you."
Christ.
He was going to die.
Over the next twenty-four hours it became painfully obvious that your pain medication had exactly one side effect.
You became catastrophically attached to Happy.
If he stood up—
"Where're you going?"
"Coffee."
"...Why?"
"So I don't fall asleep."
"I don't want you to go."
"..."
"I'll miss you."
"You'll miss me for forty-five seconds."
"That's forever."
"..."
"Stay."
So he stayed.
If a nurse came in to check your vitals—
"Can Happy stay?"
"Of course."
"He better."
Happy silently remained in the corner.
If someone asked whether you wanted anything—
"Happy."
"No," the nurse clarified gently. "Anything to eat."
"Oh."
Pause.
"...Can Happy eat?"
He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.
Chibs visited on the second day.
He walked into the room carrying flowers.
Stopped.
Blinking.
Because Happy was sitting in the chair beside your bed.
Your hand was wrapped around two of his fingers.
Happy wasn't moving.
Because every single time he'd tried to gently free himself...
You woke up.
Immediately.
Like some tiny clingy alarm system.
"You've got to be kidding me," Chibs muttered.
Happy looked dead inside.
"You laugh."
"Oh, I absolutely am."
You opened one eye.
"Chibs."
"Hello, lass."
"You came."
"Aye."
You smiled.
Then looked at Happy.
"Proud."
Happy frowned.
"What."
"You stayed."
"..."
"You always stay."
The room became very quiet.
Because there wasn't a single joking tone left in your voice.
Just sleepy certainty.
"You make everything less scary."
Happy forgot how to breathe.
Your eyes had already drifted closed again.
"I like waking up..." Tiny pause. "...and you're there."
Asleep again.
Just like that.
Drugged honesty.
Chibs looked slowly toward Happy.
"...Well."
Happy rubbed one hand over his jaw.
"...Yeah."
"...Ye alright?"
"No."
"Didn't think so."
Recovery at home somehow became worse.
Happy would sit on the couch.
Within thirty seconds—
You.
Curled against him.
Happy would stand to get water.
Tiny footsteps.
You followed.
"Need something?"
"No."
"...Then why're you following me?"
"You left."
"I went ten feet."
"I know."
"..."
"I wanted to come too."
Happy looked upward as if the ceiling might explain why this was happening.
It did not.
Every evening you insisted on falling asleep with one hand hooked into his shirt.
Every nap ended with your face buried against his shoulder.
Every painkiller made you more openly affectionate.
"You smell nice."
"..."
"You have comfy chest."
"..."
"I like your heartbeat."
"..."
"It sounds safe."
Happy had survived cartel wars.
Federal investigations.
Multiple prison sentences.
Rival gangs.
Getting hit by a truck once, being thrown from his bike, being shot, stabbed, and beaten.
Tig Trager.
None of them prepared him for hearing you mumble, half-asleep, that his heartbeat sounded safe.
About a week later, the medication was reduced.
You were sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket while Happy quietly changed the bandage over your healing incision with infinitely more gentleness than anyone would have believed possible from a man like him.
You watched him for several long seconds.
"...Happy?"
"Hm."
"I need to ask something."
"What."
"Were..." You hesitated. "...Were the drugs making me weird?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"...Depends."
"Oh no."
"You got clingy."
You covered your face.
"...Please tell me I wasn't awful."
"No."
"I talked too much, didn't I?"
"...Yeah."
"I embarrassed myself."
"..."
"I definitely embarrassed myself."
"You called my face nice."
Your hands slid higher over your eyes.
"Oh my God."
"You said my heartbeat sounded safe."
A tiny groan escaped you.
"I'm moving to another state."
"You ain't."
"I have to."
"You don't."
"I flirted with you while hallucinating."
"You weren't hallucinating."
"Oh, that's somehow worse."
Happy finished taping the fresh dressing into place before sitting beside you.
Silence settled between you.
Soft.
Comfortable.
Then he spoke without looking at you.
"...Wasn't just the meds."
You lowered your hands.
"What?"
He rubbed both palms slowly over his jeans, something he only did when he was genuinely unsettled.
"...You trust me."
"I do."
"You reached for me."
"Always."
"..."
"...Happy?"
"I've been trying real hard..." he admitted quietly, "...not to scare you."
Your heart skipped.
"What?"
"You."
He finally looked at you.
Those steady dark eyes looked almost uncertain, which somehow shook you more than if he'd shouted.
"Been trying not to want too much."
"..."
"Didn't think I got to."
Your eyes softened.
"Happy..."
"You saying you wanted me there..." His voice grew rough. "...every time you woke up."
He swallowed once.
"...Kinda ruined me."
You stared at him.
"You know..." Your smile was small. "...I wasn't lying."
"What."
"When I said waking up and seeing you made everything less scary."
His expression barely changed.
Only barely.
But you saw it.
The tiny fracture in the armor.
"I wasn't saying that because of the medication."
"You don't remember half of it."
"I remember enough."
You reached for him this time completely sober.
Slowly.
Giving him every chance to pull away.
Instead, he met you halfway.
Your fingers slipped into his larger hand.
Warm.
Steady.
Certain.
"I wanted you there," you whispered. "Not because I was scared of surgery."
"No?"
"I was scared of losing the chance to tell you..." You laughed softly. "...that somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you."
Happy stared.
Actually stared.
As though every thought he'd had for the past several years had simply stopped functioning.
"You..."
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"So unbelievably sure."
His laugh came unexpectedly—quiet, almost disbelieving, a single breath of sound that escaped despite himself.
"You damn near scared me to death."
"I know."
"Don't ever do that again."
"I'll try very hard not to grow another appendix."
"Hm."
He leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against yours, his eyes closing as relief finally, finally settled into bones that had carried too much fear for the past week.
"I love you," he murmured, the words rough from disuse, like something he'd kept locked away for years because saying them made him vulnerable in ways violence never could. "Been loving you longer than's probably healthy."
You smiled, your eyes stinging.
"Took emergency surgery to get us here."
"...Yeah."
"Worth it?"
He looked at you like the answer had never required thought.
"No."
You blinked.
His mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile.
"...But getting you?"
His fingers tightened around yours before he kissed your forehead with a tenderness that would have shocked every hardened outlaw who knew him.
"Yeah," he whispered. "That part was."
And from that day forward, whenever you woke in the middle of the night—whether from lingering soreness, bad dreams, or nothing at all—you never had to wonder if he'd be there.
Happy Lowman had already decided, sometime between the operating room doors closing and hearing the surgeon tell him you were alive, that if the universe gave you back to him, he wasn't wasting another second pretending you weren't where his heart had quietly made its home all along.
You're healing a large tattoo and someone slaps it as a joke. Happy almost commits a felony.
The tattoo took up nearly the entire left side of your ribs, sweeping from just beneath your breast down toward your hip in intricate black and grey linework that had taken almost eight hours to finish over two sessions, and healing it had become a full-time occupation between carefully washing it, moisturizing it, sleeping on your opposite side, wearing loose shirts that barely brushed the skin, and politely warning absolutely everyone within arm's reach that if they touched it they were probably going to hear language that would make sailors blush.
SAMCRO had actually been surprisingly respectful.
Juice reminded everyone every ten minutes.
"Fresh ink," he'd announce dramatically whenever someone wandered too close. "Back off. You don't poke healing tattoos."
Chibs had nodded wisely.
Bobby had agreed.
Tig had looked offended that anyone thought he'd touch a fresh tattoo without permission.
Happy...
Happy didn't need reminding.
Happy noticed every tiny wince before you even made it.
He'd silently shifted chairs so nobody accidentally bumped your side during dinners. He'd opened doors so you didn't have to twist awkwardly. When someone nearly hugged you three days earlier, Happy had simply cleared his throat once.
The hug never happened.
Nobody questioned why.
Happy hadn't.
He just... looked after you.
Quietly.
Constantly.
Like breathing.
It had become such a normal thing that nobody really acknowledged it anymore.
Not until the visiting charter rolled into Charming.
Three bikes thundered into the lot just after lunch, leather cuts from another California charter patched across broad shoulders, laughter echoing through the yard as introductions were made and beers were handed out.
You knew enough about club culture to stay polite but mostly keep out of the way.
They were guests.
Guests eventually became family for a day.
You smiled, introduced yourself when introduced, and settled onto one of the picnic benches with a lemonade instead of beer.
Happy lingered nearby, pretending he wasn't watching.
He was cleaning one of his knives.
For twenty straight minutes.
Juice eventually leaned over.
"You've cleaned that thing four times."
Happy didn't look up.
"Still dirty."
"It is literally shining."
"...Mm."
Everyone ignored him.
Mostly because everyone knew exactly what he was doing.
Watching you.
Not possessively.
Not in a controlling way.
Just...
Keeping an eye on you.
You laughed at something Bobby said, and Happy's shoulders visibly relaxed.
Then one of the visiting bikers wandered over.
Big guy.
Probably early forties.
Loud.
The kind who mistook volume for personality.
"You the artist's canvas?" he asked, nodding toward the loose tank top hanging off one shoulder.
You smiled politely.
"Something like that."
"Heard you got fresh work."
"I did."
"Let's see."
"It's healing."
"Aww, c'mon."
"I'd really rather not."
Happy's knife stopped moving.
Across the yard.
Without looking up.
Without saying anything.
The biker chuckled.
"Relax. Ain't gonna hurt."
"It actually would."
"Nah."
"It really would."
Instead of taking the very obvious hint...
He reached out.
Not maliciously.
Not aggressively.
Just stupidly.
He grabbed the hem of your tank top, lifting it just enough to expose the edge of the very fresh tattoo.
"Oh damn, that's—"
Before you could even finish saying, "Please don't—"
SMACK.
His open palm landed square against the healing tattoo.
Not hard enough to injure.
More like the kind of playful slap someone gives a friend's shoulder.
But on a healing tattoo...
The pain exploded across your side like someone had dragged sandpaper over an open wound.
Your breath vanished.
You folded slightly, one hand flying instinctively to protect your ribs.
"Jesus—"
You didn't even finish.
Because something else happened first.
Metal clattered against concrete.
Happy's knife.
He'd dropped it.
Nobody had ever seen Happy Lowman drop anything.
He crossed the yard so fast it honestly didn't register that he'd moved.
One second he was twenty feet away.
The next—
He caught the visitor by the front of his kutte with one hand.
The other wrapped around the man's throat.
Not squeezing.
Yet.
But enough.
Enough that boots left the ground for half a second.
The entire yard went dead silent.
Happy's voice was terrifying because he wasn't shouting.
He never shouted.
He spoke quietly.
Coldly.
"Don't
Touch."
A beat.
"My."
Another beat.
"Girl."
The final word sounded almost accidental.
Like he'd only realized he'd said it after it left his mouth.
Nobody else seemed interested in pointing that out.
The visiting biker's eyes widened.
"I—I didn't—"
"You hit her."
"It was a joke."
Happy's grip tightened just enough that the man immediately stopped trying to explain.
"A joke."
"Happy—"
"You struck healing skin."
"I didn't know—"
"You were told."
"I—"
"You were told."
Everyone remembered.
You had said it.
Twice.
Happy had heard every word.
The biker swallowed.
"I wasn't thinking."
"No." Happy agreed. "You weren't."
You were still holding your side, breathing through the lingering sting, when Chibs quietly muttered beside Bobby—
"...He's about three seconds from murder."
Bobby nodded.
"Aye."
Juice whispered...
"...Should we—"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because Happy's deciding."
"...Deciding what?"
"If felony charges are worth it."
Tig rubbed his face.
"I think we're already past deciding."
The visiting president stepped forward carefully.
"Happy."
Nothing.
"Brother."
Still nothing.
"It was stupid."
Silence.
"He apologizes."
Happy looked at him.
Then back at the man still dangling slightly from his grip.
"You apologizing because your president told you."
"Y—."
"Wrong answer."
His grip tightened again.
The man wheezed.
Then you finally managed—
"...Happy."
Nothing.
You tried again.
A little stronger.
"Happy."
His head turned instantly.
Like your voice alone cut through everything.
You stepped closer despite the ache in your ribs.
"It's okay."
"No. It hurt."
"I'll be okay."
"I know."
"He was stupid."
"I know."
"So..."
You reached up carefully.
Not touching the hand around the biker's throat, just resting your fingers lightly against Happy's wrist, the one closest to you, still clenched around the other man's kutte..
His entire body froze.
You looked up at him.
"For me?"
Those two words did what six grown bikers couldn't. Probably—definitely— because he'd always do whatever you asked.
His breathing slowed.
Barely.
His fingers loosened.
Slowly.
The visitor stumbled backward the second Happy released him, coughing violently while putting an impressive amount of distance between himself and you.
Happy didn't spare him another glance.
Instead he looked directly at your side.
"You bleeding?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"I think so."
"You think."
"I'm pretty sure."
He was already crouching, fingers gently lifting the edge of your shirt just enough to inspect the tattoo himself, his movements impossibly careful, fingertips hovering rather than touching as he checked for swelling or broken skin.
"So gentle," Juice whispered to Chibs.
"Aye."
"I've seen him stab people."
"Aye."
Happy frowned at the reddened skin.
"It'll bruise."
"Probably."
"You need ointment."
"I've got some."
"You'll forget."
"I won't."
"You will."
You smiled.
"So you'll remind me?"
His eyes lifted to yours.
"I'll do it."
The words came without hesitation.
Like there had never been another possible answer.
"I'll clean it."
Silence.
"I'll wrap it."
Another pause.
"I'll make sure it heals."
Something impossibly soft settled over your expression.
"You really care."
Happy looked genuinely confused.
"'Course I do."
"No," you laughed quietly. "I mean..."
You looked around the yard.
At everyone watching.
At the man who had nearly been strangled.
Back to Happy.
"You almost killed someone."
"He hurt you."
"It wasn't on purpose."
"He hurt you."
"You almost committed a felony."
"Committed felonies before."
A few snorts escaped around the yard.
Even Chibs couldn't stop himself.
Happy ignored everyone.
He was still looking at you.
Still checking your face for signs you were hiding how much it hurt.
Still worrying.
Always worrying.
You reached for his hand.
Actually took it this time.
His fingers stiffened in surprise.
Then slowly curled around yours.
"Thank you."
He stared.
"I appreciate that you wanted to protect me."
Silence.
"I'd also rather not have to visit you in prison."
A tiny huff escaped him.
Not quite a laugh.
Close.
"So..." You squeezed his hand. "Maybe next time ask me if I need help before attempting homicide?"
He thought about it.
For an alarmingly long time.
"...I'll try."
The entire yard burst into laughter.
Even the visiting charter.
Even the man who'd nearly become a cautionary tale.
Later that evening, after everyone else had drifted inside the clubhouse, you found Happy sitting alone outside beneath the fading gold of the California sunset, turning a fresh tub of tattoo ointment over in his hands because, true to his word, he'd quietly gone into town and bought another one without mentioning it to anyone.
"You actually did."
"I said I would."
You sat beside him carefully.
He immediately shifted so your healing side wasn't touching the bench.
Instinct.
Again.
"You know..." you murmured, "...when you called me your girl..."
His shoulders locked.
"I..."
"You didn't mean to say it."
"No."
"But?"
He looked away.
"I wanted to." The honesty landed between you like something sacred. "I've wanted to for a while."
Your heartbeat sped up.
"You never said anything."
"You deserve better timing than..." He gestured vaguely toward the clubhouse. "...attempted strangulation."
You laughed so hard you had to hold your ribs.
"Ouch."
Instant regret flashed across his face.
"Sorry."
"No." You smiled through the ache. "That was worth it."
You reached over.
Took his hand again.
"I was actually hoping you'd ask eventually."
Happy blinked.
"...Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"I've been waiting."
He stared at you for several long seconds before lifting your joined hands and pressing the gentlest kiss imaginable against your knuckles, treating you with infinitely more care than he ever treated himself.
"So..." you whispered.
"So."
"Guess I am your girl now."
This time, when Happy smiled, it was small enough that most people would've missed it entirely.
You didn't.
Because it was yours.
And when he leaned over to kiss you—slow, careful, lingering, one hand cupping the uninjured side of your face as though you were something impossibly precious—the clubhouse windows filled with an audience of grinning Sons who immediately erupted into cheers loud enough to make birds scatter from the nearby trees.
Happy didn't even look at them.
He simply rested his forehead against yours, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek.
"Anybody touches your tattoo again," he murmured quietly enough that only you could hear, "I'm not promising to stop at almost."
You smiled, stealing one more kiss.
"I know."
Somehow, knowing exactly how fiercely you were loved made the lingering sting in your side seem very, very small.
He finally works up the nerve to kiss you. It was supposed to be one quick kiss. Instead, he forgets literally everything else exists.
look man, i just wanna kiss this man.. a lot
By the time Happy Lowman admitted to himself that he was going to kiss you, he had already spent the better part of two years convincing himself he absolutely wasn't.
It wasn't that he didn't want to.
That was the problem.
He wanted to with a terrifying, relentless certainty that made a man who had faced federal agents, rival clubs, prison cells, and enough gunfire to last several lifetimes feel strangely, absurdly afraid.
Forty-nine years old.
You were twenty-four.
He'd spent months trying to reason himself out of it. You deserved someone younger. Someone easier. Someone who smiled more and carried fewer ghosts beneath their skin. Someone who hadn't built an entire life around violence and loyalty and blood. Every time those thoughts settled into his head, though, you would appear beside him with that soft little smile you reserved just for him, hand him a coffee exactly the way he liked it without asking, thank him for fixing something around your apartment, or simply stand close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
You trusted him.
That somehow made everything worse.
Because Happy would have gladly died for you.
Living with wanting you every single day was proving much harder.
The clubhouse was unusually quiet.
Most of SAMCRO had gone into town for dinner after wrapping up club business, leaving only a handful of bikes outside and music playing softly somewhere deeper inside the building.
Happy had volunteered to stay behind.
Mostly because you had.
You were sitting on one of the picnic tables outside with your legs crossed beneath you, absentmindedly peeling the label off a bottle of beer while the evening settled over Charming in shades of amber and fading blue.
Happy stood leaning against the railing.
Watching you.
Again.
You eventually looked up.
"You know staring is generally considered rude."
"I know."
"...You gonna stop?"
"No."
That made you laugh.
God.
That laugh.
It was warm enough to make his chest physically ache.
"You've been weird all day," you observed.
"I've been me."
"Worse than normal."
"...Yeah."
You tilted your head.
Concern immediately replaced your teasing smile.
"You okay?"
He should've lied.
Instead, because you deserved honesty if nothing else, he shook his head once.
"No."
You stood immediately.
No hesitation.
No questions.
Just crossed the space between you until you were standing barely a foot away from him.
"What happened?"
"Nothin'."
"Doesn't look like nothing."
"I know."
Silence settled comfortably between the two of you.
You never rushed him. Never demanded words he wasn't ready to give.
