The first time you visited the clubhouse, the last person anyone expected you to visit, was Happy.
Happy was simply how you put it, terrifying. His quiet demeanour and lack of emotional expression is off putting to the residents of Charming. That and the fact that he’s literally nicknamed, the Tacoma Killer.
To others who had the chance to witness your relationship, he was basically the opposite of you, the angel who takes a human form on this cruel earth.
The girl whose sweet cinnamon and strawberry aroma wafts in the room as she enters. The girl whose entire closet looks like a Victoria secret’s catalogue and her entire front porch is covered in pretty pink peonies. The girl who has uncovered the softest parts of Happy Lowman, a feat no one else has achieved.
On one particular morning, you walk into the clubhouse. Your shiny heels clacking against its hard wood floors, catching everyone’s attention.
Tig was the first to notice you since you accidentally bumped into him, dropping the papers Jax just handed him. His movements slowing to a full stop as he took a proper look. You wore an ivory mini dress with delicate lace detailing and a ribbon tied just beneath the bust, its vintage design only adding to your effortless femininity.
“oh shit! i’m so sorry- this place is just so dark, can’t see a thing.” you repeatedly apologized as you bent down helping him pick up that contents that flew from his hands. It took him a good second to snap out of his thoughts to respond back to you. “i-it’s alright sweetheart.”
You smiled politely at him and handed him back his papers. “Anythin’ we can help you with, darlin?” Jax speaks up, a grin evident on his face as he so clearly, checks you out. No one had ever seen you around the club before, and they certainly would’ve remembered you.
“Oh, I was actually looking for—” Your sentence cuts off abruptly the moment your eyes land on Happy entering the room. Your entire face lights up in recognition and without a second thought, you make your way towards him.
Everyone falls strangely quiet, their heads instinctively turn in your direction as you inch closer to the stone-faced man. Jax and Tig exchange confused glances, their expressions mirroring the same thought. How in the hell do you know Happy?
His reaction to seeing you is what’s more surprising to everyone. His obviously didn’t display as much emotion as yours but to anyone who knew him, the change in his expression was significant. His jaw unclenched at the sight of you, eyes softening as they meet yours.
“Hey baby, what are you doin here?” he gently asks as he smoothly slides his hand around your waist, pulling you in closer to his large frame.
“forgot your phone at home, thought i’d bring it to you.” You smile widely at him as you pull his phone out of your purse. He always finds his heart beat a little faster when you do that. When you smile at him like he can do no wrong.
He presses a gentle kiss to your glossed lips, causing everyone in the clubhouse, to absolutely lose their shit.
“You got a girl hap!?” Tig asks loudly, eyes bulging out of his head as he witnesses this unbelievable scene unfold in-front of him.
“Wife.” He grunts under his breath as he tightens his hold on your waist, pulling you even closer without a second thought. In doing so, his hand comes fully into view, the simple gold band resting on his ring finger glinting in the darkened room.
“When the hell did he get that…” Jax muttered.
“You guys really didn’t know?” Juice asked with genuine concern as he walks into the room, giving you a small nod.
Juice was the only person from the club you knew prior to today. You and him became close friends, every time Happy was forced to leave on another dangerous run, he never hesitated to ask Juice to look after you in his absence. It was a responsibility he took seriously, always making sure you were safe and never alone.
“And ye did?” Chibs asks Juice. “Was probably her bridesmaid.” Tig remarks earning a laugh from you.
As everyone began to discover this relationship between the sweetest girl alive and her terrifying guard dog, they began looking at him differently. The intimidating man who once seemed incapable of anything but violence had somehow become gentle when you were involved.
The rough edges he carried for years seemed to disappear the moment you smiled at him. They realized how good it was for him to finally have someone waiting for him. Someone who loved him just the way he was, terrifying and all.
AN: first time writing for him, kinda scared.
firm believer in opposites attract when it comes to Happy Lowman.
The first time Happy kisses you, he asks for permission. You reply with a tiny "please" and he thinks he might die.
The first time Happy Lowman kissed you, he asked permission.
That fact would live in your chest for years afterward, long after the memory of the day itself had blurred around the edges. It would survive the dust of Santo Padre roads, the low rumble of motorcycles passing through Charming, the smell of engine oil and pine from the trees around Teller-Morrow. It would survive every reason you had tried to keep your distance from him.
Because Happy Lowman had a reputation that arrived before he did.
People lowered their voices when they spoke about him. They described him in fragments: dangerous, loyal, quiet, deadly. A man who could look at you with those dark, unreadable eyes and make you feel as though he already knew what you were afraid of. He was forty-nine years old and carried his years like weight he had earned, not something that had happened to him by accident.
You were twenty-four and had spent most of your adult life trying to prove you were not fragile.
The first time you met him, you were balancing a cardboard box against your hip outside your small rental house on the edge of Charming, cursing softly because the tape had split and half your kitchen utensils had spilled onto the porch. Happy had been walking past with his bike helmet in one hand. He stopped, looked at the scattered forks and wooden spoons, and without a word crouched down to gather them.
“Thanks,” you said, embarrassed by the mess.
He handed you a spatula. “Box was weak.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Yeah. So was my packing strategy.”
His mouth twitched. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but it was close enough to make your stomach do something inconvenient.
“Need help carrying it in?” he asked.
You hesitated. Every sensible instinct warned you to be careful. But he was already standing there with your box balanced easily in his hands, waiting for your answer instead of assuming it.
“If you don’t mind.”
He carried the box inside and set it on the kitchen counter. He looked around once, taking in the half-unpacked space, then nodded toward the remaining boxes outside.
“Those too?”
“You really don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That was how it began: not with fireworks or declarations, but with a man who knew exactly how intimidating he could be and chose gentleness anyway.
Over the next few weeks, Happy became a quiet fixture in your life. He would stop by when he was already nearby, usually under some practical pretense. He fixed a loose cabinet hinge. He brought over a spare flashlight after a storm knocked out power. He showed up one afternoon with a small bag of groceries after hearing you mention that you had not made it to the store.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you told him, looking into the bag.
He shrugged. “I was going anyway.”
There was a pause.
“You remembered the tea,” you said softly.
He looked away, almost uncomfortable with the observation. “You said the peppermint kind helps when you can’t sleep.”
You stood there holding the tea and realized, with a sharp little ache, that this dangerous man had been paying attention to the smallest details about you.
The age difference sat between you at first like a fact neither of you could ignore. Happy was careful in a way that made you ache for him. He never crowded you. He never assumed. When you talked, he listened with his whole attention, as if your words were worth holding onto.
One evening, after helping you move a heavy bookshelf into place, he lingered in the doorway.
“You okay with me being around?” he asked.
The question startled you. “What do you mean?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a rare sign of uncertainty. “I know I’m older. I know my life is… complicated. Don’t want you feeling pressured.”
You stared at him. This was the man everyone warned people about. The man who carried violence in his history like a shadow. And here he was, worried about whether his presence made you uncomfortable.
“You make me feel safe,” you admitted.
His expression changed then, something raw and almost painful crossing his face.
“Good,” he said quietly. “That’s important.”
The moment that changed everything came in late autumn, after a long day that had left you wrung out and close to tears. Your car had broken down on the side of the road outside Charming, and after the tow truck finally arrived, Happy had driven you home in silence.
At your porch, you fumbled with your keys.
“You don’t have to stay,” you said, though part of you wanted him to.
“I know.” He paused. “You want me to?”
The tenderness of the question undid you.
“Yeah,” you whispered.
He followed you inside and waited while you kicked off your shoes. The house was dim except for the kitchen light. You leaned against the counter, exhausted.
“Rough day,” he said.
You laughed weakly. “That obvious?”
He moved a little closer, stopping several feet away. “You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to.”
That was the thing about Happy: he always left the door open instead of pushing through it.
You told him anyway. About the car, the stress, the loneliness that had crept up on you since moving to a new town. He listened without interrupting, his gaze steady and attentive.
When you finished, there was a long silence.
“Come here,” he said softly.
You crossed the space between you before you could overthink it. He wrapped his arms around you carefully, as though he was handling something breakable. You rested your forehead against his chest and felt the steady beat of his heart.
He smelled like leather, smoke, and the faint clean scent of soap.
“You’re okay,” he murmured.
The words settled over you like a blanket.
You tilted your head up. He looked down at you with an expression so open it made your breath catch.
His hand came up slowly, giving you time to pull away. He touched your cheek with the back of his fingers.
“I want to kiss you,” he said, his voice rough. “Can I?”
No one had ever asked you like that before. Not as a formality. Not as a performance. He asked as though your answer mattered more than what he wanted.
The care in his face made your chest ache.
Your courage failed you in every dramatic way. You could not manage a smooth answer or a teasing line or anything remotely graceful.
Instead, you whispered, tiny and hopeful, “Please.”
For one suspended second, Happy did not move.
Something in his expression broke open.
Later, he would joke that your answer nearly killed him. In that moment, it looked as though it might be true. He closed his eyes briefly, breathed out a shaky laugh, and then looked at you again with such tenderness that your own eyes stung.
“Yeah?” he asked softly, just to be sure.
You nodded.
Then he kissed you.
It was not rushed. It was not hungry in the careless way some first kisses could be. Happy kissed you as though he was trying to memorize the shape of your trust. His hand remained gentle against your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly near your ear.
You kissed him back, one hand curling into the front of his shirt.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmured.
You laughed, breathless. “That bad?”
He looked at you with mock offense. “You said ‘please.’”
Your face went hot. “I know.”
“That was unfair.”
“Sorry?”
“Don’t apologize.” He smiled then, a real smile this time, small and astonished. “I’m just trying to survive it.”
You laughed again, and the sound seemed to settle something inside him.
After that night, the shape of your relationship changed slowly, carefully, like something being built by hand. Happy did not rush you into his world. He introduced you to parts of it one piece at a time, watching your reactions, making sure you understood what you were choosing.
There were difficult conversations. You talked about the dangers that came with his life, about the people who depended on him, about the things he could not pretend away. He did not offer false promises.
“I can’t make my world simple,” he told you one evening as you sat on your porch wrapped in blankets. “But I can be honest with you about it.”
“I don’t need simple,” you said. “I need honest.”
He looked at you for a long moment. “You sure about this?”
You reached for his hand. “I’m sure about you.”
He squeezed your fingers, his calloused hand warm around yours.
Months passed. Happy became part of your daily rhythm in ways that felt both ordinary and miraculous. He learned how you liked your coffee. He remembered the names of your coworkers. He left small practical gifts on your counter: batteries, soup when you were sick, a better flashlight than the one he had originally brought over.
In return, you brought softness into places he had long ago stopped expecting it. You made him laugh. You convinced him to sit still long enough to watch movies. You learned the quiet moods that meant he needed company more than conversation.
One night, after dinner at your house, you found him standing in the kitchen doorway watching you wash dishes.
“What?” you asked, smiling.
He shrugged. “Just looking.”
“At what?”
“You. This.” He gestured around the small kitchen. “Didn’t think I’d have this.”
The vulnerability in his voice made you turn off the water.
“You deserve to have good things, Happy.”
He looked down, then back at you. “You’re the good thing.”
Your heart stumbled.
You walked over to him and slipped your arms around his waist. He held you close, resting his chin on the top of your head.
“Do you remember the first time you kissed me?” you asked.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Hard to forget.”
“You asked permission.”
“Had to.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He pulled back enough to look at you. “Yeah. I did.”
You studied his face, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the careful steadiness he carried like armor.
“Why?”
“Because I wanted it to be your choice,” he said simply. “Because I wanted you to know I’d stop if you said no. Because…” He exhaled. “Because I cared too much to make you feel cornered.”
Your eyes burned.
“I said ‘please,’” you whispered.
He laughed softly, the sound warm and full of disbelief even after all this time. “You did. Damn near took me out.”
You smiled. “Good.”
“Brat.”
“Old man.”
He grinned, and the expression transformed him.
“Come here,” he said.
You stepped into his arms willingly.
This time, when he kissed you, there was no hesitation born of uncertainty. There was only the quiet certainty of two people who had chosen each other again and again.
The first kiss had begun with permission.
The life you built together began with trust.
And by the time Happy pulled back and rested his forehead against yours, both of you were smiling.
Request by @ravennaortiz : Would it be possible to get a Juice Ortiz x reader requests with them just trying to stay cool and beat the heat since I'm in the middle of a heatwave? Lol.
Warnings: 18+, language, slight steam 😏
Word Count: 2.2k
A/N: the way this heat wave would be bearable if i had juice ortiz and an air conditioner in my life 😂😂 hope you enjoy!!! xo
You were on the phone with Juice as you gathered up your things to leave work. It'd been a long, brutal day and it was only going to get worse once you stepped outside. Sure, work had been rough but at least your boss made sure there was a semi-functional AC system. That was more than you could say for most places—namely the clubhouse, where Juice was currently trying to convince you to go.
“You can't come over to my place?” you asked, hoping that giving an alternative would convince him to drop it. “I'm beat after today and all I want is to shower and—”
“You can shower here,” he said, not quite ready to budge.