You simply waited.
Happy had discovered months ago that you were one of the only people alive capable of waiting him out.
Eventually you sighed softly.
"You know..." Your fingers lightly brushed the sleeve of his kutte. "You don't always have to carry everything yourself."
Jesus Christ.
Did you have any idea what you did to him?
Probably not.
Your hand stayed resting against his arm.
Small.
Warm.
Trusting. So trusting.
Happy looked down at it.
Then back at you.
Your eyes searched his face with that impossible gentleness that always made him feel like someone had peeled away every layer of armor he'd spent decades building.
He thought—
Just one kiss.
One.
He could do one.
One kiss to finally answer the question that had haunted him for years.
One kiss so he could finally stop wondering what it would feel like.
Then he'd apologize.
Tell you he'd crossed a line.
Accept whatever happened afterward.
Simple.
His hand came up slowly, almost cautiously, as though he expected you to disappear before he reached you.
His knuckles brushed your cheek.
You didn't move away.
Your eyes widened just a little.
"Happy..."
"If you don't want—"
Instead of answering, you leaned into his hand.
Just enough. Barely any movement.
But it was enough to completely dismantle whatever fragile self-control he'd brought with him.
He bent down.
Slowly enough to give you every opportunity to stop him.
You didn't.
Your eyes slipped closed.
So did his.
And then—
Finally—
After years of wanting—
He kissed you.
It was soft.
God, so soft.
Nothing like the desperate fantasies that had tormented him during sleepless nights.
Reality was infinitely worse.
Or better.
Your lips were warm.
You made the smallest little surprised sound against his mouth before melting toward him, one hand finding the front of his shirt almost instinctively.
Happy's entire world stopped.
That was it.
Nothing else.
No motorcycles.
No club.
No California.
No violence.
No responsibilities.
Just...
You.
You kissing him back.
His brain, normally so painfully alert to every sound and movement around him, simply ceased functioning.
One kiss became another.
And another.
His thumb slid gently along your cheek.
You sighed against his mouth.
His other hand found your waist.
Pulled you closer without even realizing he'd done it.
The kiss deepened naturally.
Not rushed.
Not frantic.
Just impossibly intimate.
Years of longing poured into something that neither of you had words for.
Happy forgot to breathe.
Forgot where he was standing.
Forgot his own damn name.
The only coherent thought left in his head was you.
You smiled into the kiss.
Actually smiled.
Which immediately made him kiss you again.
Then again.
He tilted his head slightly.
Your fingers slid upward to the back of his neck, nails raking gently over the ink crawling over his scalp.
Happy made a low, involuntary sound that he would've denied making until the day he died.
He kissed you harder.
You answered without hesitation.
His forehead bumped yours briefly.
Neither of you laughed.
Instead he stared at you from inches away as though he couldn't quite believe you were real.
"...Hi," you whispered.
"...Hi."
"You were only planning one kiss, weren't you?"
"...Yeah."
"Mhm..." You barely brushed your lips against his again. "...How's that going?"
He answered by kissing you.
Again.
Longer this time.
His hands settled more confidently around your waist, carefully, reverently, like you were something infinitely precious.
Time disappeared.
Completely.
"So..." Tig's voice echoed from somewhere nearby. "...Should we come back later?"
Happy didn't hear him.
Didn't even blink.
You certainly didn't.
Juice snorted.
"I don't think they know we're here."
"They definitely don't know we're here," Chibs muttered, folding his arms with an expression that bordered on smug amusement. "Look at him."
Jax looked genuinely fascinated.
"I have literally never seen Happy ignore his surroundings."
Bobby chuckled.
"I don't think he's capable of noticing anything except her."
Tig watched the two of you continue kissing beneath the porch light.
"...Is..."
Another kiss.
"...He..."
Another.
"...Seriously..."
Happy gently rested his forehead against yours.
You smiled.
He immediately kissed you again.
"...Still going?"
"They've been standing there ten minutes," Juice informed him.
"Twelve," Chibs corrected.
"Twelve?"
Happy brushed your nose with his.
You giggled.
He looked completely captivated by the sound.
Then kissed you again.
Tig threw both hands into the air.
"I have seen this man shoot someone, eat a sandwich, and reload a gun without changing facial expressions."
Another kiss.
"I've seen him sleep sitting upright."
Another.
"I've seen him threaten a cartel lieutenant while calmly discussing motor oil."
Another.
"And this is what breaks him?"
Chibs grinned.
"Aye."
Happy finally opened his eyes.
Only because you had quietly whispered his name.
"What?"
Your smile had become impossibly fond.
"I think..." You nodded toward the increasingly entertained audience. "...we have company."
Happy turned.
Saw the club.
Staring.
Silence.
A beat passed.
Happy looked back at you.
Shrugged once.
Then kissed you again.
Behind him, Tig groaned dramatically.
"Oh, come on!"
Laughter erupted across the porch.
Happy ignored every single one of them.
When he finally pulled away, your cheeks were flushed, your lips were slightly swollen from entirely too many kisses, and your eyes held the same dazed happiness he suspected was reflected in his own.
"You know," you murmured, fingers still curled around the front of his shirt, "that definitely wasn't one quick kiss."
"No."
"You forgot everything else existed."
"...Yeah."
"And now the entire club is making fun of you."
Happy glanced over his shoulder.
Every single one of them was still watching.
Tig was gesturing dramatically.
Juice was laughing so hard he had to lean against Bobby.
Chibs simply looked pleased in the deeply irritating way only Chibs could.
Happy looked back at you.
Then, with absolutely no shame whatsoever, cupped your face once more.
"Worth it."
Your smile was brilliant.
You leaned up onto your toes and stole another gentle kiss.
"...What happens now?"
His answer came without hesitation, the certainty surprising even him.
"I take you home."
Home.
Not your apartment.
Not his place.
Just...home.
Somewhere, eventually, where mornings meant coffee together and evenings meant you tucked safely beneath his arm. Somewhere he no longer had to pretend you weren't already the center of his world.
You slipped your hand into his.
He laced his fingers through yours immediately, like he'd been waiting years to do exactly that.
Behind you, Tig shouted something about "finally" while the others laughed.
Neither of you paid them the slightest bit of attention.
Happy had intended to steal one quick kiss.
Instead, he'd found the woman he loved smiling up at him, her hand warm in his, and realized he'd happily spend the rest of his life forgetting the rest of the world every time she looked at him like that.
Happy doesn’t know how to flirt like a normal person, so his version of courtship is silently standing too close and threatening people who annoy you.
reader has an evil ex
The first time Happy Lowman threatened someone for you, you genuinely thought he was going to kill a man over a parking spot.
Which, in hindsight, probably should have been your first clue.
You’d lived in Charming for almost eight months by then.
Eight months of trying very hard to keep your life small, uncomplicated, and quiet.
You worked at the feed store on the edge of town because it paid decently and because no one expected much from you there beyond stocking shelves, carrying bags, and ringing up customers. You rented a tiny duplex with perpetually crooked blinds and a water heater that screamed like a dying animal every morning. You kept mostly to yourself.
And you absolutely did not get involved with bikers.
That last part had been easy enough initially.
Everyone in Charming knew the Sons of Anarchy. They rolled through town like they owned it because, honestly, they kind of did. Loud motorcycles. Louder personalities. Men that looked dangerous in ways that made normal people instinctively move aside.
You’d learned quickly that the smartest thing you could do was be polite, mind your business, and never ask questions you didn’t want answers to.
Most of them were harmless enough to you.
One flirted shamelessly.
One complained constantly.
One had asked you for aspirin four separate times in a single week.
And then there was Happy.
Who mostly just stared.
It was deeply unsettling.
Not because he was ugly.
Unfortunately, the man was devastating to look at.
Tall. Broad. Dark eyes that never seemed to blink enough. Tattoos crawling across his scalp and disappearing beneath black T-shirts. Heavy boots. Heavy hands. Heavy silence.
He looked like violence wrapped in skin.
And he stared at you constantly.
Not in a normal way.
Not in a flirtatious way.
Just… intensely.
Like he was trying to solve you.
The first few times he came into the feed store, you’d assumed he was waiting for someone.
Then you realized he was absolutely watching you.
Not talking.
Not smiling.
Just standing there.
Watching.
It got worse after you made the mistake of being nice to him.
Which really shouldn’t have counted as a mistake, but apparently it did.
He’d come in one rainy afternoon drenched nearly through his cut, carrying a leaking cardboard box.
You’d glanced over the counter.
“Need help?”
“No.”
The box meowed.
You blinked.
Happy stared at you.
The box meowed again.
“…is that a kitten?”
A pause.
“Yeah.”
“Why do you have a kitten?”
Another pause.
“Found it.”
You looked at the enormous tattooed biker holding a tiny soaking wet kitten in a collapsing cardboard box.
The image nearly broke your brain.
“Oh my God.”
Happy frowned immediately.
“What?”
“Nothing.” You bit your lip hard to stop smiling. “It’s just… weirdly adorable.”
The silence that followed was catastrophic.
Because apparently Happy Lowman had no idea what to do with compliments.
He stared at you for a solid ten seconds.
Then at the kitten.
Then back at you.
“…huh.”
That had been the beginning.
After that, he started showing up constantly.
Never for long.
Never with any obvious reason.
Sometimes he bought things.
Sometimes he didn’t.
But he always lingered near you like a particularly dangerous storm cloud.
And the longer it went on, the more bizarrely protective he became.
It started small.
A customer snapping at you because you were out of stock on horse feed.
Happy appeared silently beside the man before you could even answer.
“Problem?”
The customer visibly paled.
“Nope.”
Then left immediately.
You stared after him.
Happy stared at you.
“…did you just intimidate a man for being rude to me?”
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
“He was annoying you.”
Like that explained everything.
Which, to him, apparently it did.
After that, it escalated.
Someone cut in front of you at the coffee shop.
Happy appeared.
A guy at the gas station looked at you too long.
Happy appeared.
One drunk idiot at the bar grabbed your wrist while trying to flirt.
Happy didn’t just appear.
He materialised.
One second the guy was grinning stupidly.
The next, Happy had him shoved against a wall with one tattooed hand around his throat.
“Touch her again,” Happy said conversationally, “and I’ll remove the hand.”
The bar had gone dead silent.
You were frozen.
The drunk man looked moments from passing out.
And Happy looked perfectly calm.
Not angry.
Not emotional.
Just matter-of-fact.
Like discussing weather.
You grabbed his arm immediately.
“Happy.”
His eyes flicked to you instantly.
You felt the shift in him like electricity.
Still dangerous.
Still lethal.
But suddenly focused entirely on you.
“Let him go.”
A beat.
Then he released the man.
The drunk stumbled away so fast he nearly fell.
Happy watched him leave before looking back at you.
“You okay?”
The concern in his voice hit you harder than the violence had.
Because it was real.
Completely genuine.
Like your answer actually mattered to him.
“I’m fine,” you said carefully.
He nodded once.
Then stayed standing beside you the rest of the night like an attack dog pretending not to guard something.
Which was when Juice finally lost his mind laughing.
“Oh my God,” he wheezed from across the pool table. “He’s courting you.”
Happy’s head snapped toward him.
Juice continued anyway because apparently self-preservation wasn’t high on his priority list.
“This is literally how Happy flirts.”
You blinked.
“…what?”
Chibs looked deeply entertained.
“Told ye, brother. Ye cannae just threaten everybody she talks tae.”
“I don’t.”
“All ye do is threaten people she talks tae.”
Happy looked offended.
“You threatened a cashier because she looked tired,” Tig informed you cheerfully.
“She was rude.”
“She asked if you wanted a receipt.”
“She sounded aggressive.”
You stared.
The table collectively dissolved into laughter.
Happy looked increasingly irritated.
Mostly because nobody seemed to understand that he was being completely reasonable.
That was the terrifying part.
He genuinely thought this was normal behavior.
“Wait,” you said slowly. “Are you actually flirting with me?”
Happy looked at you.
Then away.
Then back again.
“…yeah.”
You nearly choked.
“That’s flirting to you?”
A shrug.
“I don’t know.”
And somehow that was worse.
Because he sounded so genuinely uncertain.
Like he knew he was probably doing this wrong but had absolutely no idea how else to do it.
Tig cackled.
“She’s gonna have to teach you how to people, Hap.”
Happy ignored him completely.
Still watching you.
Waiting.
You realized suddenly that he looked tense.
Actually tense.
Like your reaction mattered far more than he wanted it to.
And that realization did something deeply unfortunate to your heart.
Because Happy Lowman was terrifying.
But he’d also apparently been trying to court you for weeks like a feral guard dog that found a favorite person.
You pressed your lips together hard.
“…you know most people buy flowers.”
“I can buy flowers.”
“No threatening florists.”
“I wasn’t gonna threaten the florist.”
Juice snorted.
“Liar.”
Happy glared at him.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
The sound made Happy go still.
Not visibly.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed.
But you did.
His shoulders relaxed slightly.
His expression softened almost imperceptibly.
Like hearing you laugh affected him physically.
And suddenly you understood why everyone at the table looked so fascinated.
Happy Lowman was gone for you.
Completely.
It only got worse from there.
Or better.
Depending on who you asked.
Happy started picking you up from work without ever technically asking if you wanted rides.
You’d walk out of the feed store at closing time and find him leaning against his bike.
Silent.
Waiting.
The first time, you’d blinked at him.
“…what are you doing?”
“Taking you home.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
A shrug.
“You got followed last week.”
Your stomach dropped.
“You knew about that?”
Happy stared at you like the answer was obvious.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Another look.
“You think I wouldn’t know?”
Which somehow wasn’t an answer and yet absolutely was.
You had, in fact, been followed.
Nothing dramatic.
A man in a truck lingering too long behind your car after work. Following two turns too many.
You’d eventually lost him by pulling into a crowded grocery store parking lot.
You hadn’t told anyone.
Apparently that didn’t matter.
Happy knew anyway.
A cold realization crept up your spine.
“…how much do you know about my life?”
Happy considered the question seriously.
“Enough.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“You’re safe.”
Again, like that explained everything.
Maybe to him it did.
You should have been alarmed.
Maybe you were a little.
But mostly you felt something warm and terrifying bloom beneath your ribs.
Because no one had ever made you feel protected before.
Not really.
Not without strings attached.
Not without making you feel weak for needing it.
Happy never acted like your safety was an inconvenience.
He treated it like fact.
Like breathing.
Like if someone scared you, that became his problem automatically.
Which was deeply insane.
And dangerously addictive.
So you let him drive you home.
The ride itself was another problem.
You’d never been on a motorcycle before.
Happy handed you a helmet.
“Hold on.”
“That’s all the instruction I get?”
“Don’t fall off.”
“Very reassuring.”
A tiny pause.
Then, quietly:
“I won’t let you.”
Your heart did something embarrassing.
You climbed on behind him.
The second the bike moved, instinct took over.
You grabbed his waist.
Happy inhaled sharply.
You felt it.
Every muscle in his body tightening beneath your hands.
“…you okay?” you asked over the engine.
“Yeah.”
He sounded strangled.
The ride home was fast.
Not reckless.
Just smooth and controlled and terrifyingly intimate.
Your chest pressed against his back.
Your hands locked around his stomach.
His body heat surrounding you entirely.
By the time he parked outside your duplex, your pulse was all over the place.
You climbed off carefully.
Happy stayed seated on the bike watching you.
“You don’t gotta keep doing this,” you said softly.
“Want me to stop?”
The question landed heavier than it should have.
Because he sounded genuinely prepared to.
Immediately.
If you asked.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then shook your head.
“…no.”
Something warm flickered briefly through his eyes.
“Okay.”
That should have been the end of it.
Instead, he started showing up nearly every day.
Not clingy.
Happy would probably rather die than admit to clinginess.
But consistent.
Steady.
Like he’d silently decided your life was now part of his routine.
Coffee left on the counter during your morning shifts.
Your car mysteriously repaired after mentioning a weird noise once.
A space heater appearing outside your apartment after your heater broke.
You never saw him deliver these things.
They simply… appeared.
Like a very violent ghost trying to provide enrichment.
The club found the entire thing hysterical.
“You know he threatened a mechanic for overcharging you?” Juice told you one afternoon.
You looked up from your drink.
“He what?”
“Guy tried charging extra because you’re a woman.”
“Happy scared him so bad he fixed your brakes for free,” Tig added.
“He did not.”
“Oh, he absolutely did.”
Across the clubhouse, Happy sat at the bar pretending not to listen.
Which would have been more convincing if his attention wasn’t visibly locked on your conversation.
You stared at him.
“…you threatened my mechanic?”
Happy shrugged.
“He was a dick.”
“That doesn’t mean you can menace people.”
“He can.” Tig grinned. “That’s kinda his thing.”
Happy ignored him.
Still watching you carefully.
Like he was trying to determine whether you were actually upset.
You sighed.
“You cannot solve all my problems by threatening people.”
A pause.
“Can solve most.”
Juice nearly fell off his chair laughing.
And God help you, you laughed too.
Happy’s expression softened again.
That tiny almost-smile threatening the corner of his mouth.
You were beginning to realize he liked making you laugh.
A lot.
Not because he was naturally funny.
He wasn’t.
At all.
But because your happiness affected him in a way he didn’t know how to hide.
It was written all over him.
In the way he watched you.
In the way he automatically moved closer whenever you entered a room.
In the way his entire body subtly tracked your position like gravity.
And the worst part?
You were getting used to it.
Used to his presence.
Used to his quiet attention.
Used to feeling absurdly safe whenever he was nearby.
Which became painfully obvious the night your ex showed up.
You hadn’t seen Daniel in over a year.
Not since leaving Stockton.
Not since finally realizing that love wasn’t supposed to feel like constantly apologizing for existing.
The relationship had never crossed into physical violence.
And you’d spent years making yourself smaller trying to avoid triggering him.
Leaving had been the hardest thing you’d ever done.
Staying gone had been harder.
So when you walked out of work and saw him leaning against your car, your entire body locked up.
“Hey, baby.”
The nickname made your stomach twist.
Daniel smiled like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t spent months calling from blocked numbers after you left.
Like he hadn’t once screamed that nobody else would ever want you.
“You moved far.”
Your pulse thundered.
“What are you doing here?”
“Wanted to talk.”
“No.”
His expression darkened immediately.
There it was.
That switch.
The one you knew too well.
“I drove three hours and you’re seriously gonna act like a bitch right now?”
You took a step back automatically.
Daniel noticed.
And smiled.
Cruel.
“You still do that.”
Your throat tightened.
“I’m leaving.”
“You always were dramatic.”
He moved closer.
You froze.
And then suddenly Daniel stopped moving.
Completely.
The change was instant.
His expression shifting from irritation to confusion.
Then confusion to fear.
Slowly, he looked past you.
You already knew.
You turned.
Happy stood ten feet away.
Silent.
Still.
Absolutely terrifying.