The eye roll on your part was reflexive, and you were glad that he couldn’t see it. You knew your annoyance was amplified far more than usual because you'd stepped out into the brutal heat. The walk to your car felt like it was miles long. Sweat was beading along the edge of your forehead by the time you were hitting the unlock button on your keys.
“Okay, sure, but I'd rather shower somewhere that has actual water pressure. Y'know, that doesn't just feel like the showerhead is drooling on me.”
Your response got a laugh out of him. “It's not that bad.”
“Most days I can deal with it. Like I can deal with the sticky floors and the smoke in the air. But today? Today it is a hundred goddamn degrees out, Juan. And that's not me exaggerating! I'm reading the thermometer in my car right now and it is literally in the triple digits.” His lack of interruption let you know that he was sat and listening, and that you wouldn’t have to put up too much more of a fight to pry him away from the clubhouse to join you. “So tonight, yeah, I'd rather use my own shower. And hang out in my nice clean apartment that has central air. And I would love it if my boyfriend would join me.”
There was a pause and when he spoke up again, he was a little quieter than before, like he was still halfway trapped in thought. “Forgot about the central air.”
Now it was your turn to laugh. “Your call, baby. You wanna stay at the clubhouse tonight with the guys, that's fine. But I'm heading home.”
The stretch that followed was a silent game of chicken. One that you knew you weren’t going to lose because you were pulling onto the road in the direction that would take you home. You could hear Juice's breathing on the other end of the line, the distant chatter of other conversations happening inside the clubhouse. When you heard him sigh, you knew you had him.
“I'll finish up a couple things here and then head over.”
You were grinning wide enough to give the Cheshire cat a run for his money. “Sounds good.”
He chuckled. “You sound real pleased with yourself.”
“You'll be pleased too once you come over.” Before he could fire back at you, you said, “I love you.”
You could hear the grin in his voice too as he said, “I love you too.”
Your commute was about two-thirds of the way over when the AC in your car gave out. The effect was immediate. Letting out a groan, you slapped one hand on the dashboard while you kept your car straight on the road with the other on the wheel. A few more slaps and trying to turn it all off then back on again didn’t kick it back into gear. Shaking your head and letting out a string of expletives you were glad no one else was around to hear, you rolled the windows down to at least get some airflow.
Sweat was running down the column of your spine as you trudged up the stairs of your apartment building. It was a few degrees cooler inside than out, but not much. You were thankful that you were only on the second floor.
You were swinging the door shut when you heard Juice calling out your name from the end of the hallway. Despite all the little inconveniences and discomfort, the sound of him saying your name brought a smile to your face. You backpedaled, hanging half out the door as he jogged to close the distance.
He greeted you with a kiss on the lips. He was about to bring his hand to your back, pull you in close like he so often did, but you stopped him. Your grasp on his forearm was gentle, but enough to give him pause.
“You okay?”
You chuckled and slid your hand so it was interlocked with his as you tugged him into your apartment. “Yeah. Just don't need you feeling how sweaty I am.”
He shook his head knowingly as he let go of your hand so he could shut and lock the door behind you. His back was still to you as he said, “Wish you'd just drop your car off at the shop and let me work on it. Could’ve fixed that and—”
“You clocked out of being a mechanic an hour ago, Juan,” you joked as you dropped your bag to the floor beside your shoes. “Give it a rest.”
He cracked a grin. “Cranky.” He walked by, pressing a kiss to your temple as he went towards the kitchen. “Need a Snickers?”
“Need a shower.”
He was laughing as he gestured towards the bathroom that was just down the hall from where you stood. “Go. Not like I'm going anywhere now.”
You hummed in amusement. “More comfortable than the clubhouse, right?”
He grabbed a beer out of the fridge and nodded. “Oh yeah.” He took a sip and watched you wipe the sweat from your forehead—your apartment was cool but your body hadn't quiet caught up yet. “Normally I'd offer to keep you company, but—”
“If you touch me right now I'll chop your hand off,” you said with no hesitation.
Juice laughed as you headed down the hall. He called after you, “You gotta stop hanging out with Happy!”
When you came back out of the shower, you felt like an entirely new person. You had on the smallest pair of shorts your owned and your sports bra. Eventually the AC would catch up with you and you'd throw on a t-shirt, but you weren’t at that point yet. Juice was camped out comfortably in your living room, boots by the door and kutte hanging off the back of one of the chairs at your small kitchen table. He'd been lost in his phone until you reemerged.
Setting his phone off to the side, he looked at you with a smile. “Feel better?”
You nodded, feeling comfortable for the first time all day. “Way better.” You grabbed a beer for yourself. “You wanna take one?”
He shook his head. “I'm good. Got drooled on by the shower in my dorm at the clubhouse.”
The fact that he managed to say it with an almost-straight face got you to laugh. Not hard enough to make beer come out your nose, but close. “You could've taken one here, y’know.”
He shrugged. “Heat doesn't bother me as much as you. Kind of like the sticky floors and—”
“Alright, alright,” you cut him off, waving dismissively with your free hand to emphasize your point. “Maybe I was a little crabby.”
“Maybe. A little.”
“Okay, okay.” You walked over and stood between his legs. He was staring up at you with those big brown eyes like he would do just about anything for you if you asked. You smiled. “You gotta admit, this beats the clubhouse, right?”
He was nodding before you even finished the question. Leaning forward, he went to rest his hands on the backs of your thighs and then caught himself. “Am I still gonna lose body parts if I touch you?”
Laughing, you took another swig of beer and shook your head. “I'll let you keep all your fingers.”
With no hesitation he rested his hands on the backs of your thighs, just above your knees. He slid them up at a creeping pace, rings and callouses dragging and leaving goosebumps in their wake despite the warmth radiating off your skin. Once his hands were resting on your hips, he pulled you closer.
A smile on your face, you collapsed onto his lap, straddling him with a practiced ease. The two of you could go through the motions so smoothly now that you didn’t even spill your beer in the process. He slid his hands up your sides and along the exposed skin of your back.
Taking one hand off you, he gestured to the bottle in your hand. “Gimme that for a sec.”
You handed it over, thinking he was just going to steal a sip and hand it back like the two of you always did with each other. Instead, he leaned and set it on the small end table just beside the couch. Before you could ask what he was doing, he pulled you into a kiss. A real one. One he'd been dying to give you since he laid eyes on you.
His hands ran up your back, pinning you tighter to him as his lips locked with yours. You cupped his face in your hands, feeling the very beginnings of patchy stubble beneath your fingertips. Breathing him in, you caught the scent of soap and cigarette smoke. He sank deeper into the back of the couch the more you leaned into him.
The heat blooming across your skin now had nothing to do with the heat wave wreaking havoc over Charming. Catching your bottom lip between his teeth as he pulled out of your kiss. He dragged his lips along your jaw and down your neck, leaving a trail of feather light kisses down to your shoulder.
“Missed you,” he murmured against your skin.
You smiled, running your hand over his head until it rested on the back of his neck. It didn’t matter if it was an hour, a day, or a week—that was always what he said. You never doubted if he meant it.
You pulled his lips back up to yours when you felt his fingers hook over the waistband of your shorts. “Missed you too,” you said before kissing him again.
When you reached for the bottom hem of his t-shirt, he looked at you with a smirk on his face. “Careful,” he said, a joking lilt to his tone underneath all the want, “gonna work up another sweat.”
Your response came with the flourish of throwing his t-shirt to the floor. “I think I’m okay with that.”
Juice grinned, catching you in another kiss as he quickly maneuvered the two of you on the couch. Before you could pull away to catch your breath he had you on your back underneath him, legs hooked around his waist. You ran your hands along the planes of muscle in his chest.
Just as he started to slide your shorts down your legs, just as you lifted your hips off the sofa cushion to make it easier for him to do so, there was a knock at the door. The first knock you didn’t realize it was your door and you were content to ignore it. The second knock gave you pause.
Turning your head towards the door, you let out one breathless, “Who the fuck is that?” The annoyance in your voice now wasn't because of the heat; it was one hundred percent because of the interruption.
Juice clocked it, too. He laughed, head dropping to your chest for a moment. “Shit. Sorry.” He started prying himself away from you. “I got us takeout.”
You flopped back flat against the cushion. “I’m thankful in the part of my brain that doesn't feel extremely cheated right now.”
He was laughing as he went towards the door. “Timing is everything.”
When he was about to flip the lock on the door, you called out to him to get his attention. He looked back at you, confused by the urgency with which you'd said his name. Leaning down, you scooped his shirt off the floor and chucked it at him.
“You are not the tip for the delivery driver,” you chastised as he tugged his shirt on.
He beamed. “Your eyes only—got it.”
Once he tossed the bag of takeout onto the table in the kitchen, he was back on you again like he'd never left. You laughed as he kissed your lips, your cheek, your jaw. When he ran his hands up the outsides of your arms, he felt the goosebumps that had risen there.
Pulling away from you, he looked down, first at your arms, then your face. “Are you cold?” he asked with a laugh.
“I won't be if we get back to what we were doing.”
Humor made his eyes sparkle. “Wow. First, I couldn't touch you because you were too hot. Now you're—”
You rested your hands against his chest. “You're really gonna make touching me seem like a punishment right now?”
He shook his head before kissing you again. “Never.” Cupping the side of your face, he grinned as he said, “You're gonna be real thankful for that AC in a minute.”
You yelped with laughter as he whipped your shorts off and onto the floor. “Already am.”
(divider by @secretlysamcro 🖤)
SOA Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added!): @garbinge @darqchilddaydreamz @withmyteeth @narcolini @justreblogginfics @winchestershiresauce @proceduralpassion @kmc1989 @lv7867
Awkward hovering that would look terrifying to literally anyone who didn't know him, because Happy isn't the kind of man who follows people around smiling and making conversation, he's the kind of man who silently appears six feet away from you while you're struggling to carry groceries and then takes every bag out of your hands without a word before disappearing into your apartment building like some heavily tattooed cryptid who has decided you're under his protection.
Fixing things without asking simply because he noticed they needed fixing and because it physically bothers him to watch something inconvenience you when he has the ability to solve it, meaning you mention one time that your kitchen cabinet sticks when it closes and somehow the next morning the hinges are repaired, the screws are tightened, and the entire cabinet door works better than it did when you first moved in.
Knowing what kind of coffee you drink despite never asking.
Knowing what snacks you like despite never asking.
Knowing your dog's veterinarian, favorite treats, preferred walking route, and bedtime schedule despite definitely never asking.
Standing in your doorway after dropping something off and forgetting how to leave because you smiled at him.
Developing the emotional intelligence of a malfunctioning forklift whenever you're around.
Staring.
So much staring.
Looking away the second you catch him.
Then staring again five minutes later.
Quietly collecting information about things you enjoy the way normal people collect stamps.
Memorizing your favorite takeout order.
Memorizing your work schedule.
Memorizing your birthday.
Memorizing random things you've mentioned once and forgotten entirely.
Remembering all of it years later.
Refusing to acknowledge he remembers any of it.
Becoming irrationally annoyed when you mention another man.
Pretending he isn't annoyed.
Failing miserably.
Tig noticing immediately.
Chibs noticing immediately.
Bobby noticing immediately.
Literally everyone noticing immediately.
Happy somehow remaining convinced nobody knows.
Offering you rides everywhere.
Finding reasons to be wherever you are.
Suddenly volunteering for errands he previously would've rather died than run.
Walking on the side closest to traffic without thinking about it.
Checking doors.
Checking windows.
Checking locks.
Checking them again because you're inside.
Carrying heavy things before you even realize you need help.
Acting annoyed when you thank him.
Looking secretly pleased afterward.
Being physically incapable of saying something simple when a complicated act of service would work instead.
Buying you a replacement phone charger because yours looked worn out.
Buying you jumper cables because you mentioned not having any.
Buying you a flashlight because everyone should own a flashlight.
Buying you pepper spray.
Buying you three more flashlights because apparently one wasn't enough.
Standing there looking grumpy while handing you practical gifts like an extremely intimidating woodland creature attempting courtship.
Becoming strangely invested in your safety.
Calling you when you get home after dark.
Pretending he wasn't waiting for you to answer.
Waiting anyway.
Sleeping better when he knows you're safe.
Sleeping worse when he doesn't.
Looking for your car in parking lots.
Looking for your car on streets.
Looking for your car everywhere, actually.
Immediately relaxing when he finds it.
Becoming your emergency contact without either of you remembering exactly how that happened.
Carrying things for you.
Opening doors for you.
Pulling out chairs for you.
Then looking confused when everyone points out that's ridiculously gentlemanly behavior.
Quietly losing his mind whenever you touch him first.
A hand on his arm.
A hug.
Fixing his collar.
Brushing dust off his shoulder.
Any of these events being enough to keep him awake at three in the morning staring at the ceiling.
Accidentally imagining what it'd be like to wake up next to you.
Immediately becoming annoyed with himself.
Imagining it again anyway.
Catching himself wondering what your name would sound like attached to his.
Physically leaving the room afterward.
Becoming suspiciously protective of anyone who upsets you.
Asking who made you cry.
Asking where they live.
Asking entirely too calmly.
Being significantly more dangerous when calm.
Watching you talk.
Watching you laugh.
Watching you tell stories.
Not realizing he's smiling until somebody points it out.
Denying he was smiling.
Getting photographed smiling.
Still denying it.
Keeping little things you've given him.
Receipts.
Notes.
Birthday cards.
Stupid trinkets.
Random objects that mean absolutely nothing to anyone else.
Treating them like priceless artifacts.
Being incapable of flirting normally.
Trying once.
Regretting it instantly.
Remaining silent for the next four business days.
Looking genuinely relieved whenever you seek him out first.
Acting like it doesn't matter.
It matters.
It matters a lot.
Being completely content sitting in comfortable silence beside you for hours.
Thinking that's somehow more intimate than conversation.
Being right.
Letting you see softer pieces of him nobody else gets.
Tiny smiles.
Dry jokes.
Rare laughter.
The version of him hidden underneath all the scars and violence and years spent surviving.
Trusting you with those pieces before he even realizes he's doing it.
Letting you patch him up after injuries.
Looking at you like you're performing miracles while cleaning a cut.
Falling a little more in love every time you fuss over him.
Pretending not to notice when you fuss over him.
Absolutely noticing.
Noticing everything.
Becoming absurdly territorial over your happiness.
Wanting good things for you.
Wanting safety for you.
Wanting comfort for you.
Wanting a future for you.
Quietly hoping he might somehow fit into that future.
Never believing he deserves to.
Looking at you like sunlight.
Looking at you like home.
Looking at you like something precious he never expected to find.
Falling first.
Falling hard.
Falling so hard it genuinely scares him.
Trying not to.
Failing spectacularly.
Realizing one day that somewhere along the way your smile became the best part of his day.
Realizing your voice is the first thing he wants to hear.
Realizing your safety matters to him as much as his own.
Realizing he's hopelessly, completely, utterly in love with you.
And then standing there staring at a wall for twenty minutes because Happy Lowman has survived gunfights, prison, explosions, cartel business, club wars, and countless situations that would've broken lesser men, but somehow developing feelings for a twenty-four-year-old woman who smiles at him like he's worth loving turns out to be the single most terrifying thing he's ever experienced.
Eventually telling you anyway.
Quietly.
Honestly.
Like it's the most dangerous confession he's ever made.
Finding out you've been in love with him too.
Looking stunned.
Looking relieved.
Looking happier than anyone has ever seen him.
Pulling you into his arms.
Finally kissing you after months of mutual yearning.
Kissing you again because one wasn't enough.
Discovering that absolutely nothing in his life has ever felt as right as having you wrapped up in his arms.
And spending the rest of his life making sure you know exactly how loved you are.
summary
she'd been fine for two weeks. that's what she kept saying. happy had stopped believing it somewhere around day four.
prompt – crow eater at a party, Tara witnesses it, reader pulls away, happy notices, Tara explains, he handles it
warnings – insecurity, emotional withdrawal, crow eater, soft happy
word count – ~3k
note – hope y'all like :)
requests are open :)
⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆
The party had been going since nine.
The kind that filled the clubhouse the way only SOA parties did — loud, messy, everyone somewhere between two and ten drinks in, the music too loud to have a proper conversation unless you were close enough that it stopped mattering.
She'd been sitting with Happy most of the night. His hand at the back of her neck, loose, the easy contact that was just where his hand went when she was beside him. She'd had two drinks. He'd had more. They were comfortable in the specific way of two people who'd been doing this long enough that a party like this was just — Tuesday.
Then he'd gotten pulled into something with Jax and Tig across the room.
"Go," she'd said, when he'd hesitated.
"Five minutes," he'd said.
She'd nodded.
He'd gone.
The woman sat down next to her maybe three minutes later.
She hadn't seen her before — or maybe she had, in the way you half-registered people at these things without really clocking them. Pretty in the specific way that made certain things obvious about why she was at a club party.
"You're Happy's girl," she said. Not a question.
"Yeah," she said.
"How long?"
"About a year."
The woman nodded slowly, like this confirmed something. "That's sweet." She smiled. The kind of smile that had something behind it. "He doesn't usually do the girlfriend thing for that long."
She looked at her.
"Guess I'm different," she said. Keeping her voice even.
"Sure." The woman took a sip of whatever she was drinking, easy, unbothered. "I'm not trying to be a bitch. I'm just saying — I've known Happy a long time. Longer than you." A pause. "We had a thing. On and off. He always came back."
"Okay," she said. Still even. Still careful.
"I just mean—" the woman tilted her head slightly, "—women like you, you want something real from him. Something steady. And that's great, it is." Another pause, perfectly timed. "But men like Happy, they always end up needing something different eventually. Someone who gets the life. Who doesn't ask for more than he wants to give." She smiled again. Softer now, almost sympathetic. "I'm not saying it to hurt you. I'm just saying — I've seen it happen before."
She didn't say anything.
She didn't trust what would come out if she did.
"Anyway." The woman stood up, smooth, unbothered. "Enjoy the party."
She walked away.
She sat there for a moment with her drink in her hand and the party loud around her and something sitting in her chest that hadn't been there five minutes ago.
She didn't see Tara, two tables over, who had heard every word.
Happy came back eleven minutes later, not five, and she smiled when he sat back down and said sorry about that and she said it's fine and he kissed the side of her head and she let him and everything looked exactly the same as it had before.
It wasn't.
By the end of the first week he knew something had shifted.
She was still there. Still came around, still answered him, still laughed when something was funny. But something was different underneath all of it and he couldn't get a hold on what it was.
The morning after the party she'd gotten up before him and when he'd come into the kitchen she'd said morning and handed him coffee and that had been fine. Normal. Except she hadn't kissed him. She always kissed him in the morning. It was just — a thing. Had been for months.
He'd thought maybe she was tired.
Three days later she still hadn't.
"You good?" he asked. They were in the garage at TM, end of the day, her sitting on the workbench while he finished up.
"Yeah," she said. "Why?"
"Just asking."
She looked at him. "I'm fine, Happy."
He looked back at her for a moment.
"Okay," he said.
Day nine.
She'd come to TM and he'd been waiting for the hello kiss — not consciously, just the way you waited for things that always happened — and it didn't come. She said hey and sat down and asked how his day was and it was all fine and normal and completely wrong.
"Something happen?" he said.
"No," she said. "I'm just tired."
"You've been tired for a week."
"Long week."
He looked at her. "You sure?"
"Happy." She met his eyes. "I'm fine."
He let it go.
He didn't believe her.
Day thirteen he found Tara at the hospital.
He hadn't planned it. He'd been driving, thinking, and he'd pulled over before he'd decided to.
Tara looked up from her car when she saw him coming and immediately looked like she'd been expecting this conversation eventually.
"Happy," she said.
"Something happened at the party," he said. No preamble. "I don't know what. But she's been different since and she won't say anything and I know you saw something."
Tara was quiet for a moment.
"One of the crow eaters sat with her while you were with Jax," she said. "I was close enough to hear most of it."
"What did she say."
Tara looked at him carefully. "That you always went back. To women like her. That she'd known you longer. That women like your girl ask for more than you want to give and that eventually—" she stopped. "That eventually you'd need someone who understood the life better."
He stood there.
"She said all of that," he said. Flat.
"She made it sound like she was doing her a favour," Tara said. "Like it was just information. That's what made it worse." She held his gaze. "She didn't fight back. She just sat there and took it and then when you came back she acted like nothing happened."
He said nothing for a moment.
"Who was it," he said.
Tara told him.
He was back in his truck in thirty seconds.
He found her at the clubhouse.
He didn't say anything when he crossed the room toward her. He didn't need to — his face said it for him, the flat certainty of a man who had already decided everything about the next sixty seconds.
She saw him coming and went very still.
"Hey," she started, "I didn't—"
"You talked to her," he said. Not a question. "At the party."
Something in her expression shifted.
"Happy—"
"I know what you said," he said. Low. Even. "All of it."
She opened her mouth.
"Don't," he said.
She closed it.
He looked at her for a long moment. The full flat weight of his attention, the kind that made men twice her size uncomfortable.
"You're done here," he said. Simple. Final. The tone that closed things permanently.
She left.
He didn't watch her go.
He found her at her place an hour later.
She opened the door and looked at him and he could see it immediately — two weeks of carrying something alone sitting right there on her face, barely covered now, the carefully maintained fine finally wearing thin.
"You talked to Tara," she said.
"Yeah," he said. "Can I come in?"
She stepped back.
He came in. She stood in the middle of the room with her arms loosely crossed, not defensive, just — held together. He stayed where he was.
"Tell me what she said," he said. "Your version."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she told him. All of it — the sitting down, the smile, the men like Happy, women like you, ask for more than he wants to give. She said it evenly, like she was reporting something that had happened to someone else, and that was somehow worse than if she'd been upset about it.
"And you believed her," he said. When she'd finished.
"I—" she stopped. "I didn't know what to believe."
"Two weeks," he said. "You didn't kiss me hello for two weeks."
She looked at her hands.
"I know," she said quietly.
He crossed the room. Both hands at her face — the hold, thumbs at her cheekbones, the deliberate placement that was entirely his.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked up.
"She's got nothing," he said. "Whatever history she's claiming — it means nothing. She means nothing." His thumbs moved. "You understand me?"
"Happy—"
"Before you," he said. Lower now. "There was nothing worth keeping. That's not something I say." He held her gaze. "I'm saying it."
Her throat moved.
"She said I don't fit," she said. Small. Just the fact of it, laid out.
"You fit," he said. Flat. Certain. No elaboration because it didn't need any. "You've always fit. You know you fit."
"I know," she said. "I just—" she stopped. "She sounded so sure."
"She's gone," he said.
She looked up. "What?"
"She won't be around anymore." He said it like a logistical update. "Done."
She stared at him. "Happy, you didn't have to—"
"She talked to you like that," he said. "Yeah. I did."
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she stepped into him. Both arms, face against his chest, all of it. He felt her exhale — the long kind, the one that meant something had been let go.
His arms came around her. The grip that was always certain.
"Don't go quiet on me again," he said. Into her hair. "Something's wrong, you tell me. Yeah?"
"Yeah," she said.
"I mean it, baby."
"I know you do."
He pressed his mouth to the top of her head. Stayed there.
"She was wrong," he said. Quiet. Just for her. "About all of it."
She nodded against his chest.
They stood there for a while. The flat quiet around them, Charming doing its thing outside.
Then she lifted her head. Looked at him.
And kissed him — the hello kiss, the one that had been missing for two weeks. Proper. His.
He kissed her back with the flat certainty of someone reclaiming something that had always been theirs.
When she pulled back the almost smile was there. The small one. The real one.
"There she is," he said quietly.
She smiled.
"Sorry it took me so long," she said.
"Don't apologise," he said. "Just don't do it again."
"Okay," she said.
"Okay," he said. And kissed her forehead. And that was that.
series master - see ml for info - standard soa warnings + age gap
you might say that happy wouldn't take days off but i disagree, i think that man does whatever the fuck he wants and no one bates an eye.
Daddy, daddy, daddy.
Daddy had things to do, but that didn’t stop him from making sure you had help. You were now a willing victim in this particular hostage situation, and he took full advantage of the new found leverage to keep things moving. No time to dilly dally, not after the clubhouse went up in smoke.
Happy had a Tacoma escort, two prospects, and a moving van outside your front door the very next day. You knew for a fact they didn’t have the manpower to spare, but for you? He makes things happen.
The instructions were clear, pack the shit, move the shit, and if they break anything they die.
No pressure.
You had to call out, but the news of the explosion spread like wildfire through town, so your boss was already expecting that particular phone call.
You directed the prospects around like the foreman on the clock. Bubble wrapping, labeling, keeping your daughter busy, all while ordering them around from one task to next.
Every little thing was either stuffed in a box or a trash bag, and the entire space was in complete disarray. It’s not like you were in a rush, you were locked in a lease until the end of the year, but Happy insisted he would handle it.
He made it abundantly clear the only thing he really gave a damn about was you. Money was a concept at this stage. Whatever kept you safe, her happy, and the three of you together, he would make it happen.
He worked, you packed. He ran an interrogation, you dusted. He cleaned up blood, you unpacked. He got stuck at the club for debrief, you made dinner for three anyway.
It was around then he became overly aware of the clock, each individual tick had his shoulders that much more tense. Every time he thought it was over, the conversation continued. It was hours of chaos and conjecture.
Dinner time came and went, bath time, then bedtime arrived and he stood.
“You good brother?” Jax asked, eyebrows pinched in the center.
“My kids waitin’.”
Everyone glanced his way and the room went unbearably still. Tig swallowed his need to cackle out loud. Juice averted his eyes. Jax fought his grin, but he couldn’t help it when it spread wide.
“Yeah,” he chuckled, “so are mine.”
Happy’s gaze honed in, deadly serious. “We done then?”
The stillness returned. Nobody blinked, nobody breathed.