You had seen Happy angry before.
This wasn’t that.
Anger at least looked human.
This looked cold.
Predatory.
The kind of stillness that existed right before violence.
Daniel swallowed visibly.
“…who the hell is that?”
Happy started walking forward.
One slow step at a time.
Heavy boots against pavement.
Your pulse jumped for entirely different reasons now.
Happy stopped beside you.
Close enough that his arm brushed yours.
Daniel looked suddenly much less confident.
“Problem?” Happy asked.
His voice was calm.
That was the worst part.
Daniel laughed nervously.
“No problem, man. We’re just talking.”
“She said no.”
The silence afterward stretched.
Happy didn’t raise his voice.
Didn’t posture.
Didn’t threaten outright.
He simply looked at Daniel.
And somehow that was so much worse.
Daniel shifted uncomfortably.
“She’s my girlfriend.”
“Ex,” you corrected immediately.
Happy’s eyes never left Daniel.
“Ex.”
Daniel scoffed.
“She always does this dramatic shit.”
The temperature around you seemed to drop.
Happy tilted his head slightly.
“You got about ten seconds to leave before I stop being polite.”
Daniel tried to laugh again.
It failed badly.
“You threatening me?”
“Yes.”
Direct.
Flat.
Honest.
Daniel stared.
Happy stared back.
And for the first time since arriving, Daniel looked genuinely uncertain.
Then he made the mistake of looking at you again.
“You seriously fucking a biker now?”
Happy moved.
Fast.
One second beside you.
The next directly in front of Daniel.
Not touching him.
Just there.
Towering.
Dangerous.
“You need to leave,” Happy said quietly.
Daniel actually stepped back.
You had never seen him back down from anything before.
Not once.
But Happy Lowman looked at him like he had already calculated where to bury the body.
Daniel pointed at you.
“This isn’t over.”
Happy smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
“Yes, it is.”
Daniel left.
Quickly.
His truck peeled out of the parking lot hard enough to screech tires.
You stood frozen.
Adrenaline crashing through your system.
Happy turned toward you instantly.
The violence disappeared from his expression so fast it almost gave you whiplash.
“You okay?”
Your chest tightened painfully.
Because he sounded so careful.
So worried.
And suddenly, horrifyingly, you realized your hands were shaking.
Happy noticed immediately.
His jaw tightened.
“He touch you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
You nodded.
Happy exhaled slowly.
Then looked toward the road Daniel had disappeared down with an expression that suggested murder was still very much on the table.
Without thinking, you grabbed his wrist.
His attention snapped back to you.
“Don’t.”
A beat.
Then another.
Finally:
“Okay.”
Because you asked.
The realization hit hard.
Happy Lowman — terrifying, violent, deeply unhinged Happy Lowman — would apparently listen to you over his own instincts.
Your throat burned unexpectedly.
“I’m sorry.”
His brow furrowed instantly.
“For what?”
“For… this.” You gestured vaguely. “He shouldn’t have involved you.”
Happy looked genuinely confused.
“He scared you.”
Like that was the only relevant detail.
You laughed shakily.
“That’s your entire moral compass, huh?”
Another tiny shrug.
“Mostly.”
God.
You covered your face briefly.
“This is the worst flirting I’ve ever experienced.”
Happy stepped closer.
Not crowding.
Just near.
“You want me to stop?”
There it was again.
That immediate willingness.
Not defensive.
Not angry.
Just prepared to back away if you wanted him to.
And maybe that was the moment everything shifted.
Because you finally understood something important.
Happy wasn’t trying to control you.
He wasn’t protecting you because he thought you were weak.
He just… cared.
Deeply.
Violently.
Completely.
In the only way he knew how.
You looked up at him slowly.
“No,” you admitted softly.
Happy went very still.
“No?”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Something flickered across his face.
Hope.
Raw enough to hurt.
Your chest squeezed.
“You know,” you said carefully, “normal people usually ask someone out before threatening their ex-boyfriend.”
A pause.
“Should I ask now?”
You stared at him.
He looked completely serious.
The absurdity of the situation nearly made you laugh again.
“Yes, Happy. You should probably ask now.”
Another pause.
Then:
“…you wanna get dinner?”
The question sounded awkward in his mouth.
Unpracticed.
Like he genuinely had no idea how this part worked.
And somehow that made it sweeter.
You smiled despite yourself.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”
Happy blinked.
Like he maybe hadn’t expected success.
Then his shoulders relaxed.
Just slightly.
But enough.
“Okay.”
You laughed quietly.
“That’s your response?”
Another shrug.
“Got nervous.”
The confession hit you like a truck.
“You?”
“Yeah.”
You stared at the terrifying assassin biker standing in front of you admitting nervousness like it physically pained him.
Your heart was absolutely doomed.
Dating Happy turned out to be one of the strangest experiences of your life.
Not bad.
Just strange.
Because Happy approached relationships the same way he approached everything else:
Intensely.
Immediately.
Completely.
There was no casual setting with him.
No games.
No pretending not to care.
No gradual emotional distancing.
Once Happy decided someone mattered to him, they mattered fully.
Which was both wonderful and mildly terrifying.
He still didn’t flirt normally.
At all.
Your first official date ended with him threatening a waiter.
Not seriously.
Just enough to make the poor guy nearly drop a tray.
The waiter had winked at you while refilling water.
Happy stared at him until he fled.
You pinched the bridge of your nose.
“You cannot intimidate every man that looks at me.”
“He was flirting.”
“So are you technically.”
Happy frowned.
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Another long pause.
Then, completely sincere:
“Because I mean it.”
You nearly choked on your drink.
Happy looked confused by your reaction.
Meanwhile your heart was attempting to exit your body.
He said things like that constantly.
Accidentally devastating things.
Not smooth.
Not polished.
Just painfully honest.
You learned quickly that Happy didn’t really understand subtlety.
If he cared about you, he showed it.
Physically.
Practically.
Relentlessly.
He checked your locks. Walked on the outside of sidewalks. Memorised your coffee order after hearing it once. Brought you painkillers and heating pads during your period with the grim seriousness of a man preparing for war.
“You didn’t have to get all this,” you’d protested weakly from your couch.
Happy set another grocery bag down.
“You said your back hurt.”
“That doesn’t mean you needed to buy an entire pharmacy.”
A shrug.
“You need snacks too.”
You stared at the sheer quantity of chocolate.
“…did you threaten someone at the grocery store?”
“No.”
A beat.
“…little bit.”
You burst out laughing.
Happy watched you carefully.
That tiny almost-smile appearing again.
He loved making you laugh.
Loved it.
You realized one night at the clubhouse that he actually sought it out.
You’d been exhausted after a terrible shift.
Quiet.
Headache building behind your eyes.
Happy noticed immediately.
Without a word, he disappeared.
Ten minutes later he returned carrying a tiny, extremely ugly stuffed animal from the gas station.
You blinked.
“…what is that?”
“Dog.”
“It looks diseased.”
“It reminded me of Tig.”
Across the room, Tig yelled, “Fuck you!”
You laughed so hard you snorted.
Happy’s expression softened instantly.
There it was again.
That look.
Like your happiness physically settled something inside him.
Chibs watched the interaction with poorly hidden amusement.
“He’s whipped,” he informed the room.
Happy flipped him off without looking away from you.
The scary thing was, you were pretty sure Chibs was right.
The scarier thing?
So were you.
Because somewhere between the terrifying protectiveness and the silent acts of care and the bizarrely earnest attempts at romance, you’d fallen in love with him.
Which honestly felt a little inevitable.
Happy loved with his entire chest.
Even if he barely knew how to say it.
You figured it out anyway.
In the way he always touched you gently despite looking built to break things. In the way he listened whenever you spoke. In the way he never mocked your fears. In the way he looked at you like you were something precious and bewildering and entirely his favourite thing.
It terrified him sometimes.
You could tell.
There were nights he went quiet.
Watching you from across the room with something almost uncertain in his expression.
Like he didn’t fully trust good things to stay.
One night you finally asked.
You were lying together in his bed above the clubhouse.
Rain hitting the windows softly.
Happy stretched beside you, one heavy arm across your waist.
“What?” he asked.
“You get weirdly sad sometimes.”
A pause.
“Don’t know what you mean.”
“You absolutely do.”
Silence.
Then:
“…you deserve normal.”
Your chest hurt immediately.
You turned toward him.
Happy stared at the ceiling.
Expression unreadable.
“You think you’re not normal?”
A dry huff.
“C’mon.”
“No, seriously.”
Happy finally looked at you.
In the dim light he looked softer somehow.
Still dangerous.
Always dangerous.
But tired.
“You know what I do.”
You did.
Or enough.
You weren’t naive.
The Sons lived in violence.
And Happy… Happy was the violence people sent after other violence.
Yet somehow none of that changed the way he treated you.
“You know,” you said quietly, “most people don’t threaten mechanics on behalf of women they barely know.”
A tiny smile tugged briefly at his mouth.
“He was overcharging you.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is?”
You reached up carefully.
Touched his face.
Happy went still instantly.
Not tense.
Just attentive.
Like every nerve in his body focused on your hand.
“The point is nobody has ever cared about me the way you do.”
His eyes locked on yours.
Raw.
Unprotected.
“You should probably get used to it,” he said quietly.
And God.
That was it.
That was the exact moment you knew this wasn’t temporary.
Not a fling.
Not an accident.
This was forever if you wanted it.
Happy Lowman loved like a blood oath.
There was no halfway.
You shifted closer.
“C’mere.”
Happy frowned slightly.
“I’m already here.”
You laughed softly.
Then kissed him.
Slow.
Gentle.
Intentional.
Happy made a rough sound low in his throat and pulled you against him immediately.
Careful even then.
Always careful with you.
When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You know,” you murmured, “you could also just tell me you like me.”
A pause.
Then:
“I think I’m past like.”
Your breath caught.
Happy looked faintly uncomfortable after saying it.
Like honesty made him itch.
You smiled helplessly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The room felt suddenly very small.
Very quiet.
Happy’s hand slid against your waist slowly.
“You?” he asked.
There was something vulnerable beneath the question.
Something careful.
Like despite everything, despite the possessiveness and certainty and devotion, part of him still genuinely wasn’t sure you could feel the same.
You kissed him again before answering.
Then whispered against his mouth:
“Yeah, Hap. I’m past like too.”
He stared at you.
Actually stared.
Then kissed you like he didn’t know what else to do with the feeling.
It was overwhelming.
Not rough.
Just intense.
Happy always kissed like he meant it.
Like he didn’t understand the point of doing anything halfway.
Later, when you were half asleep against his chest, you murmured:
“You know your flirting still sucks, right?”
Happy’s chest rumbled with quiet laughter.
The sound startled you enough to lift your head.
“You laughed.”
“Sometimes.”
“That was a real laugh.”
“Don’t tell anybody.”
You grinned.
“Your reputation?”
“Yeah.”
You snuggled closer.
For a long moment neither of you spoke.
Then quietly:
“Guy at the diner looked at you weird today.”
You groaned instantly.
“Happy.”
“What?”
“You cannot threaten every man on earth.”
“I can try.”
You burst out laughing again.
Happy’s arms tightened around you.
And even in the dark, you felt him smile against your hair.
Like maybe this — your laughter, your warmth, your presence tangled into his life — was the closest thing to peace he’d ever found.
And maybe for you, it was too.
Because Happy Lowman didn’t know how to flirt like a normal person.
He loved in silent proximity. In protective violence. In fixed engines and warm coffee and standing just close enough that nobody else could touch you.
And somehow, impossibly, it was the safest love you’d ever known.
So when people asked later how the two of you got together, you usually just smiled.
Because there was no normal explanation.
Just a terrifying biker who fell in love with you so hard he started treating every inconvenience in your life like a personal threat.
And you, apparently insane enough to fall in love with him right back.
the first time Happy Lowman calls you sweetheart, you blush so hard you both think you're going to explode.
Nobody warned you that falling in love with Happy Lowman would feel like slowly handing your heartbeat to a loaded gun.
Not because he was cruel.
Happy wasn’t cruel to you.
That was almost the problem.
Everyone else in Charming looked at him and saw violence first. Saw the dead-eyed hitman with tattooed knuckles and a smile that usually meant someone was about to disappear into the desert.
You looked at him and saw the quieter things.
The way he always noticed when your gas tank was low and filled it without mentioning it. The way he stood slightly behind you in crowds like a wall nobody could get through. The way he brought you coffee exactly how you liked it after memorising your order one single time.
The way his hand always found the small of your back.
Protective.
Grounding.
Possessive in that terrifyingly gentle way that only Happy could manage.
And maybe that was why you were so completely screwed.
Because once Happy decided someone mattered to him, it became absolute.
There was no halfway with him.
No uncertainty.
No almost.
The trouble was that you and Happy weren’t technically together.
Not officially.
Not in words.
But everyone in SAMCRO looked at you like you already belonged to him.
Including Happy himself, apparently.
You just hadn’t realised how deep that went yet.
The clubhouse was chaos that night.
Music blasted loud enough to vibrate through the walls while prospects hauled beer crates inside. Tig was yelling at Juice over a card game. Chibs was smoking by the bar with half-lidded exhaustion after a run that had gone sideways somewhere near Stockton.
And Happy—
Happy was in one of his moods.
Quiet.
Brooding.
Dangerously still.
He sat at the edge of the bar nursing whiskey while blood dried across his knuckles from a fight earlier that evening.
Nobody bothered him.
Nobody except you.
You slipped onto the stool beside him and gently grabbed his wrist before he could lift the glass again.
His dark eyes flicked toward you immediately.
“What?”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I know.”
“You gonna let me clean it?”
Happy stared at you for a second.
Long enough that your stomach fluttered nervously.
Then he slid the whiskey aside without argument.
That alone made Chibs smirk from across the room.
Because Happy listened to approximately nobody.
Except you.
You guided him toward the bathroom at the back of the clubhouse where the noise became muffled behind closed walls.
The fluorescent light overhead buzzed softly.
Happy leaned against the sink while you dug through the first aid cabinet.
“You get the other guy worse?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“You start it?”
“No.”
“Finish it?”
His mouth twitched slightly.
“Yeah.”
You shook your head, unable to stop your smile.
“Psychopath.”
Happy watched you wet a cloth beneath warm water.
“You still here.”
“Unfortunately.”
He made that low rumbling sound again. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
God.
That sound did things to you.
You moved closer carefully, taking his hand in yours.
His fingers were massive compared to yours. Scarred. Rough. Tattooed.
Capable of terrifying things.
Yet he let you hold them with impossible gentleness.
You cleaned the split skin over his knuckles carefully while Happy watched your face instead of the injury.
You could feel his eyes on you.
Heavy.
Intent.
The air between you had been changing for weeks now.
Maybe months.
Lingering looks.
Hands brushing too long.
Happy showing up at your apartment late at night under weak excuses neither of you believed.
You’d fallen asleep against his chest on his couch more times than you could count.
Nothing explicit ever happened.
But everything felt intimate anyway.
Like the space between friendship and something far more dangerous had become paper-thin.
You dabbed antiseptic against his hand.
Happy hissed quietly.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You wanna see dramatic?”
You snorted softly. “Not particularly.”
The corner of his mouth moved again.
Tiny.
Barely there.
But real.
Your heart stumbled.
It always did when you made Happy smile.
Because nobody else got to see those moments.
They belonged to you somehow.
The realization both thrilled and terrified you.
You wrapped gauze carefully around his knuckles before murmuring, “There.”
Happy looked down at the bandage.
Then at you.
Then back at the bandage.
“You’re good at this.”
“My dad was reckless.”
“Yeah?”
“Motorcycles. Bar fights. Stitches every other week.” You smiled faintly. “Guess I got practice.”
Happy’s expression shifted slightly at that.
Something thoughtful.
“What?”
“You got a type.”
You blinked.
Then laughed before you could stop yourself.
“Oh my god.”
His gaze stayed fixed on you.
“You think this is funny?”
“You’re jealous of my father?”
“No.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I’m not.”
The immediate response only made you grin wider.
Happy’s eyes narrowed more.
“You keep smiling at me like that, I’m gonna become a problem.”
Your pulse skipped.
Because his voice had changed.
Lower now.
Rougher.
The tiny bathroom suddenly felt much too small.
You swallowed hard. “You already are a problem.”
Something hot flashed behind his eyes.
The tension snapped taut instantly.
And because apparently your survival instincts were broken, you reached up and brushed your thumb lightly against the bruise along his jaw.
Happy froze.
Completely froze.
His breathing changed first.
Slower.
Heavier.
Like he forgot how to do it properly.
Your hand should’ve dropped immediately.
Instead your fingers lingered.
“You should put ice on this,” you murmured softly.
Happy stared at you like you’d just set fire to the room.
Then, very quietly:
“You worry too much, sweetheart.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Your brain stopped functioning.
Sweetheart.
He’d never called you that before.
Never anything like that.
Usually you got your name. Sometimes kid when he was teasing you. Once baby after you fell asleep against him during movie night and he thought you couldn’t hear him.
And judging by the way Happy’s eyes widened slightly afterward, he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Heat exploded across your face instantly.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Happy stared at you.
You stared at Happy.
Neither of you moved.
Your blush got worse.
Painfully worse.
You could literally feel your face burning.
Happy looked horrified.
Not because he regretted it.
Because he could see exactly what it did to you.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“You called me sweetheart.”
“I know.”
Your voice came out embarrassingly small. “Happy—”
“You’re blushing.”
“You noticed?”
“You’re red as fuck.”
Mortification consumed you instantly.
You covered your face with both hands. “I’m gonna die.”
And then—
Then something incredible happened.
Happy laughed.
Not the small exhale he usually gave.
Not the quiet amused grunt.
An actual laugh.
Deep.
Warm.
Real.
You’d heard it maybe twice before.
The sound hit you directly in the chest.
“Oh, this is bad,” he murmured, still laughing softly.
You peeked through your fingers. “What?”
“You’re cute.”
Your entire body nearly short-circuited.
“Happy.”
“Look at you.”
“Stop talking immediately.”
He stepped closer instead.
Of course he did.
Towering over you now in the cramped bathroom, broad shoulders blocking the fluorescent light overhead.
His eyes stayed locked on your burning face with open fascination.
Like he couldn’t believe he’d done this to you.
“You like that?” he asked quietly.
You made the mistake of looking directly at him.
Big mistake.
Because suddenly he wasn’t teasing anymore.
Now he looked hungry.
Not sexually.
Not only sexually.
Something deeper.
More dangerous.
Like he’d just realized the effect he had on you and didn’t know what to do with the information.
Your heartbeat became violent.
“You know I do,” you admitted softly.
Happy went very still.
The air shifted.
Outside the bathroom, muffled music still pounded through the clubhouse walls, but inside everything narrowed down to the two of you breathing too close together.
His hand lifted slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
His knuckles brushed your flushed cheek.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?”