Jax took a moment, contemplating the choices he made that got all of you here. Your family wanted you with someone. The day you came back home it was all but decided that someone would be a patch. They wanted you protected above all else.
When Jax first noticed that undeniable want your old man couldn’t hide, he knew at the minimum you’d be taken care of, but he never expected this. A different version of the killer they once knew, but still just as terrifying. Jax knew better, so he nodded nice and slow.
Happy grunted his customary goodbye, turned with little ceremony, and took measured steps at an even pace towards the exit.
The moment he stepped inside he knew he was too late. The quiet was heavy. His meal was covered and resting on the counter, the only light left in the space coming from the overhead on the oven.
He ate it in silence. Every delicious bite so your efforts didn't go to waste and washed the mess of dishes you left behind right after.
He changed his bloody jeans for sweats, rinsed his face, brushed his teeth, and stalked towards her bedroom to check on her only to find it empty.
He found her with you. Dead center of the impossibly comfortable king sized mattress, surrounded by all the comforts of home. Too many pillows for him to count, blankets unbearably fluffy, snoozing oh so peacefully…without him.
The bedtime story, incomplete and resting haphazardly on your chest, made his face flex. The first night as a family of three, under his roof, and he missed it. His nose wrinkled up and he stared lifelessly from the doorway.
You stirred, that uneasy feeling of being watched sent your eyes flying open. You gasped, just before letting out a quiet hum.
“Hi,” you whispered, groggy from the sleep you weren’t quite ready for, “did you eat?”
Your lack of anger took him by surprise, but it was the permission he needed to cross the threshold. He grunted softly, taking the picture book from your grasp, “m'sorry.”
Confusion flashed across your features, and you were up and moving, or trying to. He pushed you right back down, sat at the beds edge, brushing her hair back first, then yours.
“I was late.”
You sighed happily at the soft touch, the rough skin of his knuckle brushing down your cheek, “You were working.”
He leveled his gaze with yours, dark features unforgiving, “I was late.”
“You’re here now.”
“Late,” he grumbled, so low it was practically a growl, still focused on her and every inch of her face relaxed into the sleep that had consumed her entirely.
“It happens sometimes, babe.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“It’s gonna get worse before it gets better, right?”
Your words hit harder than a bullet and you saw it happen. It hit center mass and sunk deep into his chest, because you really did get it. It’s still hard to fathom sometimes how quickly you adjust to the chaos of his world, but it’s your world too.
“Promised her I’d always be here,” he muttered, warm hand cradling the back of her head.
“You are here,” you lifted the covers just enough he would take hint, a teasing smile coming out to play, “you’re just late.”
He maneuvered you both with ease to make room, slipping in under the mountain of fabric you turned his bed into. “Ain’t gonna happen again.”
“We’ll forgive you if it does.”
He opened his mouth but you shushed him gently. You didn’t care to hash it out further. You were too tired, she was starting to stir, and you could feel the exhaustion radiating off him. You shuffled and squirmed until it was the three of you snuggled up like a set of nesting dolls. Arms around her, arms around you, a cocoon of blankets keeping you all together nice and toasty.
He heard the soft sound of bird song first, followed by the whirling breeze of crisp morning air, then came sharp rays of golden light spilling in through the sheer curtains you forced a prospect to install.
It came faster than he hoped, but he made sure he didn’t miss a thing that night. Each breath you took, each shallow snore she let out. He fiddled with her hair, then yours, inhaling the whafting scent of tear free shampoo and lavender lotion like it was the most potent drug on earth.
You felt her stir. An annoyed huff as she wiggled out of your grip and toppled over you, acting as a makeshift alarm clock, she squealed.
“Daddy!”
Your eyes rolled open and she was overtop him, nose to nose.
“You come for me!”
He should’ve left an hour ago. His phone had vibrated on the nightstand twice already, but he was putting it off. He told himself he was just waiting for a proper goodbye after missing her goodnight, and that was the last straw.
Daddy decided he was taking the day off.
He made breakfast with her on his hip. He kissed her hands as often as she shoved them in his face. He sat still while she brushed his nonexistent hair. Hovered all around her like missing bedtime was something he would never make up for, and through it all, he was quiet.
Stewing on what to do, how to balance and keep the very best thing he’s ever got.
“Look mama,” little girl giggled, shuffling into view with the kutte over her shoulders, the length of leather dragging against the floor. You looked over at your bundle of patched leather, and it terrified you. Your gorgeous girl, the official samcrow princess, just as you once were.
It took your dad, and all you could think was the possibility of it taking hers. The human brick wall.
You swallowed it. You choked it down because the man she picked was both an immovable object and an unstoppable force. Nothing could keep him for you, and he would die a hundred times over before anything took you from him.
“You look just like daddy!”
Happy’s heart swelled. You stopped correcting her but you’ve never said it, not once.
“Pretty?” She asked once you tossed her up, lashes fluttering far too sweet for your old man's heart to take.
“Beautiful,” Happy grinned from the corner, letting the newspaper fall back against the table. It was picture perfect, really. His dream come true. A legacy in the making without the fear of her ever following in his bloody footsteps.
Last night, he convinced himself you would be mad. You would have resentment for the club, even if it was just an ounce, but no. You welcomed him into the bed with a smile. You kissed him softly the moment you opened your eyes. You paraded around the house in his clothes all day like it was a game.
And you called him her dad.
“All you need is a haircut and some gold rings!” You tickle her sides relentlessly, dropping the giggly mess into his lap.
Nap time arrived, which he handled with ease, and he found himself leaned back in the lazy boy. Rocking slowly, a glass of whiskey untouched resting against his knee. He watched you in your element like it was the last chance he would get to see it. How you rearranged her play corner three times so the flow of things made sense, tossing blankets, folding laundry, turning his house into yours.
You glanced his way as often as you could without getting caught. It was obvious he was stewing on something, but you couldn’t exactly call him out for it. So, you waited patiently. Maneuvering around the space one painfully boring task at a time.
“You didn’t say my name.”
“Huh? What’s that?” You asked, excelling at the faux disinterest you had maintained for the better part of the afternoon.
“You called me her dad.”
“Yeah that’s not worth the fight,” you snorted, mindlessly folding the laundry like it was nothing. It’s always been an uphill battle, not that you stood a chance. You were alone in that war. Happy, Gemma, even Jax. The whole club follows her lead, not yours.
“You okay with it now?”
“I didn’t realize I had a choice?”
You looked up and regretted your words, your tone, all of it. He looked wounded. You set aside the small stack of flower patterned shirts and tip toed yourself into his space. He didn’t look up right away, even when you pushed yourself between his legs, setting the whiskey aside, fingertips hovering just over his knees.
“Hey…you have your own relationship with her and I know how much you love us.”
He looked up, his gaze intense with a heavy emotion that was becoming harder to hide.
Love.
He knew what it meant, what it felt like. He knew the love of his mother, his aunt, his brothers in leather of course.
He knew little girl loved him, and that you had grown to love him too.
But he didn’t know how to let the word leave his lips as easily as you can, or how it showed in every single thing he did for the two of you in a day.
Making her breakfast so you can sleep in. Cleaning your ring every morning and leaving it bright and shiny on the bathroom counter waiting for you. Tying her shoes, and yours too because he’s already down there. He never stayed for more than one beer before heading home because he promised his girls he’d be there for dinner. Stopped smoking joints inside and gave up cigarettes all together.
The littlest things he never noticed adding up all around him. He’s never said it, but it was there. Noticeable, embedded deep in the house that was quickly becoming a home.
“I wanna bring her to my mom soon,” his hands came up and guided you down to his lap, “she wanted grandkids, gave up on it though…after a while.”
You bit back your giggly comments about your old old man and kissed his forehead, “I’m surprised you waited this long to bring that up.”
“Wanted her to have my name first, couldn’t give her something that wasn’t real.”
“It’s real,” you insisted, holding his face in your hands with a kindness he didn’t believe he deserved quite yet. “This,” you hummed, showing off your blinding diamond like a prize, “is very real, I’m never taking her from you, I wouldn’t do that. She picked you, she loves you.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
You leaned in, lips pressed against his forehead, humming softly while you found the right words. Softness only gets you so far. If it’s too gooey, he won’t believe you. If it’s too vague, he won’t accept it. Middle ground never came easy, but that’s where he did best. A man so black and white, living smack dab in the middle of grey.
“Maybe, maybe not,” you said softly, placing another careful kiss to the top of his shaved head, “but you have it, and I watch you every day trying to be worthy of it. That’s enough for me, it’s more than enough for her. You show up, kiss booboos, and tuck her in every night no matter how busy you are. You’re her dad, baby.”
He caught your eyes, a hopeful glint in his, “Yeah?”
“Absolutely,” you kissed his lips this time, punctuating your point to make sure he didn’t lose sight of it so quickly.
Second guessing didn’t look good on him. It looked like sickness. Sleepless nights and dark circles under his eyes. Cold sweats and anxious jitters.
He was like a junky desperate for his next fix.
It would be rude to call him dramatic, but you thought it. It was new to you, watching his uncertainty bloom.
He wasn't a talker, and firmly believed emotions were a choice, so there was only so much you could do.
You didn’t know how to erase his fear of not being good enough. That overbearing level of uncertainty that makes an unshakeable man flinch. It was unnerving.
You put that in his head, and it was your responsibility to get it out.
He wanted something real, proof. Indisputable evidence that would leave nothing open to chance. He would never force you to stay, but he wonders if you’ll leave.
He’s seen it over and over, so have you.
Every patch has at least one ex-wife and it’s the same story every time. Explosive endings because this life isn’t stability and comfort, and that’s why you never wanted any part in it.
He has no rights to her. You could take her. You could change your mind.
A ring doesn’t change that, neither would a crow.
It took time to decide what would be right. What you were willing to give, and what would squash it once and for all.
With the visit to his mother just around the corner there was only one sane thing to do.
He was home for dinner that night. He hadn’t been late once since what you have started referring to as the incident. The night that cracked something in his chest that no amount of late night loving or early morning cuddles could fix.
You rolled the pages tight, keeping them contained with a silky black ribbon, and strategically placed them inside his very own world's best dad mug.
“I have a surprise for you this time.” You placed the oversized coffee mug in front of him casually, as if it didn’t contain your entire heart and soul.
His attention broke from her just long enough to cock a brow. He read the term of endearment printed on the side and his face flexed. It wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t not one either.
He tugged at the ribbon hesitantly, completely unaware of the week-long scheming you’ve been doing behind his back.
He stared down at it, a mix of horror and bewilderment.
Little girl Lowman.
Each page was signed, dated, notarized. He wanted her to have his name, so that’s exactly what you gave him. His eyes didn’t give. The usual unwavering intensity of his dark eyes were burning and glossy. He reread her name six times. Lowman.
She’s a Lowman.
You handed him the final piece of paper that was the key to it all, the work of art that felt too big to tie up with a bow. A DNA test showing Happy Lowman as her father.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Juice helped me with it. I don’t have the corrected birth certificate yet but I'm working on it.”
His breath caught, pure disbelief written all over him, gaze searching yours for the why. Why on earth would someone like you, trust someone like him, with her? So implicitly, to go as far as this to make sure he knew exactly where he fit into all this.
You love Jax, you really do, but his priority has always been the club. Since he could walk, talk, form a reasonable thought, he wanted one thing. The kutte, the gavel, the club. His priority, no matter what, would always default to that. To his first real love.
Men like that surrounded you your whole life, and it was true, you didn't want to be second. Happy though, his love for the club was blood deep. You saw that long before you saw this, but with him, there were exceptions.
The club was a byproduct of what life tossed at him, a circumstance he was better for, sure. It gave him a safe space to be himself, to indulge in his twisted desires, to find strength in numbers, and provide. To take perfect care of the exceptions.
His mother, his daughter, his wife.
“As far as anyone will ever be concerned, she’s always been yours.”
He looked at her, you, your ring, and right back down to the pages that contained your heart and his. The tightness in his throat was enough to cut off air, and he couldn’t say anything out of fear his voice would break. He felt the obnoxious burning in his eyes get worse and that confused him more than anything until he felt it. A wet drop plopped right against his cheek and his head flung back like he was absolutely disgusted with himself.
You brushed it off with your thumb like it was nothing, no fuss, no teasing, even if it was burning in your belly to poke fun. “We're a family, your family, and we're not going anywhere."
IM BACK BABY (my puppy is home, healing, and vet care is so expensive i want to DIE)
i did have plot planned but i noticed it doesn't really show until the last of my pre-planned parts, it's a toss up you guys, do i follow my planned plot or do i just make this a bunch of random fluff that i can add to at random in the future? decisions decisions.
Request by the other half of my heart and brain @garbinge : what if one of the guys walked into that hospital chapel room, expecting to clear it out for the guys who are coming but there's someone in the room, crying. And maybe whichever guy that was tasked to come clear it out, ends up talking with them. I just think it'd be angsty with some trauma bonding
Warnings: 18+, angst, emotional hurt/comfort, hospitals, mentions of illness/hospice care
Word Count: 2.8k
A/N: okay anj and what if i said i'm viscerally attached to these two now???? what then????????
When Happy pushed the door open, he had been expecting to find the hospital chapel empty. It was late; visiting hours had been over for some time. He thought that the only person he might run into was the janitor or whoever came through to check and make sure the candles weren’t going to end up burning the hospital down.
He didn’t expect to walk through the doorway and see one person sitting in the middle of one of the pews. You weren’t kneeling, instead just sitting on the unforgiving wooden seat and slumping forward. Your arms were folded, braced against the back of the bench in front of you with your forehead resting against them. He didn’t hear anything, no sobs or sniffles.
Even though he’d been sent in there with the direction of clearing the place out, he closed the door as quietly as he could manage. The click of the latch was soft. It sounded deafening to him but you didn’t even flinch.
He couldn’t really see you, nothing other than your hair and the pattern on the back of the sweatshirt you were wearing. The hospital chapel was always dim, especially this late in the day. It was all soft lighting and flickering candles. The kind of place that would be peaceful for anyone, not just for the people who came in to send up a last desperate prayer or two.
Once he took a step forward the illusion of the place shattered. Heavy boots against the floor, the jingling of his chain against his jeans. He saw how you flinched, tilting your head slightly in his direction to hear better but not lifting it from where it laid perched on your forearms. Part of him admired that.
He could have stood at the end of the aisle and told you to get out. That had been his original plan. Actually, his original plan was to not even go past the doorway and scare everyone out without having to cross the threshold. But the task he’d been sent out on was officially placed on the backburner.
The wood creaked beneath him as he sat down beside you. It was oddly, uncomfortably close. The kind of close that strangers don’t typically opt into if there are alternatives available, which there were plenty of considering the chapel was empty except for the two of you.
You could hear the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing due to the silence of the space and how near he was to you. Even before you turned your head to look at him you knew he was watching you. You knew that you should’ve been scared. And maybe in some far, distant part of your brain you were, but you were too exhausted to reach that far inside yourself to do anything about it.
He locked eyes with you for a moment. Then he looked at the candles, the cross, then back to you again. The whole time you just watched him. You felt like you had everything about the chapel memorized now with how long you’d been in there—he was the only thing you didn’t recognize.
When Happy looked at you again, he saw the tears in your eyes and on your cheeks. If the chapel had been lighter he would have been able to see the damp spots littering your sleeves, too.
You took a deep breath, trying to find it in yourself to say something since he clearly wasn’t too keen on starting the conversation. Your cheek was still pressed against your sleeve as you asked, “Do I know you?”
The fact that you had to ask told Happy the answer to the question. He wasn’t the kind of person you knew and forgot about, wasn’t the kind of man people had lukewarm opinions on either. If the two of you had met before, you’d remember, even if he might not have.
“No.”
You sniffled, brows furrowing in confusion. “Do you know Maggie?”
He shook his head but didn’t say anything else. The fact that he didn’t know you, or the person you were here for, and yet he was still choosing to sit so close to you, made the beginnings of a hundred questions pop up in your head. Too bad you were too drained to ask any of them. Besides, based on the conversational skills so far, you doubted that you’d get answers to very many of them anyway.
You finally forced yourself upright. As you were wiping away the remnants of tears from your cheeks, you asked, “Do you need something from me?” A little annoyance slipped through in your tone, and on a better day you would have apologized for it.
“I was supposed to come here and tell you to get out.”
That felt specific considering the two of you hadn’t ever met. “Me?”
He nodded, then made a small gesture with his head to the rest of the room. “Whoever was in here. Tonight it’s you.”
Slumping back against the seat, you managed a weak chuckle. “Didn’t realize that the hospital employed a chapel bouncer.”
“They don’t,” he replied, deadpan in a way that made you wonder if he didn’t get that you were joking or was purposely treating your statement seriously.
“Why?” you asked. The only thing that betrayed his confusion was the touching of his brows. You did your best to clarify. “Why do you need me to leave?”
He shook his head. “Can’t tell you.”
You were too exhausted to argue, but you were also tired enough to simply not want to get up from where you sat. “What happens if I don’t?” There was no bite in your tone. It wasn’t a challenge, per se. Maybe if you hadn’t cried so much already it would have been.
He let silence ensue just long enough to send a prickle down your spine. You were smart enough to know what the lack of a response meant. You were about to give in and get up when he said, “I can buy you a few minutes.”
Something about the small kindness following an unspoken threat made you chuckle. “Why would you do that?”
Instead of answering, he asked, “Who's Maggie?”
The sound of someone else saying her name made your chest tighten. He was the first person in a long, long time that had asked about her and he didn’t even know her. He didn’t know you, either. Everything unfolding around you felt like it wasn't making sense and you were fairly sure you couldn’t blame that on your exhaustion. You wanted to ask him who he was, why he wanted to know any of this, why he wanted you out of the chapel. But him asking about Maggie was the closest thing to someone checking in on her or you in too long. Maybe it wasn't fair to unload onto a stranger, but he was asking. And he was also going to kick you out of the chapel as soon as you were done telling him so why not?
“She's, uh, she's up a few floors. They're getting ready to set her up with hospice care. For the last few months she's just been,” you paused, bottom lip quivering, “she's been in and out of the hospital a lot. And when she's in…it's not…”
“Not making her better,” he finished for you.
You wiped the tears from your cheeks even though it was futile and more would be taking their place soon. “Yeah. And, and when I came in yesterday and they said hospice I just—” The words stopped short, a choked sob stopping them halfway up your throat.
“She your mom?” he asked.
The new bit of softness in his tone got you to meet his gaze again. He was frowning slightly, some of the hardness in his expression had faded. You didn’t have to pry to know that he had asked that question for a reason.
“Not…no.” You buried your face in your hands. “She's my ex's mom.”
“Where the fuck is he, then?” he retorted with no hesitation.
“Prison,” you said, not missing a beat.
“Shit.”
It got you to laugh. “He deserves it. And, honestly,” you shook your head, “even if he was out, he wouldn’t be handling any of this. We're all better off with him…” you trailed off, realizing how harsh it must've sounded to someone who didn’t know you. “Sorry. I know that probably sounds shitty.”
He shrugged. “He sounds shitty.”
You hummed in amusement. “He is. Maggie…Maggie's not, though.” You sniffled. “I missed her more than him after we split. We didn’t, uh, it wasn't because he went inside. That happened a couple months after. Then a couple months after that she went into the hospital for the first time. And she said that with him inside I was the only…” your voice quieted until you stopped speaking altogether. Shaking your head, you apologized, “Sorry. This…this doesn't matter. You don't know me.” You ran your hands down your thighs. “You're just waiting for me to—”
“Why'd you come here?” he asked, effectively cutting you off.
You shook your head. “It's where desperate people go, isn’t it?” you replied, trying to inject a little bit of levity into a scenario where it didn’t quite fit. The flickering candles held both your attention and his as you said, “I never really got good at praying. Maggie, though, she never missed a Sunday until she started getting sick.” You didn’t say it, but you couldn’t help but to think that she spent most of those Sunday mornings in the pew praying for her son. Who didn’t deserve it, in your humble opinion. “She didn’t ask me to or anything but I figured, I don't know, if she could get here she would.” You looked at him, a man who didn’t seem like he'd knelt in a pew in a long, long time. If ever. “Think God takes prayers by proxy?”
“Maybe.”
Silence filled the space between you again, only this time there wasn't a lingering request for you to leave within it. As the two of you continued to sit there, you wondered if you had been someone else if he would have just grabbed you up by the arm and tossed you out. He seemed like the type who might, not that you really knew what type he was.
Gnawing at the inside of your bottom lip, you couldn’t help but to ask, “Is it too late to ask you for your name?”
“Happy,” he replied, his one not at all matching his name.
You chuckled, waiting for the real answer to follow. It felt like a joke given everything that you could glean about him. When the silence persisted and it sank in with you that he wasn't joking, you cleared your throat and gathered up a response.
“Right. Makes about as much sense as the rest of it, I guess.”
In other scenarios this would be the part where you told him your name too, and you'd shake hands, and you'd have a conversation about the usual things you did with someone you didn’t know at all. But the two of you had already turned the usual conventions on their heads, so what did any of it matter now?
Resting your hands on your knees, you prepared yourself to stand up and leave. You could already feel the way your joints were going to pop before you even moved, having sat slumped in the pews for far too long. Even if Happy hadn't shown up to kick you out, that should have been reason enough to finally hit the bricks.
“Sorry for putting all my shit on you, Happy.” It felt strange to say his name, but strange in a way that made you smile despite all the mess. “Guess you're a good substitute for a priest in a pinch if they need someone for a confessional.”
That had him almost smiling. Just a little twitch of the lips but more than you'd gotten from him thus far. Apparently, he was the type of guy who could appreciate a little irony.
His expression returned to its previous state, one that didn’t give you anything to go off of. You watched as his gaze drifted over to the candles. “Hospice,” he said, quiet but not quite whispering.
Closing your eyes was a last-ditch effort to keep more tears from popping up. “Yeah. There's some things that they can do for her here, but I just...she, she can't…” You trailed off, not able to end the sentence. There were some words you just weren't ready to say even if the reality of them was staring down the barrel at you.
Happy knew what you were saying without you having to say it. Maybe that was the kind of skill people honed when they weren't much for talking themselves. “Your house or hers?” he asked.
“Hers,” you replied, a weak smile appearing on your face. “I, uh, I offered my place but she was pretty adamant. That's fair, though. She's earned that.”
“You're moving in, then.”
You liked that he didn’t ask it like a question. Nodding in agreement, you said, “Gonna pack my stuff, and I'll be set up there by the time she's good to come home.”
He nodded in approval. “They need someone there.”
It was your turn to state something instead of asking. “Speaking from experience.”
“Moved my whole life around when my mom got sick. She was mad at first—then she needed me.” He shrugged. “Wasn't as mad after that.”
“I'm sorry,” you offered, looking down at your hands. “But it's good that you were there.”
Happy seemed like he was about as religious as you were, but he was staring straight ahead at the cross instead of at you as he spoke. “She's a lot better now.”
“Didn’t move your life back though, huh?” you asked, having a feeling you already knew the answer.
He shook his head. “I stay where I'm needed. When my girls were young they needed me here. They're grown now, though.”
You smiled. “So back to mom's.”
“Yeah.”
Then it was quiet again. Because of the hour, you didn’t even hear any chaos from outside the chapel doors. You weren't sure how long the two of you sat there not saying anything, or even looking at each other. The part of you that still wasn't ready to face all the realities waiting for you on the side of the door covered in fluorescent lighting was more than ready to sit for as long as you could.
Slow creaking broke the silence, causing both you and Happy to turn back to the doors. You didn’t recognize the man who was stepped halfway into the chapel, but you saw that he and Happy were only a few clothing articles away from perfectly matching outfits. The other man's long blonde hair set them pretty far apart, though.
He looked at you for hardly a moment before focusing on Happy. “Hap, what the hell are you doing?”
You stood up before Happy could say anything. “He was telling me that I should head out for the night.” With the door open now you could hear more footsteps heading your way. “I'll, uh, I'll get out of your way.” You looked down at Happy and gave him a small nod. “Sorry. And, um, thanks.”
He didn’t say anything, just nodding as you turned and walked out the other end of the pew. You made a point not to look too hard at any of the men who were coming into the chapel. You were almost to the door when Happy spoke up; it took a second for you to realize that it was you he was speaking to.
“Hey.”
You turned back to face him. “Yeah?”
“Where'd you say they have your ex put up?”
Shaking your head, you answered, “I, uh, I didn’t.” You felt all the extra pairs of eyes on you and did your best to ignore them. “But…Stockton.” Happy nodded, but when he didn’t say anything else, you asked, “Why?”
“No reason,” he said, not that you believed him.
Ignorance was bliss, though, and you had enough to deal with, so you nodded and kept making your way to the door. None of the other men said anything to you as you slipped past them. Making sure to shut the door behind you, you left to finally make your way home to start packing.
When Happy turned in the pew to face the rest of the guys, it was Jax who spoke up first on behalf of everyone. “Who was that?”
“No one.”
Jax pinched his brows, not buying that in the slightest but not having anything to back himself up. “Sure about that?”
Happy made a gesture to the expanse of the chapel. “It's empty, isn't it?”
He knew better than to try and pry. “Yeah, I guess.”
They all settled down into an ill-formed huddle. Jax wasted no time diving right into club business. Happy was listening, always listening. But every now and then his gaze would wander to the candles, and inevitably to the closed chapel doors.
(divider by @secretlysamcro 🖤)
SOA Taglist: @withmyteeth @darqchilddaydreamz @justreblogginfics @winchestershiresauce @proceduralpassion @nessamc @lv7867 @kmc1989 (please let me know if you'd like to be added!)
The thing about Happy Lowman is that once you start noticing him, you can't stop.
For nearly a year he'd existed at the edges of your life like some permanent fixture of Charming itself, as familiar and unmovable as the old water tower or the faded town sign at the edge of the highway, always there somewhere in the background, always silent, always watching, but never demanding attention.