“You’re killing me.”
Your stomach flipped hard.
Happy looked genuinely affected by this.
By you.
The realization felt surreal.
“You called me sweetheart,” you repeated weakly.
“I know.”
“You can’t just do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because now I’m gonna think about it forever.”
That earned another soft laugh from him.
God, you loved that sound.
Happy’s thumb brushed slowly along your cheekbone.
“You got any idea,” he said quietly, “how hard it’s been not calling you worse?”
Your breath caught.
“Worse?”
“Baby. Honey. Mine.” His jaw flexed slightly. “Shit like that.”
You thought your soul briefly left your body.
Happy saw the exact moment your brain melted completely.
His eyes darkened immediately.
“That one got you too, huh?”
You covered your face again with a groan. “Please stop talking.”
“No.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Yeah.”
The honesty nearly killed you.
Happy gently pulled your hands away from your face.
“You know what the problem is?” he murmured.
“What?”
“You have no clue what you do to me.”
Your heart thudded painfully.
He stepped even closer.
Close enough that you could smell whiskey and smoke and leather.
Close enough that one slight movement would press you directly against his chest.
“I think about you constantly,” he admitted quietly. “And then you blush like this because I call you sweetheart and suddenly I’m losing my fucking mind.”
Your hands instinctively grabbed the front of his kutte.
Happy looked down at them briefly.
Then back at your face.
“Tell me to stop.”
You couldn’t.
That was the problem.
You couldn’t stop any of this even if you tried.
So instead you whispered, “Say it again.”
Happy’s eyes darkened instantly.
Dangerously.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly.
Your face burned all over again.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, sounding genuinely affected now. “You’re adorable.”
And before you could respond, Happy kissed you.
Hard enough to steal every coherent thought from your brain.
One massive hand cupped your jaw while the other settled against your waist, pulling you flush against him with unmistakable possession.
You melted immediately.
Happy kissed like he did everything else — intensely, completely, like restraint had never been an option to begin with.
The sound you made against his mouth seemed to wreck him further.
His grip tightened.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips. “Sweetheart…”
There it was again.
And somehow it sounded even better now.
You laughed breathlessly into the kiss, still blushing so hard your cheeks hurt.
Happy rested his forehead against yours afterward, breathing unevenly.
“You’re still red.”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
You smiled helplessly.
Then his expression softened into something almost unbearably tender.
“You know you’re it for me, right?”
The words hit harder than the kiss did.
You stared at him.
Happy rarely spoke openly about feelings. Everything about him existed in actions instead.
But right now?
Right now he looked at you like he was handing over something fragile and dangerous all at once.
“You’re it for me too,” you whispered.
Something settled in him then.
Visible.
Immediate.
Like a man finally coming home after years of wandering.
plot: Best friends shouldn't have steamy dreams of each other. they shouldn't be the subject of each other's daydreams. they shouldn't be jealous when you flirt with other ... or should they? Angel's your best friend, but lately you've been pulling away in order to understand your growing feeling for your oldest friend. Feeling the distance angel stops by making all your feelings a little more real.
pairing: angel reyes x Reader
warnings: sweet 🥰 & steamy 🌶️
word count: 2.1K
authors note: hi, so I promised a draft purge months ago this is a little mayans imagine i've had for awhile for Angel, are we team Angel or EZ? Or both?
You guess the saying is true, men and women can’t be friends without one of them catching feelings. Unfortunately, this time it’s you who’s been bitten by the bug. You and Angel have been friends for so long it feels like he’s always been a part of your life. So much so that your family knows and welcomes him. You weren't always as close as you are now but in the past six months you’ve found yourself thinking about him more than usual. Stealing looks while he laughs, getting a little jealous when he flirts with the girls around the club and missing him more than you should when he goes on runs. Instead of leaning into it you've been trying to pull away and get a grip on ballooning emotions. In true Angel fashion he’s shown up anyways to complete a project you asked him to do since last month. You hand him a glass of fresh lemonade and he takes it wiping the sweat from his brow.
“I'm starting to think this friendship is unequal,” he huffs, taking another sip. You smile looking at the fruits of his manual labour. He’s built you two bookcases in the past hour. Aside from your need for a place to house your hobby, there's a benefit to having Angel performing the task in his wife-pleaser, slightly sweaty, muscles bulging as he lifts the heady wood, searching through piles of brackets, bolts and screws assembling them. His arms, his hands, his attention. Swallowing you look away from him trying to get a grip…
“You do the physical labour and I do the intellectual” you smile tapping the wood.
“Hmm, that’s how this works?” he asks looking up as he slides another shelf into place.
“Yup” you smile “Looks good”
“Where do You want them?” He asks standing. He’s substantially taller than you.
“Over there” you point. He moves them into place without struggle, looking down you find they're on wheels.
“You change your mind too much. I’m not gonna put my back out” he huffs in his angel way and you flip him off playfully.
“While my indecision marinates, my mom wants to know if you want to stay for dinner?” you ask.
“I thought we were going out to eat later?” he asks, raising a brow.
“You know how they are about home cooked meals versus spending money and eating out” you roll your eyes and he smiles.
“Why don’t we eat here then and hangout after?” He offers.
“Ok” you smile and repeats it mockingly in your exact tone. He’s missed you. You hadn't been around lately and it was grating on his nerves. He’d stay up late sometimes staring at the ceiling wondering if there was someone else you were spending your time with. He’d even woken up in cold sweats from nightmares of seeing you out with someone else.
You end up at Angels where you spend almost as much time as you do at your own home. It’s in desperate need of decoration and a feminine touch. He wouldn’t even have cookware and dishware if it weren't for you.
“Come on, the sick shit is about to start” he calls like a big kid from the couch. You smile relishing in the moments where he’s unguarded and animated. Where the smile overtakes the intimidating appearance of a large man with a muscular build and tattoos a part of a motorcycle club.
“Almost done” you shout, loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher.
“Y/N!” He shouts impatiently and you wash your hands quickly heading to see the action beginning. You sit beside him and he kisses the top of your head wrapping an arm around you. It’s a level of intimacy you don’t share with anyone else. You hold him back and he puts your legs over his. Your mom has said a thousand times that you’re too close to not be together. She thinks it’s a recipe for disaster and right about now you believe her. You don't know when you fell asleep but you wake up to Angel carrying you.
“It’s alright, I got you” he whispers, carrying you into his bed. You doze off again and feel him put a shirt over your tank before peeling off your leggings. You stir again when he comes back smelling like he just had a smoke. He heads to the bathroom. He gets into the bed gingerly considerate of your sleep. Sleepily you scoot over to his warm body and his arms find themselves around yours. You fall asleep in no time.
———-
It’s been awhile since you've been woken up to morning wood. Angel's dream must be a good one. You smile sliding away from the active appendage and head into the bathroom. Evidence of your proximity is all over. You have a section in his bathroom. When you lift the face wash you smile because it’s lighter than usual. He’s been using it too. You find the dishwasher emptied and start on breakfast. Angel comes in half an hour later looking like a daydream, with bedroom hair and sleepy eyes.
“Smells good” He mutters.
“I tried” you admit putting a plate in front of him.
“What are you up to today?” He asks.
“Putting my books away”
“Those things are filthy” He jokes, eating the bacon with his hands like a caveman.
“Whatever” you roll your eyes and he smiles all the way to his eyes very amused.
“Aww she’s blushing” he teases.
“Shut up” you laugh sitting with your own plate.
“What’s up, you’ve been a little distant. Work or mama stressing you out?” He asks attentively. There’s no hiding from him.
“Maybe both”
“You don’t need the job. I told you you can manage the bar” he offers in a bid to keep you close.
“I didn’t go to school to manage the bar.”
“So what, you're gonna be like this for longer?” He asks.
“Explain how I’m being?” you ask suspiciously.
“Not in the moment.” He says “In your head and not letting me in” he says.
“We’ll I'm working through some things”
“What?” he panics internally.
“Personal things” you shrug casually looking into your plate.
“Come on!” He laughs. “We’re practically one person” he snaps, tossing his fork into the plate and sitting back.
“I’m getting my period, who knows it may just pass” you lie.
He deadpans, “You don’t think I know you get your period at the beginning or end of the month. You just lied” he says and you laugh shocked at his attentiveness.
“Angel!” you laugh shocked but he’s not amused.
“You’re seeing someone aren’t you? One of those sissy pretty boys you know I won’t approve of” he says making you smile.
“No, I’m not” you affirm and he relaxes a touch.
“Not a pretty boy?” He raises a brow.
“I'm not seeing anyone” you tell him honestly but it doesn't settle him.
“Y/N, you can tell me so I can look into him. You’ve only been here once this week” he says and you sit on his lap. It's what made Angel different from the rest of the guys you'd been friendly with. He wasn’t trying to control you, he'd be right by your side when the shit got sticky. He’d let you live and he’d clean up all the mess without judgement.
“I’m not seeing anyone, there’s no one you need to kill. I’ve just been trying to get my shit together” you explain and he holds you close.
“You can get your shit together here. There’s enough space for the both of us.”
“What happens when you decide to go steady with one of the barfly’s?” you ask leaning into him, resting your head in the crook of his neck.
“Not gonna happen” He laughs holding you close.
“Remind me to take you back to the gym. Gotta get you better at boxing in case one of these creeps you don't want to tell me about gets out of hand.” he says. He runs his thumb over your knuckles. You feel compelled to tell him the full truth. You get up and pour yourself some water.
“You’re doing it again, wait did one of the guys say or do something?” He stands.
“No, the guys are well, they're great in their own special way…” you shrug, turning your back to him.
“Y/N, you’re killing me here” Angel snaps.
“Angel, don’t feel weird about this okay?”
“No promises” he huffs, leaning forward attentively.
“I’ve been having, I don’t know…” you trail, having never been here before.
“Y/N spit it out” Angel says worriedly.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about what us together would be like” You admit. He stills for a while before he finally blinks and his posture relaxes. When he finally takes a breath he places a hand on his heart. His eyes close and he shakes his head in amusement.
“Don’t ever fucking scare me like that again” he warns with a smile. It throws you for a loop.
“I’m here thinking you’re hurt or sick or in danger” Angel snaps.
“I’m not sure I’m not” you joke and he smiles coming over.
“Way better than those books” he says standing in front of you closing the space between the both of you and running his hands down your shoulders to hold both of your hands.
“Huh?” you ask looking up at him.
“Us together, it would be way better than those books” he smiles. Your cheeks burn before you smile back. “It’s about time hermosa” he smiles leaning down and placing a kiss on your lips. It’s the first and hopefully the first of many.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask.
“It means I’ve been waiting for you to come around for awhile now” he says candidly.
“Since when?” you laugh shocked.
“Since the pool party” he says and that was nearly a year ago.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask.
“Showing you was better” he says and you think of all the ways our connection has evolved this year. You stand against the counter and he closes the space between you again. He kisses you harder this time. You make out like teenagers and it sends my heart racing. You’re breathless when it ends and you rest your head on his chest. He rubs circles onto your back.
“I just knew you were a good kisser,” he mumbles.
“I need to sort my room out, we can pick this back up later” you tell him wanting more but needing some time to process your excitement and all the new info.
“Why? You don’t need those books anymore” he says, appealing to every one of your senses.
“They aren’t all about sex Angel, just the few you happened to pick up” you reason and he shakes his head knowing it's another half truth.
“You into that shit? The guy getting a little rough and being dominant?” He asks playfully, grabbing you by the neck. He’s never been rough before and your smile answers the question.
His eyes close in appreciation and excitement. “Shit” he smiles, coming in for another kiss. This one is soft in spite of your acceptance or his rougher side. It’s perfect though.
“You can tell me what you’re into when I’m done” you smile pushing him away determined not to walk into your home freshly fucked after a night out. After all the waiting you and Angel need more than a few hours, all day and all night.
“I’m a simple man,” he says in surrender. “Pretty sure I’ll like anything you do to me” he says, making you laugh.
“Walk me out” you tell him like you would any other time. He gets the door of your car for you as usual but when he hugs you he takes a handful of ass.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he says, validating your feelings.
“Make it a habit” you whisper, kissing his cheek. Angel steps back, closing the door with a full heart and a stiffy.
“Plan to” he smiles knowing there's absolutely no way he's gonna be able to keep his hands off of you. Not even after he's touched every inch of your skin and given you every inch of him. Not after you become a Reyes or after you have a little one making your stomach swell. Not after your home is filled with children and he has to sneak into the bathroom for some alone time in the shower. Not when his hair is more salt than pepper, not when his hands are too weathered to ride his bike anymore.
The club forces him to admit his feelings via public humiliation.
The Saturday afternoon started like every other one at the Santo Padre clubhouse—with too much noise, too much beer, Angel yelling over absolutely nothing, EZ pretending he wasn't amused by any of it, Bishop attempting to maintain some semblance of order, and Coco wondering why everyone kept looking at him with expressions that ranged from suspiciously innocent to outright predatory.
He should have trusted his instincts.
Instead, he made the mistake of walking in carrying two coffees.
One black.
One iced vanilla latte with caramel.
Angel's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.
"Oh," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "That's cute."
Coco frowned.
"What?"
"Nothin'."
EZ looked down into his beer to hide his smile.
Bishop sighed the sigh of a man who knew disaster was coming and had simply decided to let it happen.
Creeper leaned back in his chair.
"Question."
"No."
"I didn't ask it yet."
"I know you."
"Fair."
Silence stretched.
Coco set the coffees on the bar.
"...Why's everyone staring at me?"
Nobody answered.
Instead, Hank walked over to the television mounted in the corner.
"Mind if I hook my laptop up?"
"Why?"
"Club business."
"It ain't church night."
"It'll be educational."
Angel actually snorted.
"Educational," he repeated.
Something in Coco's spine tightened.
"...What'd you idiots do?"
You, unfortunately, were running late.
Traffic.
A train crossing.
One flat tire.
You had texted Coco twenty minutes earlier.
Running late. Don't let Angel eat my fries.
He had responded immediately.
I'll fight him.
You:
Promise?
Coco:
On my kutte
You'd sent back three laughing emojis.
Coco had smiled at his phone like an idiot.
Angel had seen.
Everyone had seen.
Nobody had let him forget it.
Hank connected the laptop.
The television flickered.
A title appeared.
Large.
Bold.
Centered.
OPERATION: TELL HER YOU LOVE HER, DUMBASS
Coco froze.
"...No."
Angel clapped once.
"Oh yeah."
"No."
"Too late."
"No."
EZ actually took his phone out.
"You recording?"
"You bet."
Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I told you idiots this was immature."
Angel grinned.
"You still helped."
"...I did."
"You even proofread."
"...I regret everything."
Slide Two.
A dramatic stock photo of a man screaming into the void.
Across it—
WHY WE ARE HERE TODAY
Johnny "Coco" Cruz has been hopelessly in love for approximately eleven months.
He refuses to do anything about it.
This intervention is necessary.
Underneath—
Sources: literally all of us.
The room erupted.
Coco stared.
"...Who made this?"
Three fingers immediately pointed at EZ.
EZ pointed at Angel. Angel pointed at Hank. Hank pointed at Creeper.
Creeper looked perfectly calm.
"It was a team effort."
"I hate every single one of you."
"We know."
Slide Three.
A photograph.
Not of you.
Of Coco.
Specifically—
Coco looking at you.
The picture had clearly been taken without him noticing.
You were laughing at something Letty had said.
He wasn't looking anywhere else.
A giant red circle highlighted his face.
Text beside it.
Exhibit A: LOOK AT HIM.
Underneath—
This is not how normal people look at someone they're "just friends" with.
Angel was wheezing.
EZ couldn't breathe.
Creeper actually laughed.
Actually laughed.
Coco covered his face.
"...Jesus Christ."
Slide Four.
A chart.
An honest-to-God bar graph.
NUMBER OF TIMES COCO HAS MENTIONED HER THIS WEEK
Monday — 17
Tuesday — 23
Wednesday — 14
Thursday — 19
Friday — 31
Saturday (current) — 11
Total:
115
A footnote.
"Data collected by Angel Reyes because he apparently has no hobbies."
Angel looked offended.
"I got hobbies."
"Harassing me ain't a hobby."
"It absolutely is."
Slide Five.
THINGS COCO CLAIMS ARE 'COINCIDENCES'
She likes mystery novels.
He suddenly likes mystery novels.
She mentioned liking vanilla.
His shampoo now smells like vanilla.
She once said his hoodies were comfortable.
He now owns eight more hoodies.
She likes strawberry milk.
Guess what's in his fridge.
The room dissolved. Even Taza was laughing.
Coco looked genuinely horrified.
"...How do you know what's in my fridge?"
EZ answered immediately.
"You invited me over."
"I made a mistake."
"A catastrophic one."
Slide Six.
A close-up photograph.
Your forgotten hair tie wrapped around Coco's wrist.
Massive arrow.
EXPLAIN THIS.
Coco blinked.
"...She forgot it."
"So?"
"I was gonna give it back."
"It has been there for three weeks."
"..."
"..."
"...Shut up."
Slide Seven.
A timeline.
The title alone nearly killed him.
THE SLOW DESCENT INTO COMPLETE SIMPING
Month One
"She's nice."
Month Three
"I'll walk her home."
Month Five
"I fixed her sink."
Month Seven
"I made sure her car had gas."
Month Nine
"I bought her favourite coffee without needing to ask her order."
Month Eleven
"I remembered she likes extra pickles."
Huge red letters underneath.
BROTHER THAT IS LOVE.
By now Coco had buried his face entirely in his hands.
"This is psychological warfare."
Angel nodded.
"Correct."
Slide Eight.
A pie chart.
THINGS COCO STARES AT
Her — 82%
Motorcycles — 9%
Food — 4%
Everything else — 5%
Slide Nine.
The title alone made Bishop choke on his beer.
WITNESS TESTIMONIES
EZ:
"He smiles different around her."
Hank:
"He checks whether she got home safe."
Creeper:
"He bought caramel. He drinks black coffee."
Angel:
"He asked me if flowers were too much."
Coco looked ready to pass away.
"I asked one question."
Angel nodded solemnly.
"You did."
"You said they were stupid."
"I lied."
Slide Ten.
A screenshot.
Your contact.
🌼 Sunny🌼
The room went dead silent.
Angel slowly turned.
"...Sunny?"
Coco realized exactly what he'd done.
"..."
"..."
"...Delete that."
Nobody moved.
Angel's grin became terrifying.
"Sunny?"
"You touch my phone again and I'll kill you."
"Aww."
Slide Eleven.
REASONS SHE CLEARLY LIKES YOU TOO
She texts you first.
She trusts you.
She steals your hoodies.
She always sits beside you.
She laughs at your terrible jokes.
She brings Letty snacks.
She remembers your coffee order.
At the bottom—
OPEN YOUR EYES.
Coco swallowed.
Because...
That part hurt a little.