Then Chibs opens his mouth.
One stupid sentence.
One accidental confession.
And suddenly it's like somebody adjusted the focus on a camera lens.
Now you see everything.
Every little thing.
Every tiny habit.
Every quiet kindness.
Every moment that would have seemed insignificant before.
And once you see it, you can't unsee it.
The next morning you're standing outside your house watering plants when a familiar motorcycle rumbles down the street.
You look up automatically.
Happy.
He doesn't stop.
Doesn't wave.
Doesn't acknowledge you at all.
He just rides past.
Except his eyes flick toward you for half a second.
Long enough to confirm you're standing there.
Long enough to verify you're okay.
Then he's gone.
You stare after him.
Your watering can overflowing onto your shoes.
"Oh."
Because now you know.
Now you understand.
The problem is that Happy doesn't know you know.
And somehow that makes it worse.
Because there is no explanation.
No conversation.
No grand declaration.
No dramatic moment.
Just the growing awareness that Happy Lowman has quietly inserted himself into every corner of your life.
Not because anyone asked him to.
Not because he expected gratitude.
Simply because that's what he decided to do.
You start noticing how often he appears.
You stop by the grocery store.
Happy is there.
You go to the gas station.
Happy is there.
You grab lunch at the diner.
Happy walks in ten minutes later.
At first you think it's coincidence.
Then you remember Charming has a population smaller than some Los Angeles apartment buildings.
Everybody runs into everybody.
Still.
It happens often enough that you begin teasing him.
"You following me?"
Happy looks up from his coffee.
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yep."
"You were at the grocery store."
He takes a sip.
"So were you."
"You were at the gas station."
"Needed gas."
You stare.
Across the table Juice starts wheezing with laughter.
Happy is impossible.
Absolutely impossible.
Because every time you think you've figured him out, he does something that completely destroys your understanding of him.
Like the night somebody recognizes you.
Not in Charming.
Just outside town.
A little roadside bar forty minutes away.
The sort of place tourists stop while passing through.
You'd gone with Juice.
Just Juice.
A quiet evening.
Nothing special.
Then somebody notices.
At first it's harmless.
A photograph.
A request for an autograph.
Then another person recognizes you.
Then another.
Then suddenly you're trapped.
People crowding around your table.
Phones appearing.
Questions.
Requests.
You smile.
Because you're used to it.
You've spent ten years smiling.
Ten years pretending attention doesn't exhaust you.
Ten years performing gratitude while strangers demand pieces of you.
You smile.
You answer questions.
You pose for photographs.
And the entire time your chest feels tighter and tighter.
Then the crowd suddenly parts.
Not dramatically.
Not violently.
Just naturally.
Like water moving around a rock.
Happy steps between you and everyone else.
One hand resting casually on the back of your chair.
Expression blank.
Completely blank.
The crowd disperses almost immediately.
Nobody argues.
Nobody complains.
They simply leave.
Happy doesn't say a word.
Just stands there.
Then looks down at you.
"You done?"
Your throat feels strangely tight.
"Yeah."
He nods.
And sits down.
As though nothing happened.
The realization hits later.
Hours later.
Lying awake in bed.
Staring at the ceiling.
Because nobody in Hollywood ever asked if you were done.
Nobody ever noticed when you were overwhelmed.
Nobody ever stepped in without being asked.
But Happy did.
Because Happy notices everything.
Especially when it comes to you.
Unfortunately, you start noticing other things too.
Things that make your life significantly more complicated.
Like his hands.
Which is embarrassing.
Mortifying, honestly.
You are a grown woman.
An award-winning actress.
You have dated actors.
Musicians.
Directors.
Professional athletes.
You have walked red carpets.
Attended award ceremonies.
Met world-famous celebrities.
And somehow you've developed a crush on a fifty-year-old biker's hands.
Happy's hands are ridiculous.
Large.
Scarred.
Tattooed.
Capable.
Hands that rebuild motorcycles.
Fix engines.
Repair fences.
Patch roofs.
Protect people.
The sort of hands that look like they belong in old black-and-white photographs.
The sort of hands that make your stomach do deeply inconvenient things.
You become aware of them constantly.
Every time he fixes something.
Every time he rolls up his sleeves.
Every time he wraps those hands around a coffee mug.
It's humiliating.
Gemma notices immediately.
Of course she does.
Gemma notices everything.
The woman has the observational skills of a predator.
You make the mistake of glancing across the clubhouse one afternoon.
Just once.
Just long enough to see Happy leaning against the bar.
Gemma catches it.
Immediately.
You know she catches it because she starts smiling.
That horrible smile.
The one that means trouble.
"No."
Gemma laughs.
"I didn't say anything."
"You don't have to."
"Oh sweetheart."
You groan.
"Please don't."
"You got it bad."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do."
"I absolutely don't."
Gemma's smile widens.
Across the room Happy glances over.
The second he does, Gemma starts laughing harder.
You spend the next three weeks avoiding her.
Which is impossible.
Because Gemma somehow always finds you.
The age gap doesn't help.
If anything, it's the biggest problem.
Twenty-five years.
Twenty-five.
It's impossible not to think about.
You're twenty-four.
Happy is nearly fifty.
You should want different things.
Different lives.
Different futures.
You tell yourself that constantly.
Unfortunately your feelings don't seem particularly interested in logic.
Because Happy never treats you like a child.
Never talks down to you.
Never dismisses you.
Never acts like you're too young to understand something.
When everyone else occasionally slips into being protective in a way that feels patronizing, Happy never does.
He respects you.
Completely.
Unconditionally.
And somehow that makes everything worse.
The first time you realize you're in serious trouble happens at your father's grave.
It's been nearly a year since his death.
The grief isn't constant anymore.
It doesn't crush you every day.
But some days are still harder than others.
Some days still hurt.
You don't tell anyone you're going.
You just drive out there alone.
Flowers in the passenger seat.
Silence filling the truck.
The cemetery is nearly empty.
Just wind moving through the trees.
You kneel.
Replace the old flowers.
Sit beside the headstone.
And talk.
The way you've done every month since coming home.
About nothing.
About everything.
About how much you miss him.
About how strange your life feels.
About how Charming somehow became home again.
About people.
About Jax.
About Gemma.
About Juice.
About—
Happy.
You stop talking.
Immediately.
Because saying his name aloud feels dangerous.
Even here.
Especially here.
You laugh softly.
Shake your head.
Then stand.
Only to discover someone standing twenty feet away.
Your heart nearly stops.
Happy.
Of course it's Happy.
Watching from a respectful distance.
Giving you privacy.
While somehow still being there.
You stare.
"What are you doing here?"
Happy shrugs.
"Cemetery."
You narrow your eyes.
"Happy."
A pause.
Then another shrug.
"You were upset yesterday."
Your chest aches.
"You followed me?"
"No."
"You knew I'd be here."
"Yeah."
"How?"
He looks genuinely confused by the question.
As though the answer should be obvious.
As though of course he knew.
Because he knows you.
Because he pays attention.
Because he always pays attention.
"You come every month."
And just like that every argument disappears.
Because he does know.
He knows.
God help you, he knows.
The drive home is torture.
Because Happy rides beside you on his bike the entire way.
Not talking.
Not looking at you.
Just there.
Keeping pace.
Making sure you get home safely.
Again.
Always.
Again.
The club starts noticing.
Not because either of you are obvious.
Actually, you're both terrible at it.
Particularly Happy.
Who has apparently decided that if he ignores his feelings hard enough they'll simply cease to exist.
Unfortunately, everyone around him has functioning eyeballs.
Tig notices first.
Naturally.
Tig notices absolutely everything when it involves potential gossip.
The first time it happens you're helping set up for a club barbecue.
Happy is carrying folding tables.
You ask if he needs help.
He immediately says no.
Five minutes later he returns carrying twice as many tables because apparently asking for help offended him somehow.
You laugh.
Happy glances over.
Just once.
And Tig catches it.
The tiny shift in his expression.
The slight softening around his eyes.
The almost invisible thing that nobody would notice unless they knew Happy exceptionally well.
Tig notices.
Tig nearly chokes on his beer.
"Oh my God."
"What?" Juice asks.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
Tig points.
"No."
Juice follows his gaze.
Sees Happy.
Sees you.
Then immediately starts laughing.
Within forty-eight hours every member of SAMCRO knows.
Except you.
And Happy.
The two people actually involved.
Everyone else is forced to suffer.
Bobby eventually corners Chibs.
"How long?"
"About six months."
"Only six?"
"Maybe longer."
"Eleven?"
"Aye."
"Damn."
Jax notices too.
Mostly because Happy starts appearing whenever you're around.
Not intentionally.
Just automatically.
Like gravity.
You walk into a room.
Eventually Happy appears.
You leave.
Eventually Happy leaves.
Nobody understands how he keeps doing it.
Including him.
One evening Jax finds Happy sitting outside the clubhouse.
Alone.
Smoking.
Thinking.
Which is already suspicious.
Happy hates thinking.
Jax sits beside him.
For a while neither speaks.
Then:
"You love her."
Happy nearly drops his cigarette.
"No."
Jax laughs.
"Okay."
"No."
"You drove by her house four times yesterday."
Happy scowls.
"Security."
"She was home."
"Exactly."
Jax laughs harder.
"Jesus Christ."
Happy mutters something extremely rude.
Jax continues laughing.
Because after months of watching this disaster unfold, the situation has become genuinely entertaining.
Meanwhile, you remain completely oblivious.
At least until Gemma finally loses patience.
Which, considering Gemma, is actually impressive.
One afternoon she corners you in her kitchen.
Coffee in hand.
Expression determined.
You immediately become nervous.
"What?"
Gemma smiles.
Nothing good has ever followed that smile.
"You know he's in love with you."
You blink.
"What?"
"Happy."
Your brain completely stops functioning.
"No."
Gemma laughs.
"Sweetheart."
"No."
"Y/N."
"No."
Gemma sets down her coffee.
Looks directly at you.
And says the words that change everything.
"Then why does he look at you like you're the only thing he wants?"
Silence.
Complete silence.
Because suddenly every moment comes rushing back.
Every repaired fence.
Every late-night check-in.
Every ride home.
Every tiny kindness.
Every quiet act of devotion hidden beneath years of silence.
And for the first time, a terrifying possibility begins taking shape.
Maybe Gemma isn't wrong.
Maybe everyone isn't wrong.
Maybe the reason Happy always shows up isn't duty.
Maybe it isn't obligation.
Maybe it isn't because you're part of the club's extended family.
Maybe it's because somewhere along the way, without either of you realizing when it happened, Happy Lowman fell hopelessly, helplessly in love with you.
You lend Happy a book once expecting never to see it again. Instead he returns it three days later covered in sticky notes with his thoughts in the margins.
this is the dream honestly
The first time Happy Lowman walked into your bookstore, he looked like the beginning of a problem.
Not a customer. Not even really human in the way normal people were human. More like a storm wrapped in leather and tattoos, carrying violence around his shoulders like a second kutte.
The little bell above the shop door jingled softly when he entered, painfully cheerful against the sheer menace of him.
Everyone else in the store noticed too.
The college girl in the poetry aisle immediately stopped pretending to browse and quietly drifted toward the register. A middle-aged man near history abruptly remembered somewhere else he needed to be. Even your ancient shop cat, Hemingway, lifted his head from the windowsill and narrowed suspicious yellow eyes.
Happy noticed none of it.
Or maybe he noticed all of it and simply didn’t care.
He stood just inside the doorway, broad shoulders filling the entrance, dark eyes sweeping slowly across shelves overflowing with used books and stacked hardcovers. His expression didn’t change much, but something about the way he looked around told you he wasn’t there by accident.
You’d lived in Charming long enough to recognize SAMCRO members on sight. Everyone did.
Most of them came in occasionally.
Juice bought comic books and tech magazines. Chibs liked old detective novels. Jax sometimes wandered into the children’s section with Abel perched on his hip.
Happy had never entered your shop before.
Honestly, you weren’t sure he could read.
Which felt unfair the second the thought crossed your mind.
Still.
He looked less like someone who read books and more like someone who buried bodies in forests.
You gave him your best customer-service smile anyway.
“Can I help you find something?”
His eyes landed on you.
Jesus.
It always startled you a little, how intense he was. Happy Lowman looked at people like he was evaluating whether they were a threat. Or a target. There was no casualness to him whatsoever.
He approached the counter slowly.
Heavy boots. Silent somehow despite the size of him.
“You got westerns?”
His voice was rough gravel and cigarette smoke.
You blinked.
“Westerns?”
A slight shrug.
“My mom liked them.”
The answer caught you so off guard your entire opinion of him shifted sideways.
“Oh,” you said softly. “Yeah. Tons.”
You led him toward the back corner of the store where the western section lived between historical fiction and mythology. He followed close behind you, and despite yourself, you were hyperaware of him the entire walk there.
Not because he was threatening exactly.
Just… large.
Warm.
Dangerous in the way a chained wolf was dangerous.
You crouched beside one shelf.
“What kind?”
He considered.
“Ones where people mind their business.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
His eyes flicked toward you immediately, like the sound surprised him.
“Okay,” you said, smiling. “So definitely not Cormac McCarthy.”
He stared at you blankly.
“You know what? Never mind.”
You spent ten minutes helping him pick books.
Ten deeply bizarre minutes.
Because Happy Lowman—terrifying enforcer of an outlaw motorcycle club—was unexpectedly meticulous about book covers. He hated movie tie-in editions. Preferred worn paperbacks because “they feel read.” Dismissed anything with tiny print because it was “annoying as shit.”
You learned he liked stories where people survived impossible odds.
Hated tragic endings.
Thought heroes who talked too much were idiots.
And when you handed him a copy of Lonesome Dove, his fingers brushed yours for half a second.
The contact felt weirdly electric.
He looked at the book.
“You read this?”
“Like six times.”
“Good?”
“It ruined my emotional stability for a week.”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Not quite a smile.
But close enough to make your stomach flip unexpectedly.
He bought three books.
Paid in cash.
Left without another word.
You assumed that would be the end of it.
Instead, he came back two days later.
And then again the next week.
And then suddenly Happy Lowman existed in your life with alarming consistency.
He never lingered much. Never talked unnecessarily. He’d appear at random hours, silently browse shelves for twenty minutes, buy a stack of books, then vanish back into Charming’s shadows.
But over time, tiny things accumulated.
He started bringing you coffee.
Never announcing it.
Just setting a cup beside the register with a gruff, “You looked tired.”
You learned he read absurdly fast.
You learned he preferred books with dog-eared pages because pristine ones felt “untouched.”
You learned he liked when you recommended things because apparently your taste was “less stupid than most people.”
Which, from Happy, felt dangerously close to flirting.
Not that he flirted normally.
Happy’s version of affection was deeply unsettling.
Once, a customer screamed at you over a pricing mistake.
Happy happened to be in the true crime section nearby.
You didn’t even realize he’d moved until suddenly he was standing beside you.
Not saying anything.
Just… standing there.
The customer immediately lost all momentum.
Happy stared at him with the cold neutrality of a hitman deciding whether murder was worth the paperwork.
The man stammered an apology and practically fled the store.
You turned to Happy slowly.
“…Did you just intimidate a customer for me?”
He looked genuinely confused.
“He was yelling.”
“Yes?”
Another shrug.
“Didn’t like it.”
That was it.
That was the entire explanation.
You should’ve been alarmed.
Instead warmth spread embarrassingly through your chest.
Because no one had protected you so instinctively in a very long time.
Three months after you met him, rain hammered against the bookstore windows while you reorganized a display table near closing.
Happy sat in the armchair by the fireplace reading.
Which had somehow become normal.
He’d started lingering recently.
Not talking much.
Just existing nearby while you worked.
You suspected most people would find the silence uncomfortable.
You didn’t.
Happy’s quietness never felt empty. It felt deliberate. Like he only spoke when he genuinely had something worth saying.
You glanced up from your stack of books.
“What are you reading?”
He held up the paperback slightly.
“Audubon.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
“The naturalist?”
“Bird guy.”
“Yeah, bird guy.”
He flipped a page.
“Mean son of a bitch.”
You snorted.
“That’s your literary analysis?”
“Shot birds outta the sky just to paint them.”
“Honestly valid criticism.”
A rumble of thunder shook the windows.
Happy glanced toward the storm.
Then at the book cart beside you.
Then back at you.
“You read all these?”
“Most.”
“You remember them?”
“Usually.”
“That seems fake.”
You laughed softly.
“You remember every gun you’ve ever owned.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Books got too many words.”
You grinned.
“Spoken like a true scholar.”
His gaze lifted slowly to your face.
Steady.
Unreadable.
But there was warmth there too now. Tiny and hidden and dangerous.
Your pulse skipped stupidly.
To distract yourself, you picked up a hardcover from the cart.
“This one’s good.”
Happy eyed the cover suspiciously.
“It got dragons?”
“No.”
“Then why’s it so thick?”
“Character development.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“You’re impossible.”
Still, you walked over and handed it to him.
He took it automatically.
His fingers brushed yours again.
That same strange electricity.
“You’ll hate the first fifty pages,” you warned.
“Why would I read something I hate?”
“Because then eventually you won’t.”
He studied the book cover.
Then you.
“You lending it?”
“If you promise not to destroy it.”
A pause.
“I don’t destroy books.”
“You bend every page corner.”
“Bookmarks fall out.”
“That’s barbaric.”
Another almost-smile.
Tiny.
Quick.
Dangerously rewarding.
You pointed at him accusingly.
“Don’t make me regret this, Lowman.”
“Won’t.”
You fully expected never to see the book again.
Not because Happy seemed dishonest.
Mostly because men borrowed books from you constantly and almost never returned them.
Books vanished into apartments and glove compartments and ex-girlfriends’ houses forever.
You’d made peace with it years ago.
So when the bookstore bell jingled three days later and Happy walked in holding your hardcover carefully under one tattooed arm, you stared.
“You finished it already?”
“Yeah.”
“You speed-read a six-hundred-page fantasy novel in three days?”
A shrug.
“Was stuck in Tacoma.”
That explained absolutely nothing.
He approached the counter and placed the book down with surprising gentleness.
“Here.”
You smiled automatically.
“Thanks for actually returning—”
Then you noticed the explosion of neon sticky notes protruding from nearly every chapter.
You blinked.
“What…”
Happy looked suddenly awkward.
Which was genuinely astonishing on a man who routinely looked comfortable threatening human life.
“You said you liked talking about books.”
You stared at him.
Then at the sticky notes.
Then back at him.
“You annotated my book?”
His shoulders shifted slightly, like he was preparing for ridicule.
“Yeah.”
“Happy.”
“You don’t gotta read ‘em if they’re stupid.”
Your chest did something deeply inconvenient.
“No,” you said quickly. “No, I want to.”
He nodded once.
Then immediately headed toward the western section like he hadn’t just fundamentally altered your brain chemistry.
You opened the book carefully.
The first sticky note appeared on page thirty-two.
This guy talks too much. You were right.
You laughed out loud.
Happy glanced over from across the store.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
You flipped further.
Another note.
If she dies I’m suing you.
Another.
Dragon’s kinda cool actually. Don’t get weird about it.
And another.
Main dude needs punched. Respectfully.
Your smile grew helplessly wider with every page.
Some notes were only a few words.
Some were bizarrely insightful.
Some were unintentionally hilarious.
One simply read:
This chapter stressed me out.
Another:
Why are fantasy maps always lying? Nobody gets places this fast.
And then halfway through the book, tucked beside one devastating emotional scene:
You cried here didn’t you
Not a question.
A statement.
You looked up slowly.
Happy was pretending very hard to browse shelves.
“You made fun of my emotional devastation in sticky note form?”
Without looking at you, he said, “Little bit.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
A pause.
Then:
“You did cry though.”
“…That is not the point.”
He finally glanced over.
And there it was.
A real smile this time.
Small.
Crooked.
So rare and startling it hit you like a physical force.
God.
You were in trouble.
After that, it became a thing.
You’d lend Happy books.
He’d return them covered in sticky notes.
Not destructive notes either. Careful ones. He never wrote directly on pages. Never bent spines too harshly. He treated borrowed books with bizarre reverence.
The notes became increasingly unhinged.
- This villain dresses like a narc.
- Why are they kissing during a hostage situation. Priorities seem wrong.
- I knew the dog would die. Felt suspiciously happy.
- You absolutely recommended this because you enjoy psychological warfare.
You started responding.
At first on your own sticky notes tucked between pages before lending him books.
- You have no imagination.
- You are emotionally attached to fictional horses and should reflect on that.
- That villain IS a narc. Good catch.
Soon the books themselves became conversations.
Entire arguments unfolded in margins via color-coded sticky notes.
Customers occasionally witnessed you laughing alone behind the counter while reading one of Happy’s annotations and looked deeply confused.
Happy pretended not to notice.
But you caught him watching your reactions constantly.
Quietly.
Carefully.
Like your happiness mattered more than he knew what to do with.
One night, near closing, you found him sitting cross-legged on the bookstore floor in the mythology aisle beside Hemingway the cat.
The giant tattooed assassin and the sixteen-year-old orange tabby appeared equally unbothered by the arrangement.
Happy scratched under Hemingway’s chin absently while reading.
You leaned against the shelf smiling.
“I didn’t know you liked cats.”
“Don’t.”
“Hemingway seems unconvinced.”
The cat was literally sprawled across Happy’s thigh purring like a lawnmower.
Happy looked down at him.
“He’s weird.”
“He likes you.”
“He bites everyone else.”
“That’s because everyone else deserves it.”
Happy snorted quietly.
You settled beside him on the floor.
“What’re you reading?”
He showed you the cover.
A mystery novel you’d recommended.
“You like it?”
“Guy’s an idiot.”
“You say that about every protagonist.”
“Most people are idiots.”
“Comforting worldview.”
His eyes shifted toward you.
“Not you.”
The words were simple.
Matter-of-fact.
But something about the sincerity in them stole your breath completely.
Happy looked away almost immediately afterward, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Your pulse fluttered.
You cleared your throat softly.
“Well. Thanks.”
He shrugged once.
But his hand tightened slightly against the cat’s fur.
Like maybe honesty made him nervous.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
You learned quickly that Happy expressed affection sideways.
Indirectly.
Never naming it.
If your car made a weird noise once, it mysteriously got fixed overnight.
If someone bothered you repeatedly, they stopped appearing entirely.
If you mentioned liking a particular coffee from a bakery two towns over, it started showing up beside your register every Friday morning.
And always the books.
Always the sticky notes.
You kept every single one.
Tucked into a jar behind the counter.
You told yourself it was because they were funny.
Not because seeing Happy’s messy handwriting softened something deep in your chest.
The realization that you were falling in love with him arrived quietly.
Not dramatic.
Not sudden.
It happened on an ordinary Tuesday.
You had the flu.
Absolutely miserable.
The bookstore was closed early, and you’d spent most of the day unconscious beneath three blankets in your apartment above the shop.
A pounding knock dragged you awake around evening.
You stumbled downstairs half-dead and opened the bookstore door to find Happy standing there holding two grocery bags.
You blinked blearily.
“How did you know I was sick?”
“You didn’t answer texts.”
“You texted me twice.”
“No one ignores me twice.”
You stared at him.
“…That’s somehow both concerning and weirdly sweet.”
He stepped inside without invitation.
Rainwater dripped from his kutte onto the wooden floor.
“You eat anything?”
“I had crackers.”
“That’s not food.”
“It absolutely is when you’re dying.”
“You’re dramatic.”
Said by a man who once threatened to stab a parking enforcement officer over a towing dispute.
Happy unpacked groceries with the efficiency of someone preparing for battle.
Soup.
Medicine.
Tea.
Electrolyte drinks.
A ridiculous amount of oranges.
You sat on a stool watching him helplessly.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
He glanced at you once.
“Wanted to.”
Simple.
Immediate.
True.
Your heart hurt.
Happy made soup while glaring suspiciously at your stove like appliances personally offended him.
Then he sat beside your couch while you drifted in and out of sleep, reading silently.
Every so often you’d wake enough to find him still there.
Massive.
Steady.
Safe.
At one point, feverish and half-conscious, you mumbled, “You’d kill someone for me, wouldn’t you?”
You expected silence.
Instead:
“Yeah.”
No hesitation.
No drama.
Just certainty.
You looked at him through exhaustion and dim lamplight.
Happy met your gaze calmly.
Like he didn’t understand why that answer wasn't frightening you.
Oddly enough, it didn’t.
Because underneath all the violence and darkness and sharp edges, Happy loved with terrifying sincerity.
And once he cared about someone, he cared completely.
The realization settled deep in your bones.
Oh.
Oh no.
The problem with loving Happy Lowman was that he didn’t flirt in recognizable human ways.
You genuinely couldn’t tell whether he understood what was happening between you.
Sometimes he looked at you like you hung the moon.
Other times he vanished for days chasing club business, returning bloodied and exhausted and emotionally unreadable.
He touched you constantly in tiny ways though.
A hand against your back guiding you through crowds.
Fingers brushing yours when passing books.
His knee pressed against yours during movie nights upstairs.
One evening at the clubhouse, Tig watched Happy silently steal fries from your plate while sitting so close your thighs touched.
Tig looked between you both slowly.
Then at Chibs.
Then back again.
“…Are ye two dating?”
You nearly choked.
Happy kept eating your fries.
“No,” you said too quickly.
Tig frowned.
“Then why’s he lookin’ at ye like that?”
You froze.
Happy finally glanced up.
“Tig.”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
Tig grinned immediately.
“Oh my God, ye like her.”
Chibs burst into laughter.
You looked at Happy instinctively.
For one horrifying second, genuine panic flashed across his face.
Then it vanished beneath his usual flat calm.
“Eat your food,” he muttered.
Tig absolutely lost his mind.
You spent the next hour unable to look directly at Happy without feeling your heartbeat in your throat.
A week later, Happy handed you a book at closing.