Because he'd convinced himself he'd imagined it. Every smile. Every lingering conversation. Every accidental touch.
He'd told himself you were simply kind.
Slide Twelve.
The final slide.
Black background.
White text.
Huge letters.
JOHNNY CRUZ.
A click.
Next animation.
GO TELL HER.
Another click.
RIGHT NOW.
Another.
SHE'S LITERALLY PARKING OUTSIDE.
Coco's head snapped toward the window.
"...What?"
Angel peeked through the blinds.
"Oh."
A pause.
"Yeah, she's here."
Panic.
Actual panic.
"No."
"Oh yes."
"No."
EZ stood.
"So go."
"I ain't—"
Creeper was already hauling him upright by the shoulder.
"You are."
"Hell no."
Hank opened the clubhouse door.
"You've got thirty seconds before she walks in."
"You people are demons."
Angel patted his back.
"We're family."
"That's worse."
You stepped out of your car carrying a paper bag full of snacks.
You were still laughing to yourself over something on the radio.
As you reached the clubhouse steps...
The door burst open.
Coco practically stumbled outside.
Hair a mess.
Face bright red.
Looking like he'd just survived combat.
You blinked.
"...Everything okay?"
"...No."
Concern immediately crossed your face.
"What happened?"
Inside the clubhouse, six grown bikers flattened themselves against the windows like curious children.
Bishop muttered, "This is humiliating."
Angel whispered, loudly, "Shh."
Coco rubbed both hands over his face.
"I..."
Nothing.
His brain emptied.
You waited patiently.
"You...?"
"I need to tell you somethin'."
"...Okay."
He looked at you.
Really looked.
At the woman who had become the best part of every day without him ever noticing exactly when it happened. At the person who made Santo Padre feel softer. Who had become family to Letty. Who remembered everyone's birthdays. Who always made an extra coffee because she knew somebody would forget breakfast.
Who looked at him like he deserved kindness.
He laughed once.
Quietly.
"You know..."
"What?"
"I had this whole speech."
"You did?"
"Yeah. Kinda."
"What happened to it?"
"My brothers committed emotional terrorism."
You laughed.
"What?"
"They made... a slideshow."
"..."
"A slideshow."
"...About what?"
He groaned.
"I ain't repeating it."
"Coco."
"It was... detailed."
"...Johnny."
He sighed.
"...About me being in love with you."
Your smile disappeared.
Not because you were upset.
Because your brain simply stopped working.
"...What?"
He met your eyes.
No hiding.
No running.
"They're right."
Silence.
"I love you."
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
"I've loved you for months."
Another step closer.
"I tried ignorin' it."
Another.
"Didn't work."
You stared.
"I tried tellin' myself you deserved somebody easier."
Your eyes shimmered.
"I tried convincing myself you didn't feel the same."
A tiny laugh escaped you.
"You idiot."
"...Probably."
"You absolute idiot."
He frowned.
"...That's... not encouraging."
You closed the distance yourself.
Your fingers found his cut.
You smiled so softly it almost hurt to look at.
"I've been waiting."
He blinked.
"...What?"
"I thought you weren't interested."
"I bought caramel for drinks."
"I know."
"I remembered your coffee."
"I know."
"I carried your stupid hair tie around for weeks."
"I know."
"You knew?"
You laughed.
"Coco."
"...Yeah?"
"You are many things."
He waited.
"You are not subtle."
Inside the clubhouse, Angel silently punched the air.
EZ covered his face, shoulders shaking.
Creeper smiled into his beer.
Coco reached for your hand slowly enough that you had every chance to pull away.
Instead...
You intertwined your fingers with his.
Perfectly.
Naturally.
Like they had always belonged there.
"I love you too," you whispered.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
The clubhouse behind you erupted into cheers loud enough to shake the windows.
Angel burst through the front door shouting, "FINALLY!"
You both laughed.
Coco groaned toward the sky.
"I am never living this down."
"Nope," Angel called.
"The slideshow's archived."
"You archived it?"
"There are backups."
"How many?"
"Five."
"I hate you."
"Nah," Angel replied with a grin. "You love me almost as much as you love Sunshine."
Coco sighed the sigh of a man thoroughly defeated, then looked back at you.
Your hand was still in his.
Your smile hadn't faded.
For the first time in months, he wasn't carrying the weight of unsaid words anymore.
He leaned down just enough to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, smiling when you instinctively leaned into him.
Behind you, the clubhouse dissolved back into loud laughter, merciless teasing, and promises that the slideshow would absolutely be shown at every future club barbecue.
Coco decided he could survive the embarrassment.
Because after eleven months of stubborn silence, public humiliation, and one catastrophically thorough PowerPoint presentation, he finally had exactly what he'd wanted all along.
Somewhere along the way, Chibs decided you were his. Good luck.
The first time anyone noticed it, it was because of the chair.
Not your chair.
His.
Because every single time you walked into the clubhouse, no matter how chaotic things were, no matter if there were meetings happening, arguments breaking out, prospects running around trying not to get yelled at, or bikes being worked on outside, somehow, someway, there would always be an empty seat beside Chibs.
At first everyone assumed it was coincidence.
Then they realised it absolutely was not.
The moment someone sat there and you weren't around, Chibs would casually tell them to move.
Not rudely.
Not aggressively.
Just with that easy Scottish charm of his and a smile that somehow still felt like a threat.
"Need that seat, brother."
"For who?"
And then Chibs would shrug.
Nobody missed the way his eyes drifted toward the door.
"Just need it."
After a while nobody bothered asking.
It became your seat. You never claimed it. Nobody officially assigned it to you. Yet somehow it belonged to you all the same.
A lot of things did.
You just didn't notice.
Not at first.
Maybe because Chibs never pushed.
That wasn't his style.
For all the violence that lived inside him, for all the blood and scars and darkness he'd accumulated over the years, there was a patience to him that surprised people.
A dangerous kind of patience.
The sort possessed by predators who knew they didn't need to chase.
The sort possessed by men who already knew how the story ended.
And somewhere along the way, without making any announcement, without asking permission, without even realizing he'd done it himself, Chibs had decided you were his.
Not property.
Not ownership.
Nothing ugly like that.
Just his person.
His girl. His future. His problem. His responsibility. His favourite thing to look at when the world was trying to kill him.
You simply hadn't gotten the memo yet.
The club had.
The club figured it out months before you did.
Probably because they were forced to watch it happen.
Every single day.
Every single damn day.
The first time you scraped your knee helping move boxes outside the garage, Chibs appeared from absolutely nowhere.
One second he was inside.
The next he was crouched beside you.
"Jesus Christ."
You blinked.
"What?"
"Yer bleeding."
You looked down.
There was barely any blood.
A tiny scrape.
Nothing.
Meanwhile Chibs looked ready to declare war.
"I'm fine."
"Aye?"
"Yes."
"Ye sure?"
"Chibs."
"Ye need antiseptic."
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then he turned toward the garage.
"Tig!"
"What?"
"Get the first aid kit."
The entire yard erupted into laughter.
You didn't understand why.
Chibs absolutely did.
He just ignored them.
Months later, when you caught the flu, things somehow got worse.
You made the mistake of mentioning over the phone that you weren't feeling great.
That was all.
Just one sentence.
One.
You woke up three hours later to pounding on your apartment door.
Standing outside was Chibs carrying enough supplies to survive a natural disaster.
Soup.
Medicine.
Blankets.
Tea.
More medicine.
A thermometer.
Three different sports drinks.
An entire grocery bag full of things you hadn't even asked for.
You stared.
He stared.
Then he frowned.
"Ye look terrible."
"I have a cold."
"Ye sound like death."
"I have a cold."
"Move."
Before you could protest he was already walking inside.
By the end of the night he'd bullied you into taking medicine, eating soup, drinking water, and going back to bed.
When you woke up the next morning he was asleep in a chair beside your couch with his arms folded and his head tipped back.
He looked uncomfortable.
He looked exhausted.
He looked like he belonged there.
That realization hit harder than it should have.
You tried very hard not to think about it.
Unfortunately Chibs made that increasingly difficult.
Because he was everywhere.
Not in a creepy way.
Just...
Present.
If your car made a weird noise, he knew before you finished describing it. If someone bothered you, he somehow heard about it. If you mentioned liking something once, he'd remember it six months later.
One random afternoon you casually told him your favorite candy from childhood.
You forgot the conversation immediately.
Eight months later he handed you a bag while the two of you were sitting outside the clubhouse.
You looked inside.
The exact candy.
The exact brand.
The exact flavor.
Your heart did something stupid.
His eyes softened when he saw your expression.
And suddenly neither of you were looking at the candy anymore.
The problem was that by then you were already hopelessly in love with him.
You just didn't know what to do about it.
Because Chibs was Chibs.
Older. Dangerous. Complicated.
A man with enough scars to write books about.
A man who carried ghosts around like extra bones.
You couldn't imagine someone like him wanting someone like you.
Meanwhile Chibs was having the exact opposite problem.
Because from his perspective it was obvious.
Painfully obvious.
Everyone knew.
Jax knew.
Tig knew.
Happy definitely knew.
The old ladies knew.
The waitresses knew.
Half of Charming knew.
Even the bloody prospects knew.
The only person who seemed completely oblivious was you.
"Just tell her," Jax said one afternoon.
Chibs took a drag from his cigarette.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because."
Jax laughed.
"That's not an answer."
"It is if yer Scottish."
"It isn't."
Chibs flipped him off.
The conversation ended there.
Mostly because Chibs didn't need advice.
He wasn't trying to figure out whether he loved you.
He already knew. Had known for a long time.
The problem was that loving someone meant giving them the ability to hurt you.
And despite everything he'd survived, despite every gunfight and prison sentence and betrayal, that still scared him more than he'd ever admit.
Then one night everything changed.
Because sometimes life gets tired of waiting.
You were leaving work after dark when some idiot decided following you into the parking lot was a good idea.
Nothing actually happened.
Not really.
The guy got too close.
You got scared.
You called Chibs.
That was it.
Just one phone call.
One.
You barely managed to get his name out before Chibs hung up.
Ten minutes later the roar of motorcycles echoed through the parking lot.
Not one bike.
Several.
SAMCRO arriving like an invading army.
The guy took one look at them and immediately reconsidered every life choice he'd ever made.
Especially when Chibs climbed off his bike.
Because Chibs wasn't smiling.
And somehow that was always worse.
The stranger disappeared quickly.
Smart man.
Very smart man.
Then suddenly Chibs was standing in front of you.
Looking you over.
Checking for injuries.
Checking again.
His hands were shaking.
That surprised you more than anything.
"Chibs—"
"Are ye hurt?"
"No."
"Are ye sure?"
"Yes."
His shoulders sagged.
Relief crashed through him so visibly it almost hurt to watch.
And for a second neither of you spoke.
The parking lot had gone quiet. The other bikers were pretending not to watch.
Terribly.
Very terribly.
Then Chibs reached out and cupped your face. The gesture was so gentle it nearly broke your heart.
"Ye scared me."
The words came out rough.
Honest.
Unfiltered.
You stared at him.
At the fear still lingering in his eyes. At the love he'd spent so long trying to hide.
And suddenly you saw everything.
The chair. The medicine. The candy. The phone calls. The way he always stood slightly closer than necessary. The way his eyes found you in every room.
The way he'd spent years caring for you without asking for anything in return.
"Oh."
His expression immediately changed.
"What's that mean?"
You laughed.
Actually laughed.
A little hysterically.
"Aye, that's concerning."
"Chibs."
"What?"
"You love me."
His eyebrows lifted.
As if this was somehow shocking news.
"As opposed to?"
You blinked.
"As opposed to... not loving me?"
He looked genuinely confused.
"Darlin', I thought that part was obvious."
The silence lasted approximately three seconds before you started laughing again.
Across the parking lot, Tig nearly fell off his motorcycle.
Happy covered his face.
Jax looked like a man whose patience had finally been rewarded.
Chibs ignored all of them.
His attention never left you.
Never could.
Not anymore.
Not when you were looking at him like that. Not when your eyes were shining. Not when you stepped closer.
Not when your hands found his cut and pulled him down.
The kiss happened naturally.
Like it had been waiting years for permission.
Warm.
Slow.
Certain.
When it ended, Chibs rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes.
For the first time in a very long time, he looked peaceful.
Completely peaceful.
Like a man who had finally stopped carrying something heavy.
"You know," you murmured.
"Aye?"
"You could've just told me."
He laughed.
A real laugh.
Deep and warm and impossible not to love.
"Where's the fun in that?"
You rolled your eyes.
He kissed your forehead.
Then your cheek.
Then the corner of your mouth.
As if he couldn't quite stop touching you now that he was allowed.
Maybe he couldn't.
Maybe neither of you wanted him to.
And as the motorcycles rumbled around you and the night stretched endlessly ahead and the club groaned dramatically about finally being spared years of mutual pining, Chibs wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you firmly against his side, looking entirely too satisfied with himself for a man who had spent years pretending he wasn't in love.
Because somewhere along the way, Chibs Telford had decided you were his.
And, as it turned out, somewhere along the way, he'd become yours too.
Creeper is in love with you. That's just a fact of his life.
Creeper would rather be in a shoot out than tell you. That's another fact of his life.
Unfortunately for him, Coco is a little shit.
Neron Vargas was in love with you.
That was simply a fact of his life, as unavoidable and permanent as the tattoos on his skin or the ache in his knee when the weather turned bad.
He had not meant for it to happen. In fact, he had done everything in his power to prevent it. He had kept his distance. He had spoken to you with the careful politeness of a man handling something fragile. He had convinced himself that admiration was harmless, that protectiveness was natural, that the way his chest tightened whenever you laughed was merely a passing inconvenience.
It had been three years.
At some point, a passing inconvenience had become a permanent condition.
You were twenty-four, bright and quick and warm in a way that made people instinctively gravitate toward you. You had started coming around the clubhouse because your cousin worked at the auto shop next door, and before long you had become a familiar presence: helping organize charity events, bringing coffee when everyone was too busy to remember they were human, laughing with Letty and teasing Coco when he got dramatic.
You treated Creeper with the same easy kindness you offered everyone else.
That was the problem.
Because Creeper was forty-five years old, and a patched member of the Mayans, and a man who had seen enough violence to know better than to put his heart somewhere it could be damaged so easily. He should have known better than to let himself care about someone whose life was still wide open with possibility.
Instead, he had fallen in love with you quietly and completely.
And he would rather be in a shootout than tell you.
That was another fact of his life.
Unfortunately for him, Johnny Cruz was a little shit.
The first time Coco said something, Creeper nearly drove his fist through the bar.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, hot enough that the air outside shimmered above the pavement. You were at the counter sorting donation receipts into neat stacks while Creeper sat at one of the tables pretending to read over inventory numbers.
He was not reading inventory numbers.
He was watching the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you concentrated.
Coco sauntered past him, took one look at his face, and grinned with the malicious delight of a man who had just found a loaded weapon lying unattended on the ground.
“You know,” Coco said loudly, “if you stare at her any harder, you’re gonna set her on fire.”
Creeper didn’t look up. “Shut up.”
You glanced over from the counter. “What?”
“Nothing,” Creeper said immediately.
Coco leaned against the counter beside you. “I was just saying Creeper here has been real interested in office supplies lately.”
You laughed. “Wow. Didn’t know filing receipts could be so fascinating.”
Creeper finally looked up, fixing Coco with a stare that should have reduced him to ash.
Coco only grinned wider. “I’m serious. Ask him about your favorite color. He knows it.”
You blinked. “My favorite color?”
Creeper muttered, “Blue.”
You turned toward him, surprised. “It is blue.”
Coco slapped the counter. “See? This man is paying attention.”
Creeper stood up so abruptly his chair scraped across the floor. “I’m going outside.”
“Coward,” Coco called after him.
Creeper heard your laugh behind him, light and genuine, and somehow that made the humiliation worse.
Outside, he leaned against the wall of the clubhouse and lit a cigarette with hands that were steadier than he felt.
Coco followed him out a minute later, still grinning.
“You’re gonna kill me one day,” Creeper said.
“Probably,” Coco agreed. “But not today, because today I’m helping you.”
“You’re not helping me.”
“Brother, you’ve been in love with her so long the whole charter knows except her.”
Creeper took a drag and looked away.
Coco’s expression softened just a fraction. “She likes you, too.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is exactly the point.”
Creeper shook his head. “She deserves someone with less… baggage.”
Coco barked out a laugh. “You’re a Mayan, Neron. We all got baggage. Some of us got whole airport terminals.”
Coco clapped him on the shoulder. “See? That’s the problem.”
The next Saturday, Coco somehow convinced you and Creeper to help with a supply run for a community barbecue.
“Why can’t you go yourself?” you asked as you loaded bags of charcoal into the truck bed.
“Because I’m busy,” Coco said.
“With what?”
“Important motorcycle club business.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re wearing flip-flops.”
“Exactly. It’s casual business.”
Creeper knew a setup when he saw one. “Coco.”
“Relax,” Coco said. “You two are just picking up food. How dangerous could it be?”
Creeper gave him a flat look.
“Okay,” Coco amended, “how emotionally dangerous could it be?”
“Coco,” you said, laughing despite yourself.
He waved you both toward the truck. “Go. Bond over condiments.”
The drive to the grocery store was quiet at first, but not uncomfortable. You sat in the passenger seat with the shopping list in your lap, occasionally reading items aloud while Creeper drove.
“Hot dog buns,” you said. “Hamburger buns. Chips. Water. Napkins.”
He nodded. “Got it.”
“And apparently twelve pounds of onions.”
“That sounds like Coco.”
You smiled. “It does, doesn’t it?”
At the store, you moved through the aisles together, dividing the list between you. Creeper carried the heavier items without being asked. When you reached for a case of water, he took it from your hands automatically.
“I can carry that,” you said.
“I know,” he replied. “I still got it.”
You watched him for a moment, something thoughtful passing across your face.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re always looking out for people.”
He shrugged. “Part of the job.”
“No,” you said softly. “I mean with everyone. You pay attention.”
Creeper felt his throat tighten. “Sometimes.”
You smiled and returned to the shopping list, but he carried your words with him through the rest of the store.
In the checkout line, an older woman behind you smiled at the two of you.
“You make a lovely couple,” she said.
You laughed. “Oh, we’re not—”
“Thank you,” Creeper said at the same time.
You both froze.
The woman beamed. “Well, you’re very welcome.”
Creeper stared straight ahead while you bit back a smile.
When you reached the truck, you said gently, “That was smooth.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” Your eyes were warm with amusement. “It was kind of sweet.”
Creeper looked at you then, really looked at you, and for one dangerous second he almost told you everything.
Then Coco called his phone.
“You two married yet?” Coco asked as soon as he answered.
Creeper hung up on him.
The barbecue was held in a small park near the community center. Music played from portable speakers while families gathered around folding tables covered in food.
You moved through the crowd with a tray of drinks, stopping to chat with parents and hand juice boxes to children. Creeper found himself watching you from near the grill, his expression softening every time someone smiled because of something you had said.
Coco noticed.
“Jesus Christ,” Coco muttered. “You look like a man watching his first sunrise.”
“Mind your business.”
“My business is entertainment, and you are currently the best show in Santo Padre.”
Creeper turned a burger with more force than necessary.
Coco leaned closer. “You know she’s been asking about you, right?”
Creeper looked up sharply. “What?”
“She asked if you were okay after that run to Stockton last month. Said you looked tired.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means she noticed.”
Before Creeper could respond, you approached the grill.
“Need help?” you asked.
“I’m good,” Creeper said.
You looked at the row of burgers. “That is definitely not true. Those are getting aggressive.”
Coco burst out laughing. “Aggressive burgers. I’m stealing that.”
You stepped beside Creeper and reached for the spatula. “Move over, Vargas. Let me save lunch.”
He handed it to you, and your fingers brushed his.
It was a small touch, brief and accidental, but it sent a sharp current through him.
You focused on the grill, unaware of the chaos you had caused. “There. Less aggressive.”
Creeper watched the profile of your face, the concentration in your eyes, the way the afternoon light caught the curve of your smile.
“You’re good at this,” he said before he could stop himself.
You glanced at him. “At cooking?”
“At making people feel comfortable.”
Your expression softened. “That’s a nice thing to say.”
Coco made a gagging noise loud enough for both of you to hear.
You laughed. Creeper glared.
Later, as the sun began to set, Coco gathered a few club members near one of the tables and announced, “I’d like to make a toast.”
“Oh no,” Creeper muttered.
Coco raised a paper cup. “To community, good food, and to Creeper finally admitting he’s hopelessly in love with—”
Creeper lunged across the table and clapped a hand over Coco’s mouth.
The entire group went silent.
You stared at them from a few feet away, holding a stack of plates.
Coco’s eyes danced with triumph above Creeper’s hand.
Creeper removed his hand slowly. “Don’t.”
Coco swallowed and said, with exaggerated innocence, “I was gonna say ‘in love with this barbecue sauce.’”
Nobody believed him.
Least of all you.
After the barbecue ended and the park had mostly emptied, you found Creeper near the truck loading the last of the supplies.
“Can I ask you something?” you said.
He looked up. “Yeah.”
You hesitated. “What was that about with Coco earlier?”
Creeper considered lying.
He was very good at lying when it protected other people.
But you were looking at him with such open curiosity that the lie died before it reached his mouth.
“He talks too much,” Creeper said carefully.
“That is definitely true,” you said. “But he seemed to think he was teasing you about something specific.”
Creeper closed the tailgate and leaned against it.
The evening air had cooled, carrying the scent of charcoal and cut grass. Somewhere in the distance, children were still laughing.
He looked at you and thought, Here it is. This is the shootout.
“I care about you,” he said.
Your expression softened immediately. “I care about you, too.”
He nodded. “I know. But what I mean is…”
The words caught in his throat.
You waited.
Creeper laughed once, quiet and self-deprecating. “See? I can face down a gun and this is what gets me.”
Your brows drew together with concern. “Neron.”
Hearing his first name from you nearly undid him.
He took a breath.
“I’m in love with you,” he said.
The world went very still.
Creeper felt the aftermath of the confession move through him like a shockwave: relief, terror, vulnerability, and the strange emptiness that came from finally setting down a burden he had carried for years.
You looked at him with wide eyes.
“I didn’t plan to tell you,” he admitted. “Not like this. Not ever really. Definitely not because Coco can’t keep his mouth shut.”
A laugh escaped you then, startled and breathless.
“He really is a little shit,” you said.
Creeper smiled despite himself. “The worst.”
You stepped closer.
“I need to ask you something,” you said softly.
“Anything.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
He looked away toward the darkening park.
“Because I’m forty-five,” he said. “Because I’m a patched member of a motorcycle club. Because I’ve lived a life that’s left marks on me, inside and out. And because you’re twenty-four and deserve a chance at a life that isn’t complicated by all of this.”
You were quiet for a moment.
Then you said, “Do you know what I deserve?”
Creeper looked back at you.
“I deserve the chance to decide what I want,” you said. “And what I want is to be with someone who sees me, who protects me without making me feel small, who listens when I speak and remembers my favorite color and carries the heavy things because he wants to help, not because he thinks I’m incapable.”
Creeper’s chest tightened painfully.
“You deserve better than me,” he said.
You smiled gently. “That’s not your decision to make.”
You reached out and took his hand.
Creeper stared at your fingers wrapped around his, as if he couldn’t quite believe they were there.
“I’ve liked you for a long time,” you admitted. “I just didn’t think you could possibly feel the same way.”
He let out a disbelieving laugh. “I’ve been in love with you for years.”
“Well,” you said, smiling wider now, “that makes Coco’s teasing make a lot more sense.”
Creeper shook his head. “I’m gonna kill him.”
“Maybe thank him first,” you suggested.
He considered this. “I can do both.”
You laughed, and the sound was so beautiful that he felt the last of his fear dissolve.
Creeper lifted his free hand to your face, giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
Then he kissed you.
It was gentle at first, careful in the way only a man with too much feeling and too much restraint could be careful. But when you kissed him back, his hand settled against your waist and the kiss deepened into something warm and steady and real.
When you pulled apart, you were both smiling.
“Hi,” you whispered.
“Hi,” Creeper replied.
You rested your forehead against his chest. “So what happens now?”
Creeper wrapped his arms around you, holding you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do it.
“Now,” he said, “I stop pretending I’m not crazy about you.”
The next afternoon, you and Creeper walked into the clubhouse together.
Conversation stopped.
Coco looked up from the bar, saw your joined hands, and slowly stood.
“No,” Creeper said immediately.
Coco raised both hands. “I haven’t said anything yet.”
“Don’t.”
Coco looked at you. “Did he finally tell you?”
You smiled. “He did.”
Coco pressed a hand to his heart. “I did it. I brought two people together.”
“You almost got strangled,” Angel pointed out.
“A small price to pay for romance.”
Creeper shook his head, but there was no heat in it.
You squeezed his hand. “Maybe don’t kill him today.”
Coco grinned. “See? She’s already improving you.”
Creeper looked down at you, his expression softening in a way that made the room collectively groan.
Due to unfortunate circumstances, you give Happy a boner. He's deeply annoyed by this.
Happy Lowman was having a bad day.
For Happy, that was saying something.
Most people thought he existed in a permanent state of irritation anyway, but there were levels to it. There was normal Happy—silent, intimidating, carrying around enough weapons to arm a small militia—and then there was bad-day Happy.
Bad-day Happy looked like somebody had personally offended him by existing.
The garage was hot.
The air smelled like gasoline and metal and sweat, and Happy was halfway underneath a bike when he heard your voice drifting through the open bay door.
Instantly, against his better judgment, he listened.
He always listened when you talked.
That was problem number one.
The club didn't know it, but you had become the center of his attention months ago.
Not intentionally.
Definitely not willingly.
You were too young for him.
Twenty-four. Bright-eyed. Funny. The kind of woman who walked into a room and somehow made it feel lighter.
Happy was forty-nine years old.
A killer. A biker. A man who had seen enough ugly things for three lifetimes.
There was absolutely no reason he should find himself noticing what color shirt you wore on any given day.
And yet.
Here he was.
Listening.
Again.
"...and then he told me it wasn't my fault!"
Your laughter floated across the garage.
Happy's mouth twitched.
Across the room, Chibs noticed.
Immediately.
Because Chibs noticed everything.
"Oh, look at that."
Happy sighed.
"What?"
"The smile."
"I ain't smiling."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
Happy rolled farther underneath the motorcycle.
Chibs looked delighted.
Which was suspicious.
The older man leaned against the workbench.
"You know she's coming over here."
Happy froze.
For half a second.
Just long enough for Chibs to see it.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're thinking."
"I'm thinking nothing."
"That's a lie."
"It absolutely is."
A voice interrupted them.
"Hi, Happy."
There you were.
Smiling.
God help him.
You always smiled at him like that.
Like seeing him made you genuinely happy. Like he wasn't terrifying. Like he wasn't dangerous. Like he wasn't twice your age and carrying enough emotional baggage to sink a ship.
"Hey."
Your smile widened.
Happy immediately regretted existing.
"Can I borrow your truck?"
"No."
You blinked.
"Wow."
"No."
"You don't even know why."
"No."
"You didn't let me explain."
"No."
Chibs snorted.
Happy ignored him.
You folded your arms.
"You're mean."
"Correct."
"Rude."
"Also correct."
"Grumpy."
Happy stared at you.
You stared back.
Then you smiled again.
The kind of smile that should've been illegal.
And there it was.
That familiar feeling in his chest. Warm. Dangerous. Terrifying.
He hated it.
You tilted your head.
"Please?"
"No."
"Happy."
"No."
"Happy."
"No."
"Happy."
Chibs actually walked away laughing.
Traitor.
You stepped closer.
Happy immediately became aware of how little distance existed between you.
Which was unfortunate.
Very unfortunate.
"You know," you said thoughtfully, "most people would help me."
"Go ask most people."
"But I wanted to ask you."
And there it was.
That thing you did.
That thing that made him feel like a complete idiot.
Like somehow his opinion mattered more than everyone else's.
Like somehow he mattered.
Happy swallowed.
"You got a car."
"It's broken."
"You got legs."
"Happy."
"No."
You groaned dramatically.
Then, apparently deciding negotiation had failed, you climbed onto the workbench beside him.
That should not have affected him.
It absolutely affected him.
The shorts weren't helping. Neither was the fact that you smelled like sunscreen and shampoo. Neither was the fact that he was already having a terrible day.
And neither was the fact that he'd spent months pretending he wasn't hopelessly in love with you.
A truly miserable combination.
"You're impossible."
"Correct."
You sighed.
Then leaned forward to examine the bike.
And everything went wrong.
Very quickly.
Because your balance shifted.
And your hand landed directly on his shoulder.
And your body tipped.
And suddenly you were half sprawled across him.
For approximately three seconds.
Three very long seconds.
The garage became silent.
Happy's brain stopped functioning.
You froze.
"Oh my God."
Happy didn't move.
You pushed yourself upright immediately.
"Sorry."
Happy still didn't move.
You looked horrified.
"I didn't mean to—"
"You're fine."
You looked relieved.
Happy was not relieved.
At all.
Because his body had apparently chosen violence.
Specifically against him.
Forty-nine years old.
A grown man.
A professional criminal.
And now he had a problem.
A very obvious problem.
A very inconvenient problem.
One directly caused by you accidentally falling on him.
Fantastic.
Absolutely fantastic.
Happy stood up immediately.
Bad decision.
Terrible decision.
The second he stood up, he realized exactly how bad a decision it was.
Your eyes widened.
Then widened further.
Then snapped upward toward his face.
Understanding dawned.
Silence.
Pure silence.
Happy contemplated faking his own death.
You looked like you might join him.
Neither of you spoke.
For several agonizing seconds.
Then:
"Oh."
Happy closed his eyes.
"Oh?"
"That's not—"
"It is."
You looked horrified.
"I didn't mean—"
"I know."
"I'm so sorry."
Happy rubbed a hand across his face.
Of course you were apologizing.
Because you were you.
And because apparently the universe hated him.
"It's fine."
"It doesn't seem fine."
"It's fine."
"It really doesn't seem fine."
Happy glared.
You immediately looked guilty.
Which somehow made everything worse.
"Happy."
"What?"
Your voice softened.
Dangerously.
"You okay?"
And that was the problem.
Not the embarrassment. Not the awkwardness. Not even the fact that he wanted the concrete floor to swallow him whole.
It was that you cared. Genuinely. Always.
The concern in your eyes was real.
And it hit him harder than anything else.
Happy looked away first.
Which never happened.
"I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"No."
The honesty surprised both of you.
The garage suddenly felt smaller.
Quieter.
The sounds from outside faded away.
You looked at him.
Really looked at him.
And Happy realized something.
You knew.
Maybe not everything.
But enough.
Enough to understand why he avoided being alone with you. Enough to understand why he sometimes disappeared when you got too close. Enough to understand why he never quite met your eyes when things became too personal.
Your expression softened.
And somehow that made everything worse.
"Happy."
"What."
"You know I don't think it's weird, right?"
He laughed once.
A rough sound.
"It should be."
"I don't."
"It should."
"Why?"
Because you're too good for me.
Because you're young.
Because you deserve better.
Because I love you more than I should.
Because I can't stop.
Because I don't know how.
None of those words came out.
Instead:
"Because it should."
You smiled sadly.
"You're impossible."
"Been told."
"By me."
"Frequently."
The silence settled again.
Different this time.
Softer.
Neither of you moved.
Neither of you looked away.
And suddenly Happy understood he was losing this fight.
The one he'd been fighting for months. The one where he convinced himself he could keep pretending.
Because you were looking at him like that. And because, apparently, you were done pretending too.
You took a small step closer.
"Can I tell you something?"
"No."
"I'm going to anyway."
Happy sighed.
"Yeah."
Your smile returned.
Tiny. Nervous. Beautiful.
"I think you're the best man I've ever met."
Happy stared.
"You need better men."
"No."
"You do."
"I don't."
Your voice never wavered.
Not once.
Happy felt something in his chest crack.
Years of walls. Years of distance. Years of convincing himself nobody could possibly look at him and see something worth loving.
And yet.
You did.
Every day. Without hesitation.
You reached for his hand.
Slowly.
Giving him every opportunity to pull away.
Happy didn't.
Your fingers intertwined with his.
Warm.
Certain.
Real.
"I love you."
Just like that.
No drama. No speeches. No hesitation.
Three simple words.
Happy stared at you.
His heart was pounding so hard it felt ridiculous.
You smiled nervously.
"Well."
He exhaled.
Long and slow.
Then pulled you closer.
One hand settling at your waist. The other cupping your jaw.
The look in his eyes made your breath catch.
Because after months of wondering. Months of hoping. Months of uncertainty.
You could finally see it.
Everything he'd been trying to hide.
All of it.
"I love you too."
Your smile broke instantly.
Bright.
Happy thought he could spend the rest of his life chasing that smile.
You kissed him first.
Soft.
Tentative.
And Happy kissed you back.
The world disappeared.
The garage.
The club.
The noise.
Everything.
Gone.
There was only you.
Only this.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling.
Happy actually smiling.
Which would have shocked everyone who knew him.
You rested your forehead against his.
"Feel better?"
Happy groaned.
You laughed.
A full, helpless laugh.
And for the first time all day, Happy didn't feel annoyed at all.
Just completely, hopelessly in love.
Which, admittedly, was probably a much bigger problem.
Everyone in Charming had an opinion about Tig Trager.
Most of them were negative.
Some of them were horrified.
A few of them were genuinely concerned for public safety.
And honestly?
Most of them had a point.
Because Tig Trager was, objectively speaking, a menace.
He stole things.
Not important things.
Just things.
For fun.
One time he stole Chibs' lighter.
Not because he needed a lighter. Not because he wanted a lighter. Just because Chibs had looked away for three seconds and Tig had decided chaos sounded entertaining.
He carried it around for two weeks.
Then left it inside Chibs' boot.
Another time he somehow managed to hide every single wrench in the garage.
Nobody ever discovered where he'd put them.
Not even Tig.
He once convinced Juice there was a mountain lion living behind the clubhouse.
Juice spent three days carrying a baseball bat.
Three.
Days.
"You know he's gonna kill me one day."
Juice pointed accusingly across the clubhouse.
Tig was currently attempting to balance a pool cue on his forehead.
"You say that every week."
"Because every week he gets closer."
You'd known Tig for almost three years.
Long enough to know that beneath the insanity was a genuinely good man.
A ridiculous man. An exhausting man.
But a good one.
Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, you'd fallen in love with him.
You didn't mean to. You really didn't.
It happened gradually.
The way most terrible decisions happened.
One bad choice at a time.
At first he was just entertaining.
Then he became familiar.
Then he became important.
Then one day you looked up and realized you couldn't imagine your life without him in it.
Which was unfortunate.
Because Tig Trager flirted with everyone.
Waitresses. Cashiers. Bartenders. Random women at gas stations. Women who were clearly not interested. Women who were definitely interested. The occasional grandmother.
Nobody was safe.
You'd watched it happen enough times to convince yourself you didn't stand a chance.
So you buried the feelings.
Ignored them.
Pretended.
Then Tig ruined everything.
As usual.
It happened on a Tuesday.
You were carrying a box of inventory supplies into the clubhouse.
The box wasn't particularly heavy.
Just awkward.
The kind of thing you could manage yourself.
Or should have been able to manage yourself.
Instead, the second Tig spotted you—
"Baby."
You immediately sighed.
"No."
"What?"
"I know that tone."
"I don't have a tone."
"You absolutely have a tone."
His grin appeared.
Dangerous.
Mischievous.
Predictably awful.
"Give me the box."
"No."
"Baby."
"No."
"Baby."
"Tig."
"Baby."
You hated him.
You genuinely hated him.
Mostly because his smile was making your heart misbehave.
Before you could react, he simply took the box.
Like it weighed nothing.
"Tig."
"What?"
"I was carrying that."
"I know."
"Then why'd you take it?"
He shrugged.
Like the answer was obvious.
"Because I don't want you carrying it."
Your brain immediately short-circuited.
Unfortunately, that happened a lot around Tig.
He walked inside carrying the box.
You followed, trying very hard not to smile.
"You're ridiculous."
"Yeah."
"Impossible."
"Probably."
"A menace."
His grin widened.
"But I'm your menace."
And then he walked away.
Leaving you standing there.
Staring.
Your heart betrayed you immediately.
You hated that too.
A week later, things got worse.
You were sitting at the bar doing paperwork.
One of the glamorous parts of helping SAMCRO that nobody talked about.
Numbers. Forms. Invoices. Receipts.
You were halfway through balancing a spreadsheet when Tig appeared beside you.
Without warning.
Like a leather-clad ghost.
"What're you doing?"
"Paperwork."
"Looks terrible."
"It is terrible."
"Want me to help?"
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your pen.
"Tig."
"What?"
"You once tried to use a calculator upside down."
"It still worked."
"It said 80085."
His face lit up.
"It did say boobs."
"Exactly."
He looked genuinely proud of himself.
You buried your face in your hands.
"How are you alive?"
"Natural talent."
"That's not what that means."
"It is for me."
You laughed despite yourself.
And suddenly his expression softened.
Just a little.
The way it always did around you.
There were moments like that.
Tiny moments.
Moments nobody else noticed.
But you did.
Because Tig looked at everyone differently than he looked at you.
Everyone else got chaos. You got gentleness.
Everyone else got jokes. You got sincerity hidden underneath them.
Everyone else got Tig Trager. You got Alex.
The man beneath everything.
And that was the problem.
Because the more you saw him, the harder it became to pretend.
The breaking point arrived six months later.
Not because of some grand tragedy.
Not because of danger.
Not because of violence.
Because of a fever. A stupid fever.
You'd been sick for days.
Trying to hide it. Trying to push through.
Which worked exactly as well as expected.
Meaning not at all.
By the fourth day, you'd dragged yourself into the clubhouse looking like death.
Juice noticed first.
"Damn."
"What?"
"You look terrible."
"Thanks."
"No, seriously."
You flipped him off.
Then nearly fell over.
Strong hands caught your arm immediately.
Tig.
Of course it was Tig.
His smile vanished instantly.
"Whoa."
You hated the concern in his voice.
Because it made your chest ache.
"I'm fine."
"No."
"I'm fine."
"Baby."
"Tig."
"You're shaking."
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"...maybe a little."
"A little?"
His hand pressed against your forehead.
Everything changed.
His eyes widened.
"Jesus Christ."
"What?"
"You're burning up."
You sighed.
"It's just a fever."
"No."
"Tig."
"No."
Before you could react, he was already moving.
Keys.
Jacket.
Determination.
"Tig."
"Nope."
"Tig."
"No."
"Tig!"
He pointed at you.
"Hospital."
"It's a fever."
"Hospital."
"I don't need—"
"Hospital."
The argument lasted approximately thirty seconds.
Mostly because Tig simply picked you up.
Physically.
Off the floor.
Like that solved everything.
"TIG!"
"Whatever you want, baby."
"That doesn't even make sense!"
"It does if you stop talking."
You hated him.
You loved him.
You were probably delirious.
The hospital confirmed it was nothing serious.
A nasty infection. Dehydration. Exhaustion.
A few days of medication. Rest. Fluids.
Nothing life-threatening.
Tig looked like he'd aged ten years waiting for the doctor.
And something about that stuck with you.
Because nobody looked that scared for someone they didn't love.
Nobody.
The realization settled heavily in your chest.
Then stayed there.
For weeks.
Until one night.
One stupid, ordinary night.
You found yourself sitting outside the clubhouse watching the sunset.
The sky was painted orange and gold. The air warm. The world quiet.
For once.
Tig appeared beside you.
Holding two beers.
He handed one over.
Neither of you spoke.
For a while.
Then—
"You scared me."
Your gaze shifted.
"What?"
"The hospital."
His voice was quiet.
Almost vulnerable.
"I thought something happened."
Your chest tightened.
"Tig..."
"I know."
He stared toward the horizon.
"I know it was stupid."
"It wasn't stupid."
He laughed softly.
"It was."
"No."
His eyes found yours.
And suddenly the world felt very small.
Very quiet.
Very fragile.
"I don't know what I'd do without you."
The words hit harder than any gunshot ever could.
Because they were honest.
Raw.
Real.
And suddenly you couldn't keep pretending.
Neither could he.
"Tig."
"Yeah, baby?"
You swallowed.
"I think I'm in love with you."
Silence.
Complete silence.
The kind that changes lives.
Tig stared.
Once.
Twice.
Then his entire face transformed.
Disbelief.
Hope.
Joy.
Pure joy.
"You think?"
You laughed.
"Shut up."
His grin became enormous.
"Baby."
"Tig."
"I've been in love with you for two damn years."
Your brain stopped functioning.
"What?"
"Two years."
"TWO YEARS?"
He nodded.
"You absolute idiot."
His grin widened.
"Takes one to know one."
You shoved him.
He caught your hand.
Held it.
Neither of you let go.
Not this time.
Not ever again.
The sunset painted gold across his face.
Across his smile.
Across the eyes you'd loved for far longer than you wanted to admit.
And for the first time, there were no misunderstandings.
No missed chances.
No uncertainty.
Just you.
And Tig.
Together.
Finally.
He lifted your joined hands and kissed your knuckles.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like something precious.
Then smiled.
The soft smile he only ever gave you.
"Whatever you want, baby."
Your heart melted immediately.
"You know that's a dangerous thing to say."
"Why?"
"Because I might ask for forever."
For once, Tig Trager didn't joke.
Didn't tease.
Didn't laugh.
Instead, he squeezed your hand.
Looked you straight in the eye.
And answered with complete certainty.
"Good."
Then he kissed you.
And for the first time in years, everything felt exactly right.
You study active volcanoes.
Happy thinks this is the most unhinged thing he's ever heard.
You think the guy who tattoos smiley faces on himself after killing people doesn't get to judge.
Happy Lowman had seen people make careers out of some strange things.
He knew a man who got paid to wrestle alligators.
He knew another who somehow made a living buying abandoned storage units.
He knew a woman who traveled around California collecting snake venom.
The world was full of lunatics.
But somehow, the woman standing in front of him with a coffee cup in one hand and a stack of research papers in the other managed to surpass every single one of them.
Which was saying something.
Happy sat at one of the picnic tables outside the clubhouse while you searched through your bag.
The afternoon was warm. The yard was busy. Bikes rolled in and out. Music drifted from somewhere inside.
And Happy was only half paying attention until he heard Tig ask where you were disappearing off to next week.
You glanced up.
"Iceland."
Tig whistled.
"Vacation?"
"Nah, work." You took a sip of coffee. "Volcano."
Happy slowly lowered the knife he had been using to clean beneath his fingernails.
Silence.
Then—
"What?"
You looked over.
"What?"
"Volcano."
"Yeah."
"A volcano."
"Yeah."
Happy stared.
"The exploding mountain?"
You blinked.
"Yes."
"You study the exploding mountain?"
"Yes."
"And people let you do that?"
Apparently they did.
Because you nodded.
Like that was a perfectly normal thing to say.
Happy sat motionless.
Across from him, Tig looked equally disturbed.
"You walk toward volcanoes?"
You shrugged.
"Usually."
"On purpose?"
"That's generally how fieldwork works."
Happy glanced toward Tig.
Tig glanced toward Happy.
Neither of them knew what to do with this information.
Because for years they'd watched people do objectively stupid things.
People rode motorcycles at impossible speeds. People got into fistfights they couldn't win. People made terrible life choices every day.
But voluntarily approaching an active volcano?
That felt different.
That felt like a mental illness.
Happy narrowed his eyes.
"Why?"
You looked genuinely confused.
"Why what?"
"Why would you do that?"
"Because they're fascinating."
"They explode."
"Exactly."
Happy looked offended by your enthusiasm.
"You say that like it's a good thing."
"It is."
"No."
"It absolutely is."
"No."
You laughed.
Actually laughed.
Happy frowned.
The woman was smiling while discussing geological disasters.
That couldn't be healthy.
The thing was, Happy had known you for nearly a year before discovering this particular detail.
The two of you weren't exactly friends at first.
You'd started showing up around Charming because you were friends with Tara.
Then Gemma had decided she liked you. Which meant you became impossible to get rid of.
You were smart. Funny. Entirely too fearless. And unlike most people who met the club, you didn't seem intimidated by any of them.
Especially Happy.
Which was unusual.
Most people were intimidated by Happy.
That was kind of his thing.
But not you.
You treated him exactly the same as everyone else.
Sometimes worse.
Especially after discovering his reputation.
The conversation had happened months earlier.
You'd been sitting outside the clubhouse reading while Happy cleaned one of his guns nearby.
Eventually you'd glanced up.
"Can I ask you something?"
Happy shrugged.
"You just did."
You ignored that.
"What's with the smiley faces?"
He stared.
You stared back.
"The tattoos."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
Happy wasn't exactly secretive about them.
"They mean something."
"I figured."
You paused.
Then—
"Honestly that's probably the most alarming sentence you could've said."
Happy had laughed.
Actually laughed.
A rare occurrence.
And things had gradually spiraled from there.
The volcano revelation changed everything.
Mostly because Happy became obsessed with it.
Not because he found volcanoes interesting. Quite the opposite. He found them horrifying.
Which meant every new fact you shared made things worse.
Far worse.
A few days after the Iceland conversation he found you in the clubhouse library surrounded by maps.
"What're those?"
"Volcanic hazard maps."
Happy immediately regretted asking.
You pointed at a colored section.
"This area would likely be impacted by lava flow."
"Likely?"
"Depends on eruption patterns."
Happy rubbed his face.
Then pointed elsewhere.
"And that?"
"Pyroclastic density currents."
"What language is that?"
"Fast-moving clouds of superheated gas and volcanic material."
Happy stared.
"...What."
"Oh they're incredibly dangerous."
"Dangerous how?"
You smiled. Happy hated that smile. Because it meant information was coming.
"They can reach temperatures of several hundred degrees Celsius."
Happy blinked.
"Several hundred."
"Yep."
"And you go near those."
"Not near-near."
"What does that mean?"
You considered.
"Closer than most people would prefer."
Happy stood up.
"No."
"What?"
"No."
You laughed.
"I'm not chasing them down with a butterfly net, Happy."
"You shouldn't be chasing them at all."
"They don't move that fast."
"That's not helping."
The problem was that the more he learned about your job, the more insane it sounded.
You flew around the world studying active volcanoes. You climbed mountains. You collected rock samples. You installed monitoring equipment. You spent weeks in isolated field camps. You willingly hiked across landscapes that looked like they belonged on another planet.
And somehow you talked about all of it the way normal people discussed grocery shopping.
One night you made the mistake of showing him photographs.
Happy had been sitting beside you on a couch while you sorted through pictures from a recent expedition.
The first few were harmless.
Mountain ranges.
Research stations.
Equipment.
Then—
"What the fuck is that?"
You looked down.
"Oh."
The photograph showed a glowing river of lava.
Bright orange.
Violent.
Terrifying.
You smiled.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
"No."
"It is."
"No."
"It absolutely is."
"It looks like hell."
"That's a little dramatic."
Happy pointed at the image.
"That rock is melting."
"That's lava."
"Exactly."
Happy felt incredibly justified.
You looked delighted.
Which somehow made it worse.
Then came the trip.
Another one.
Another active volcano.
Another country.
Another opportunity for Happy to question humanity.
The evening before your flight he found you loading equipment into your truck.
Cases.
Backpacks.
Research gear.
Enough supplies to survive the apocalypse.
Happy leaned against the vehicle.
"How long?"
"Three weeks."
His expression darkened.
You noticed immediately.
The thing about Happy was that most people struggled to read him.
You never had.
Not completely.
But better than most.
You could tell when he was annoyed.
Amused.
Concerned.
And right now?
Concerned.
Though he'd rather die than admit it.
You closed the truck door.
"You'll survive."
He grunted.
"Not worried about me."
A pause.
Then—
"Oh."
Happy looked away.
Which was basically a confession.
Your chest did something funny.
Because somewhere along the way, this terrifying tattooed man had become important.
More important than either of you intended.
You stepped closer.
"Happy."
He looked at you.
"I'm good at what I do."
"I know."
"I know the risks."
"I know."
You smiled softly.
"And I always come back."
Something shifted in his expression.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
But there.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
"Yeah."
Those three weeks became the longest three weeks of Happy's life.
Not because anything happened.
Nothing happened.
That was the problem.
Because when you were gone, his brain filled in the blanks.
Every news report about geological activity. Every mention of earthquakes. Every article involving whatever country you were in.
Happy found himself paying attention.
Checking updates.
Listening.
Watching.
Waiting.
And getting increasingly irritated by how much he cared.
Because he cared.
A lot.
Far more than he should.
Far more than was safe.
By the time you finally returned to Charming, he was halfway convinced he'd lose his mind if you disappeared again.
You arrived at the clubhouse dusty, exhausted, and carrying a backpack.
Happy spotted you immediately.
So did everyone else.
But he reached you first.
You barely had time to smile before he pulled you into a hug.
The entire yard went silent.
Because Happy Lowman did not hug people.
Ever.
Yet there he was.
Holding you tightly enough that you could barely breathe.
You slowly wrapped your arms around him.
"Oh."
Happy buried his face against your hair.
"Shut up."
You grinned.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were going to."
"Probably."
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
His eyes moved across your face.
Checking.
Verifying.
Making sure.
You understood instantly.
And something warm settled in your chest.
The realization came shortly afterward.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
Just gradually.
Like pieces falling into place.
Happy noticed he looked for you everywhere.
Wanted to tell you things first. Wanted to hear about your day. Wanted to know when you got home safely. Wanted to know where you were. Wanted to know when you'd be back.
Wanted.
Wanted.
Wanted.
Until eventually there was no denying it anymore.
He was in love with you.
Which was unfortunate.
Because Happy Lowman had absolutely no idea what to do about that.
You figured it out before he said anything.
Mostly because Happy became weird.
Weirder.
Which was impressive.
He started showing up wherever you were. Fixing things without being asked. Making sure your truck worked. Walking you to your door. Calling just to check in. Watching every man who looked at you like he was considering murder.
One evening you finally cornered him.
You were sitting on your porch watching the sunset.
Happy occupied the chair beside you.
Silent as usual.
You glanced over.
"Happy."
"Hm."
"Are you ever going to do something about this?"
He frowned.
"About what?"
You nearly laughed.
"This."
A pause.
Then realization.
Happy looked away.
You smiled.
"You're terrible at hiding it."
"Didn't know I was."
"You are."
Another pause.
Long.
Heavy.
Then finally—
"I worry."
Your expression softened.
"I know."
"No."
His voice was rough.
Quiet.
"More than I should."
Your heart skipped.
Happy stared out toward the street.
"I hear volcano now."
You immediately started laughing.
He looked offended.
"You laugh."
"You sound ridiculous."
"I hear volcano and think you're gonna die."
You laughed harder.
Happy shook his head.
"I mean it."
The laughter faded.
Slowly.
Because he did mean it.
Every word.
Every feeling.
Every fear.
You reached over and took his hand.
His fingers immediately tightened around yours.
"I always come back."
"One day you might not."
The honesty hit like a punch.
You looked at him.
Really looked at him.
And saw everything he'd been trying not to say.
Every feeling. Every sleepless night. Every ounce of love.
Your chest ached.
Because you loved him too.
The terrifying man with the smiley-face tattoos. The dangerous man with the unexpectedly gentle hands. The man who thought volcanoes were insane. The man who worried every time you left.
The man who loved you.
You squeezed his hand.
"Then I guess I'll have to keep coming back."
Happy's gaze met yours.
And for the first time in his life, he looked uncertain.
You leaned forward.
Pressed a kiss against his mouth.
Soft.
Warm.
Certain.
For a second he froze.
Then he was kissing you back.
One hand sliding against your jaw.
The other still gripping your fingers like he never intended to let go.
When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far.
Happy rested his forehead against yours.
"You still think my job's crazy?"
A long pause.
Then—
"Absolutely."
You laughed.
"And you still think you're qualified to judge me?"
"Yep."
"You tattoo smiley faces on yourself after killing people."
"Different."
"It is not different."
"It is."
You shook your head.
Happy kissed you again.
Just because he could.
And because after months of worrying, waiting, and falling hopelessly in love with the woman who willingly chased exploding mountains across the world, he finally had something he wanted more than certainty.
He had you.
And for the first time, whenever you left for another volcano, Happy knew exactly what he'd be waiting for.
An ex-boyfriend shows up wanting another chance. You keep turning him down.
Eventually he starts scaring you, rather than just being annoying.
You enlist Tig's help to get rid of him.
i originally wrote this for Coco from Mayans MC but the characterisation felt better for Tig, so if there's anything that doesn't quite fit that's why
The first time your ex showed up, it was almost laughable.
You were carrying two grocery bags up the narrow steps to your apartment, balancing a carton of eggs under one arm, when you saw him leaning against the rusted railing outside your building.
“Hey,” he said, straightening immediately, like he’d been waiting for hours. “Can we talk?”
You stopped halfway up the stairs.
Your first instinct was annoyance, not fear. He looked the same as he always had: neat haircut, expensive watch, the faint smell of cologne that used to make you dizzy and now just made you tired.
“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about,” you said, shifting the bags in your hands.
He smiled in that too-familiar way. “Come on. It’s been months. I just want another chance.”
You gave a short laugh. “No.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do, actually.”
His smile faltered, but only for a second. “You’re still mad.”
“I’m not mad. I’m done.”
You stepped around him and unlocked your apartment door. He started to say something else, but you closed the door before he could finish.
Inside, you set the groceries down and rolled your eyes at the absurdity of it all.
When you told Tig Trager about it later that night, he made a show of clutching his chest.
“He said another chance?” Tig repeated, horrified. “Like he’s auditioning for a romantic comedy?”
You snorted into your drink. “Pretty much.”
Tig leaned back in his chair outside the clubhouse, shaking his head dramatically. “I’m offended on your behalf. If a woman tells me no, I assume she has excellent judgment.”
“You say that now.”
“No, I mean it. I’d probably write a song about it. Something tragic. She rejected me because she was wise.”
You laughed, and his face softened immediately, like making you laugh was a mission accomplished.
At the time, it still felt harmless.
That changed two weeks later.
You were leaving work when you spotted his car parked across the street. Your ex sat inside, engine running, watching the entrance.
You paused with your keys in your hand.
He got out when he saw you. “Hey.”
Your stomach tightened. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“You could have texted.”
“I did text. You didn’t answer.”
You had ignored his messages because every one of them had been some variation of Can we talk?
“I’m not interested in talking,” you said carefully.
He stepped closer. “You’re being stubborn.”
“No,” you said. “I’m being clear.”
He sighed like you were the difficult one. “I know I messed up. I’m trying to fix it.”
“There’s nothing to fix. We’re not together.”
“You don’t have to be so cold.”
You took a step back. “I’m going home.”
He looked frustrated, but he didn’t stop you. You got into your car and drove away, checking your rearview mirror more than once.
That night, you tried to convince yourself you were overreacting.
But then he started appearing everywhere.
Outside the coffee shop near your apartment.
At the gas station down the road.
Once, outside the grocery store, where he approached you with flowers in his hand and a smile that made your skin crawl.
“I brought these for you,” he said.
“I don’t want them.”
He frowned. “You don’t have to make this so difficult.”
You walked past him without taking the flowers.
By the time you told Tig the whole story, he was pacing in front of the clubhouse like he was preparing for a one-man stage performance.
“He said you’re making this difficult?” Tig repeated, voice climbing an octave. “The audacity. The drama. The complete lack of self-awareness.”
“It’s not funny anymore,” you admitted quietly.
Tig stopped pacing immediately.
His expression changed so fast it startled you. One second he was theatrical outrage; the next he was focused and serious.
“He’s bothering you that much?”
You nodded. “I keep telling him no. He keeps showing up anyway.”
Tig crouched in front of where you sat on the picnic table, resting his forearms on his knees.
“Has he touched you?”
“No.”
“Threatened you?”
“Not exactly.”
“But?”
You looked down at your hands. “He keeps acting like my answer is temporary. Like if he waits long enough, I’ll change my mind.”
Tig's jaw tightened.
“That’s not okay,” he said.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to handle this alone.”
You glanced up at him. “I don’t want you to do anything stupid.”
Tig put a hand over his heart. “Me? Stupid? Never.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Okay,” he admitted. “Occasionally stupid. But only in very specific situations.”
Despite yourself, you smiled.
His hand dropped, and he reached out carefully, touching your wrist just long enough to reassure himself you were okay.
“Tell me if he shows up again,” he said. “Any time. I mean it.”
“I don’t want to bother you.”
He looked personally offended. “Bother me? I’m practically a professional at being bothered. This is my specialty.”
You laughed softly.
Tig's eyes lingered on your face for a moment too long before he stood.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Call me.”
You promised you would.
For a few days, things were quiet.
Then one evening, you came home from work and found your ex sitting on the steps outside your apartment building.
Your heart dropped.
He stood when he saw you. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
You stopped several feet away. “Why?”
“I wanted to apologize.”
“You’ve apologized.”
“I mean it this time.”
“I don’t care.”
His face hardened slightly. “You don’t have to be cruel.”
“I’m not being cruel. I’m asking you to leave me alone.”
He took a step toward you.
You took a step back.
Something about the way he looked at you then—frustrated, impatient, entitled—made fear prickle down your spine for the first time.
“Please leave,” you said.
He sighed heavily. “I drove all the way over here.”
“That was your choice.”
“You’re really going to make me leave?”
The way he said make me turned your stomach.
You pulled your phone out of your pocket.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling someone.”
His expression changed again, this time to irritation. “Who?”
“You don’t need to know.”
You hit Tig's name.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
The nickname hit you like a lifeline.
“Tig,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Can you come by my apartment?”
There was a pause.
“Are you okay?”
“My ex is here.”
Another pause, shorter this time.
“I’m on my way.”
You hung up and kept your eyes on your ex.
“You called your friend?” he asked, sounding disdainful.
“Yes.”
He laughed under his breath. “That’s dramatic.”
You almost laughed at the irony.
“You need to leave,” you said again.
Instead of leaving, he sat back down on the steps.
“I’ll wait.”
You stayed near the curb, phone in hand, pulse thudding in your ears.
The sound of a motorcycle reached you before you saw Tig.
He pulled up fast, engine rumbling, and swung off the bike before it had fully settled.
Tig looked from you to your ex and immediately spread his arms.
“Wow,” he said loudly. “This is not the romantic reunion I was promised.”
Your ex stood. “Who are you?”
Tig ignored him and walked straight to you.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, though your hands were shaking.
Tig noticed.
His expression changed.
When he turned back to your ex, his dramatic energy was still there, but now it was edged with something sharp.
“So,” Tig said, “let me get this straight. She told you no. Multiple times. And your response was to wait outside her home like the world’s least charming porch decoration?”
Your ex bristled. “This is between me and her.”
Tig tilted his head. “Interesting theory. But when someone is scared, the people who care about them tend to get involved.”
“I’m not scared,” you said automatically.
Tig glanced at you.
You looked away.
“Okay,” he said gently. “Maybe not scared. Maybe just done dealing with this bullshit.”
Your ex crossed his arms. “She’s overreacting.”
Tig's eyebrows shot up. “Overreacting? My brother in Christ, she asked you to leave her alone. That is a complete sentence.”
“This doesn’t concern you.”
Tig smiled, but it wasn’t his usual easy grin.
“It concerns me when someone I care about is uncomfortable,” he said.
Your ex looked at you. “You really need him to fight your battles?”
Before you could answer, Tig gasped dramatically.
“Fight? Sir, I came here for a conversation. Possibly a strongly worded monologue. Fighting is so much paperwork.”
Your ex scoffed.
Tig's smile vanished.
“She said no,” Tig said, voice calm now. “You need to respect that. You need to stop coming here, stop waiting for her, and stop acting like you’re entitled to her attention.”
For the first time, your ex looked uncertain.
“You’re threatening me?”
“No,” Tig said. “I’m telling you the truth. She does not want contact with you. If you keep showing up, this stops being annoying and starts being a serious problem.”
Your ex looked at you again, searching your face for hesitation.
There was none.
“I want you to leave me alone,” you said clearly.
He stared at you for a long moment.
Then he muttered something under his breath, turned, and walked to his car.
You watched him drive away before your knees started to shake.
Tig noticed immediately.
“Hey,” he said softly, moving closer. “Come here.”
You stepped into his arms before you could second-guess yourself.
He wrapped his arms around you carefully, one hand smoothing over your back.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “He’s gone.”
You nodded against his chest.
Tig rested his chin lightly on top of your head.
“I would like to formally apologize,” he said after a moment.
You sniffed. “For what?”
“For not arriving with a cape. I feel like I missed a real opportunity.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“There she is,” Tig said warmly.
You pulled back enough to look at him.
“Thank you,” you said.
His expression softened.
“You don’t have to thank me for showing up when you need me.”
“But I do.”
He brushed a strand of hair away from your face.
“You called me,” he said. “That means something.”
“It means I trust you.”
Tig's eyes flickered with surprise and something deeper.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That means something.”
He walked you up to your apartment and waited while you unlocked the door.
“You want me to stay for a while?” he asked.
You hesitated.
“Please.”
TIg grinned. “Excellent choice. I make a very good emotional support biker.”
Inside, he settled onto your couch while you made tea.
“Do you take sugar?” you called from the kitchen.
“I take my tea with unreasonable amounts of affection,” he replied.
You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself.
When you brought him a mug, he accepted it with exaggerated gratitude.
“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” he declared.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he said, patting the couch beside him, “you invited me inside.”
You sat next to him.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The quiet felt different now—less tense, more intimate.
“I hate that he made you feel unsafe,” Tig said finally.
You looked down at your tea.
“I kept thinking I was overreacting,” you admitted. “Like maybe I was being rude by ignoring him.”
Tig turned toward you, scandalised.
“Rude? Sweetheart, someone repeatedly ignoring your boundaries is the rude part. You are not required to entertain a man because he refuses to understand the word no.”
You smiled faintly.
“I know that,” you said. “I just needed to hear it from someone else.”
Tig's expression softened.
“You never have to justify protecting your peace,” he said.
You looked at him then, really looked at him.
At the concern still lingering in his eyes.
At the way he was trying to make you laugh without dismissing what had happened.
At the ridiculous sincerity of him.
“You care about me a lot, don’t you?” you asked quietly.
Tig blinked.
Then he sighed dramatically and set his mug down.
“Oh no,” he said. “We’ve reached the emotional honesty portion of the evening.”
You laughed.
He smiled.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I care about you a lot.”
Your heart skipped.
“How long?”
Tig leaned back against the couch and looked at the ceiling.
“Do you want the dramatic answer or the truthful answer?”
“Both.”
He considered this.
“Dramatic answer: since the dawn of time.”
You laughed again.
“Truthful answer,” he said more softly, “for a while now. I just didn’t want to make things complicated.”
You stared at him.
“Tig…”
He looked back at you.
“I didn’t want to pressure you,” he said. “Especially with everything going on. I just wanted you to know you had someone in your corner.”
“You do make a very good emotional support biker,” you said.
He grinned. “Thank you. I’ve been working on my certification.”
You set your mug down.
“I care about you too,” you said.
Tig froze.
“Wait,” he said carefully. “Like care care? Or like thank you for the tea and emotional support care?”
You smiled.
“Like care care.”
For one second, he looked genuinely stunned.
Then he pressed a hand to his chest.
“You’re telling me this while I’m wearing my least romantic shirt?”
You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over.
Tig laughed too, the tension finally breaking.
When the laughter faded, he looked at you with a softness that made your chest ache.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
You nodded.
He cupped your face gently and kissed you slowly, like he was afraid of rushing the moment.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“Well,” he said quietly, “that was worth every dramatic monologue.”
You smiled.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I know,” he said. “But I’m your ridiculous now, if you want me to be.”
You kissed him again instead of answering.
A week later, your ex sent one final message: I understand. I won’t contact you again.
You blocked the number anyway.
TIg approved.
“Healthy boundaries,” he said solemnly. “Very attractive.”
Life settled after that.
Tig still showed up at your apartment with ridiculous stories and terrible snacks.
He still turned ordinary conversations into theatrical performances.
He still made you laugh when your anxiety threatened to swallow you whole.
But he also listened.
He checked in.
He made sure you felt safe.
One evening, months later, you sat on your couch with your feet tucked under his leg while he complained dramatically about a minor inconvenience involving motorcycle parts.
“And then,” Tig said, gesturing with a chip for emphasis, “the universe personally decided to test my patience.”
You smiled at him.
He paused mid-rant.
“What?” he asked suspiciously.
“Nothing,” you said. “I just like looking at you.”
Tig blinked.
Then he pointed at you.
“See? This is exactly the kind of thing I need to hear more often.”
You laughed.
He leaned over and kissed your forehead.
“I love you,” he said.
You looked up at him.
“I love you too.”
Tig smiled, bright and unguarded.
“Well,” he said, “that settles it. We’re officially disgustingly in love.”
You snorted.
“Disgustingly.”
“The worst kind,” he agreed, pulling you closer. “The kind where we’re happy about it.”
note, hey... i've never written anything for yellowstone on here (i have on wattpad) so I hope you all enjoy!! <3 I feel like this kind of trope is done so much, but I think it's sweet. this is loosely (heavily) inspired by that scene when beth fights that random woman hitting on rip.
pair, kayce dutton x reader
summary, whenever you go out, no matter the circumstances, trouble seems to follow you.
warnings, bar fights, fighting, violence, cursing
word count, 1168 words
(gif not mine)
Getting everyone to go out and away from the ranch was a task, but getting Kayce to go out was totally different. And you knew the only reason he agreed to go out was because it was your birthday.
"One drink?" You asked, a pleading look in your eyes that he tried hard to say no to.
"If I give in, then you're gonna just keep plying me with drinks." He shook his head, "I'm here, that's as good as it's gonna get."
"Kayce, it's my birthday. Come on, have some fun!" You urged him.
"No." He shook his head. You opened your mouth to argue with him again, but shut it after the look he gave you, "I'll have some soda, and keep an eye on you."
"You don't trust me?" You raised a brow at him.
"Not you, darlin'. Trouble just seems to follow you." He joked, kissing your head and handing your drink over to you, "Now go have fun. Enjoy the night." He nudged you towards the dance floor where everyone else was already dancing and having fun. You rolled your eyes but went in the direction he had pushed you in.
The night continued, and you were having fun, almost forgetting all about Kayce. When you did remember he was there, you remembered you also hadn't had any water, so you turned around to where he had been once sitting but froze when you looked up.
A woman who stuck out like a sore thumb amongst all the locals was standing pretty next to Kayce. The look on his face told you he couldn't care less about what she was saying, but he was playing along for appearance's sake.
You slowly approached them, a cautious look on your face as you tried to listen in on their conversation, "... I don't know, if the guys are as cute as you out here, I might just have to move out." She flirted shamelessly, batting her eyelashes at him.
Kayce looked uncomfortable as he nodded, "Right." He looked away from the glass of soda in front of him, and back onto the dance floor.
When he couldn't find you, he started to get nervous. He quickly spun around, trying to find you amongst the crowd, "Who're you looking for?" The woman tried to get his attention again, putting her hand on his arm, trying to get his attention again.
He ripped his arm out of her grasp and continued to look for you, "What the hell?" He muttered.
"You got a girlfriend or something." The girl tried to joke as if he hadn't mentioned you numerous times already.
"Wife, actually." Kayce's shoulders dropped when he heard that familiar voice he loved so much. The woman's attention quickly fell on you, and an almost unimpressed look fell on her face.
"Wife?" She scoffed.
"That's right." The look on your face was one Kayce knew all too well. The look on your face, the way your eyebrow slightly raised and your lips curved a little into something of a smirk.
"Oh, no." He muttered. He turned around, trying to get the attention of the other ranchers, but they were too far and the music was way too loud for them to notice him, "Whatever you're about to do, just think it through."
"What's she gonna do?" The woman scoffed, standing a little straighter with a look on her face that made you want to punch her, "I could easily take you."
"Oh, I'm sure." You tightened your fists, before winding up and punching her fight in the face before Kayce could stop you.
"Whoa!" Kayce shouted, trying to grab onto you but you pounced on the other woman, tackling her to the ground and straddling her, laying punch after punch.
As soon as you both hit the floor, a fight broke out all around you. Ranchers and tourists alike were going at each other, breaking beer bottles and punching each other.
Blood was flying and glass was shattering all around him, but all Kayce was focused on was getting you off the other woman. You were shouting things at her, she was shouting things back at you.
After trying to find a way to get you off without hurting you, he decided to just go in for it, "All right, that's it. Let her go!" Kayce grabbed onto your waist, just missing your elbow that you had thrown back to punch her again, and pulled you off.
"You crazy bitch!" The woman shouted, holding her bleeding nose.
"Calls coming from inside the house, sweetheart!" You shouted back. Kayce managed to carry you out of the bar even though you were wiggling and shouting. He didn't put you down until he made it over to his truck.
"What the hell was that?" Kayce asked. You simply shrugged, looking down at your knuckles and wincing at the blood and cuts forming, "No, don't shrug this off." He grabbed your chin and forced you to look into his eyes.
"Oh, come on, it's not like you were comfortable with it." You glared at him, shoving his hands away from you, "I was protecting your honor."
"You can't go around punching people in the face," Kayce told you.
"Yeah, well I'll remind you of that next time some guy hits on me." You raised a brow, and that got him to shut up, "Right." You smirked, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him, "You alright?"
"Yeah." He nodded, wrapping his arms around your waist, "Thanks for protecting my honor."
"You're welcome. You're just too pretty." You joked, laughing when he rolled his eyes.
As the other ranchers and tourists alike started piling out of the bar, blue and red lights pulled up outside the bar as well. A few cops got out and Kayce pushed you behind him.
"Officer." He greeted the man with a nod.
"Mr. Dutton." The officer nodded right back, "Got a call about a fight. Something about your wife starting it."
"Fight? What fight?" Kayce asked, playing dumb and looking around. All the other ranchers shrugged innocently as well.
"No idea what you're talking about, sir," Lloyd spoke up.
"That crazy bitch attacked me!" The woman in question shouted, holding an ice pack to her nose.
"Is that true?" The officer asked, looking around Kayce's shoulder at you.
"No idea what she's talking about." You shrugged with a shake of your head.
"All right then." The officer nodded, "Apologies for the inconvenience. Y'all have a good night." He got back in his car and drove off.
"You all are fucking crazy." The woman muttered, walking off with her group of friends who you hadn't even known were there.
"You're gonna put me in an early grave, Trouble." Kayce joked, throwing an arm around your shoulders.
"Only if you don't put me in one first." You nudged him, "Now, let's go home. I've played nurse too many times for you, it's your turn."
Summary: You find out you’re pregnant but Happy never said anything about wanting kids so how will you tell him you’re carrying his child
Pairing: Happy Lowman x f!reader
•Masterlist•
The life of the MC was crazy, never a dull moment but that also brought a lot of danger to anyone associated with them, and me being the craziest members old lady made Happy even more protective of me and after what I have to tell him it’s gonna become 100x more
They crew had some troubles with the Mexicans and we had to go into lockdown which only made my nerves worse
I pull up to the clubhouse getting out with my over night bag, the sun was still high as I see other woman and kids walking into the club when I feel myself being picked up bridal style making me squeal in laughter
“Happy what’re you doing?!” I smile as I wrap my arm around his shoulder
“My girl gets princess priority in this club” he smirks as he walks me through the doors, tigs and chibs whistling as he sets me down on one of the bar stools, wrapping his arm around my waist
Being the only one to get this treatment from the “Tacoma killer” made me feel special, maybe I shouldn’t but I do, he’s the only man that’s ever made me feel loved and worshipped the ground I walk on in his own twisted ways
When I first met him I was helping his mother with her groceries as she was my neighbour and I hated to see her struggle so when I finished packing the bags away I turned seeing him, tall, strong and handsome but his eyes were observant making me feel like a predator was watching its prey until his mother came back into the kitchen smacking his arm and scolding him did I see him falter and apologize
From then on he’d show up more and more, making excuses to visit me I knew most of the time he was lying but I didn’t care, I liked to see him and everytime I heard that rumble of his motorcycle pull into the driveway I got excited and now three years later I’m his old lady and pregnant with his child
“So lassy, we haven’t seen ye in a while anything new?” A blush explodes on my face and I can’t help but look at him frozen, I was never good at lying and now they could all see it, happy leans forward to look at me better
“Oooooo she’s got a secret” tig says like a child making me scoff
“First I’m hearing of it” happy says his voice extra raspy
“Come with me” I take his hand and lead him back to our shared room no one else was allowed to use especially with a croweater
I close the door behind us and he sits on the bed, looking up at me with worried eyes something he’d never show to anyone else, I stand between his legs and his hands instinctively go to my hips
“You know I love you right?”
“You’re freaking me out girl, you better not be dying”
“No im fine but I don’t know how you’ll feel about it, I guess I should just rip off the bandaid……im pregnant” he was silent as his eyes blew wide and looked at my belly, his hand tracing over it
“You’re serious?”
“I know….i know this isn’t ideal with your life style and we never talked about it before, but I want this baby, I want it with you Happy” he wraps his arms around my hips and pulls me forward resting his head on my stomach so I run my hands down his shoulders knowing he wasn’t one for words when he rarely got emotional
“I know it’s a lot Hap, would it be easier for me to leave, give you some time” his head shoots up looking at me
“No you’re staying girl, never really thought of kids till the day I met you and knew I’d want everything only with you” my heart grew every word he spoke
“Really?” He nods before standing and pulling me into his chest
“Wanna tell the others? Might boost the moral” I say as I hold his cheeks secretly knowing he loves it
“That’s why you’re my old lady” he squeezed my ass and we head back out to the room crowded with people
“Everyone we have some news!” I yell as the room falls silent and they all look at us
“SHES PREGNANT!” Happy screams like a lunatic and the room roars with cheer, the guys surrounding us congratulating me and happy, Chibs giving me an extra long hug blessing me for having the strength to handle happy making me laugh
We settle at the bar I don’t drink of course but the guy use it as an excuse to party
“It’s gonna be a girl” happy days shocking up all
“I’d thought you want a boy”
“Nah don’t want him in this life plus she’d be as beautiful as her mom” the guys rarely saw this side of happy
“Look at you big softly for your lady” Bobby jokes and happy shoots him a look that could kill making everyone laugh
•
It’s been nine months and my baby girl is here and he was right it’s a girl, she had dark brown eyes like happy and brown hair, she was small in my arms and the cutest baby I’ve ever seen
“We made the cutest baby ever” I whimper as she wraps her tiny fingers around mine
“Agreed, let’s make another” he says as he sits on the bed beside me
“Hold your horses ol man, we’ve got time, for now let’s enjoy our little girl”
•
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