You frowned at the unfamiliar hardcover.
“You’re lending me a book?”
“Yeah.”
“That feels illegal somehow.”
“Just read it.”
You flipped it over.
A collection of poetry.
Your eyebrows shot upward.
“You read poetry?”
“No.”
“You bought me poetry?”
A shrug.
“Thought you’d like it.”
Your chest melted completely.
You opened the cover.
Inside, tucked carefully between pages, was a sticky note.
Page 47.
You looked up slowly.
Happy had suddenly become extremely interested in reorganizing bookmarks near the register.
Suspicious behavior.
You turned to page forty-seven.
A poem about loving someone quietly.
Persistently.
Without needing them to understand the depth of it immediately.
At the bottom of the page sat another sticky note in Happy’s messy handwriting.
This one sounds like you.
Your throat tightened painfully.
You looked at him again.
Happy still refused to meet your eyes.
“Happy…”
His shoulders tensed.
You walked around the counter slowly.
Stopped directly in front of him.
He finally looked down at you.
Close up, he always felt overwhelming. Broad chest. Dark eyes. Tattoos winding beneath his sleeves. The faint scent of leather and smoke and soap.
But right then he also looked strangely uncertain.
Which you were beginning to realize only happened around you.
“You bought me a poetry book,” you said softly.
“Yeah.”
“You marked a love poem.”
A pause.
“Yeah.”
Your pulse thundered.
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
Happy stared at you for a very long moment.
Then he said quietly:
“I’m not good at this.”
Your heart cracked wide open.
“At what?”
His jaw shifted slightly.
“You.”
The honesty of it nearly destroyed you.
You stepped closer instinctively.
“So don’t be good at it,” you whispered. “Just be honest.”
Something vulnerable flickered across his face.
Tiny.
Raw.
Then his hand lifted slowly, almost cautious, and brushed hair back from your temple.
The gesture was impossibly gentle coming from him.
“I think about you all the time,” he admitted roughly. “It’s gettin’ annoying.”
You laughed through sudden tears.
“That’s your confession?”
“Best I got.”
“It’s a pretty good one.”
His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek.
“You scare me.”
That surprised you enough to still completely.
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
A faint crease formed between his brows like he was struggling to explain something unfamiliar.
“Got too used to you.”
Your chest ached.
Happy Lowman didn’t fear many things.
But losing people?
That clearly lived somewhere deep and ugly inside him.
You reached up carefully, resting your hand against the side of his neck.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
His eyes closed briefly at the contact.
Like relief physically hurt.
Then he leaned down and kissed you.
And it was nothing like you expected.
Not rough.
Not aggressive.
Slow.
Careful.
Like he was handling something precious and didn’t trust himself not to break it.
Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt automatically.
Happy made a quiet sound against your mouth that nearly melted your spine.
When he pulled back, he stayed close enough that his forehead rested lightly against yours.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then:
“You taste like peppermint tea,” he murmured.
You laughed breathlessly.
“That’s your takeaway?”
“Trying not to say insane shit.”
“Such as?”
A long pause.
Then very seriously:
“Think I’d kill God for you.”
You stared at him.
Then burst into helpless laughter.
Happy looked mildly offended.
“That was vulnerable.”
“Oh my God.”
“You’re makin’ fun of me.”
“I’m kissing you again before you threaten divine entities.”
“Hmm.”
So you did.
And this time Happy kissed you like he’d been starving for it.
Dating Happy Lowman was an exercise in realizing romance looked different on everyone.
For Happy, romance meant:
Keeping a spare helmet for you on his bike before you officially moved into his place.
Reading books aloud in bed because he liked hearing your reactions.
Resting one heavy hand on your knee while driving.
Bringing you bizarrely thoughtful gifts with zero explanation.
One time he handed you a first-edition hardcover of your favorite novel like it was nothing.
You nearly fainted.
“Happy, this costs like eight hundred dollars.”
A shrug.
“You looked at it too long.”
“You absolute psychopath.”
“Thought that was romantic.”
“It IS romantic. That’s the problem.”
He seemed pleased by that.
Very pleased.
His sticky notes evolved too.
Now they were openly affectionate.
- This character laughs like you.
- Saw this and got distracted thinkin’ about your face.
- You’d survive this apocalypse. Proud of you.
Sometimes he left them around your apartment instead of books.
Inside kitchen cabinets.
On bathroom mirrors.
Tucked into your coat pockets.
One appeared on your pillow after he left early for club business.
Coffee’s in the pot. Don’t fight customers today.
Another:
Your cat judges me.
Another, attached to takeout containers in the fridge:
Eat actual food or I’ll become unbearable about it.
You loved him so much it occasionally felt fatal.
One evening, months later, you sat cross-legged in bed reading while Happy cleaned his guns next to you.
Oddly domestic.
Rain tapped softly against the trailer roof.
You turned the page of your book and frowned.
“There’s a sticky note in my book.”
“Yeah.”
You pulled it out.
Marry me eventually. No rush.
You stared.
Slowly turned toward him.
Happy continued cleaning his gun with complete seriousness.
“…Did you just casually propose via office supplies?”
A pause.
“Maybe.”
“You MAYBE proposed?”
“You were reading.”
You laughed so hard you nearly fell off the bed.
Happy watched you carefully during it though.
Not nervous exactly.
Hopeful.
Which somehow affected you more than a dramatic proposal ever could.
You climbed across the bed toward him.
“Hey.”
He set the gun aside immediately when you touched his arm.
“Yeah?”
You took the sticky note gently from the book and pressed it against his chest.
“Yes.”
Happy blinked.
“Yes?”
“Yes, you terrifying weirdo.”
For a second he just stared at you.
Then suddenly his hands were on your waist, pulling you firmly into his lap with startling strength.
He kissed you hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.
When he finally let you breathe, his forehead rested against yours.
“You sure?”
“Completely.”
A rare smile spread slowly across his face.
Softening every dangerous edge.
Beautiful enough to ruin you.
“You know,” you murmured, “most people use rings.”
“Sticky notes cheaper.”
“You are unbelievably romantic in the strangest possible way.”
Happy Lowman x F!Reader | Jax Teller & Platonic!F!Reader //
Word Count: 21.2k
Summary: In the midst of grief and hardship, you meet The Tacoma Killer who opens your eyes to more than just the weight of your burdens. A story from start to finish of how meeting and falling in love with Happy Lowman changed both of your lives while still keeping both of you exactly the same.
Warnings/Tags: All my fics are 18+ regardless of content. Angst. Grief. Canon character death. Sick reader relative. Reader relative character death. Canon-level violence. Smut. Hurt/Comfort. Arguing. Drugs. Drinking. Crying. Mourning. Mentions of cancer, dementia, injuries, and blood.
A/N: You can thank @drabbles-mc for jump starting whatever Happy Lowman bug she gave me after writing this fic (please read this and ALL her Happy fics and while you're at it just all her stuff). All 21.2k words of this are because of her so class be sure to say thank you Miss Drabbles MC!!!!
The sigh that left your mouth was full of a lot more than just exhaustion. It was more than just a long day of work, more than just a long night of work. It was years of them. Years of a weight you were burdened with, then guilt from describing your ill father as a burden.
There was a debate going on in your head as you sat in your truck in the parking lot of your job. Should you go home or should you go to the club party?
The text message in your phone was trying to convince you of the latter.
Jax (7:14): You never told me if you were gonna swing by tonight
Jax (11:27): Don’t be a loser come by it’s free drinks and bud can’t beat it
Jax wasn’t much of a convincing argument, but he also knew begging wasn’t your speed. Looking at the other messages in your phone, you squeezed your eyes shut trying to cope with the day you had.
Kayla At-Home Nurse (2:45): Your dad’s medication got mixed up, running him to urgent care just to be sure.
That message earned you a 30 minute phone call, during your 30 minute lunch break. So that meant shoveling bites of food here and there when you could and copious amounts of coffee through the day.
Then there were the other 5 messages.
Kayla At-Home Nurse (5:18): I just got the call he’s gonna need to get his stomach pumped.
You didn’t read that one right away, you were in the middle of a shift, no phones.
Kayla At-Home Nurse (5:35): Can you please answer me I don’t know what to do.
Another unanswered message.
Kayla At-Home Nurse (5:48): We’re going to go through with it, doctors say he’ll be back home in the morning and the only thing he'll need is to be on a special diet.
Kayla At-Home Nurse (5:59): They just brought him back, they said they’ll call me when he’s out.
6 o’clock was when you got off. 6 o’clock was when you called Kayla the at-home nurse 15 times before she picked up. 6 o’clock was when Kayla told you she thought she was texting someone else this entire time and that your father was fine, home from urgent care, eating applesauce to settle the medicine mix up and sitting on the back porch. His favorite place.
Then you went to your second job, you were so frazzled that you spilled coffee on someone, someone who not only didn’t leave you a tip but also shorted out on the bill, which came out from your paycheck.
“Fuck it,” you shook your head from the day, grabbing your duffel from the back and pulling out a pair of jeans and black tank top to quickly change into before heading to the clubhouse.
As you pulled into the club, you saw the barrels of fire, the large group of people, there was more than just SAMCRO here, there had to be a couple different charters here.
You weren’t sure how you felt about that, part of you was kind of hoping to just see the guys you knew. Have a few beers, smoke a little hash, relax, take the edge off. But with more people here, it’d be more of a socializing thing.
It was too late though, you were already spotted. As you pulled into the spot, you heard your name being called out. As you grabbed your black zip up from the back seat, you followed the cat-calls which were clearly coming from people you knew. Tig gave you a purr as you walked by him and Clay. But then you heard a voice you had heard call out to you since you were a kid. Jax had waved you over to the boxing ring that was set up under the awning just outside the clubhouse.
“Training for UFC?” You joked as Jax pulled you in for a hug. It wasn’t your first time at Teller-Morrow or the clubhouse, you’d spend evenings after school here years ago, watch Jax work on cars, learn something yourself so you could save some money on oil changes and other maintenance things for your Pops’ truck. Not that anyone was driving it at that time, but you knew one day you would be. Now, you’d come to club parties when you weren’t working overnights, sometimes you’d show up even after your night shift on the days the party tended to last well into morning. You’d also find yourself behind the desk at Teller-Morrow from time to time, picking up shifts working at the mechanic office, organizing invoices, taking calls, paperwork shit. A favor for Gemma, offered to you by Jax. He knew you needed the money and hated that you were working nights at shitty dive bars and diners just to make enough.
Growing up in the house a few blocks down from Gemma’s, your life was on full display. There was no hiding your father getting sick, you had nurses in and out of the house, garbage full of empty orange bottles, you’d put on a yard sale every month just to earn whatever cash you could to pay for whatever insurance wouldn’t. When you were out of high school, you’d work whatever jobs you could just to make ends meet. Gemma brought you leftovers a lot, or she’d send Jax over to deliver them to you. JT was one of your father’s closest friends, they were war buddies as they liked to call it. Two tours in Vietnam together. Both of them didn’t exactly come home in the best conditions, JT’s was more mental, your dad’s was well, it was cancer.
It brought you and Jax close, losing a parent, whether it figuratively or literally tended to bond people.
“Something like that,” Jax smiled, the boyish grin fully on display as he turned to look at the punches being thrown.
Your gaze followed his, you recognized one of them in the ring as one of the guys from the Devil’s Tribe, but the other man wasn’t someone you knew. He was covered in tattoos, shaved head, and tall.
“How you holdin’ up?” Jax tossed his arm around you.
Jax always asked you this, it was his way of asking a few things at once. How are you, how’s your dad, is there anything he can do?
“Tired from work, new nurse is a fucking idiot, so I gotta figure out how to get someone new,” you inhaled sharp. The list never ended, it felt like it kept piling up. But it was worth it, your dad was having way better days than shitty ones, in fact, before this new nurse started, he was walking again, cracking jokes, spending mornings on the porch with you drinking coffee and watching birds.
“What happened to Suzanne?” Jax frowned down at you as you kept your eyes on the two bikers in the ring, the one that was a mystery to you specifically, not really in the mood to figure out your problems right now, it’s all you tended to think about, sometimes you just wanted a break.
“She was a fucking relic Jax,” you shook your head. “She retired.”
Jax laughed, Suzanne was a fucking dinosaur. “I can see if Tara knows any nurses who are looking for work.”
“Tara, huh?” You raised your brows, getting ready to pry and tease based on his reaction, but just like you didn’t want to be pressed, he didn’t either.
“I don’t wanna hear it,” there was still a smile on his face, but he didn’t have an answer for the question you had, if it could even be considered a true question. But he knew that what you said was laced with a lot more than just a teasing remark and with you, he needed to have real answers, logical ones, and this thing with Jax and Tara was the furthest thing from logical. Jax turned his attention back to the ring as everyone yelled as the two bikers got more enthralled in the fight.
“Whose the tats?” You kept your voice down as you asked Jax a question he actually could answer, changing the topic to something that would pull both your minds from what was constantly being overworked in them.
“Nomad, used to be in at Tacoma,” Jax didn’t give you much information, no name, no history, no personal opinion, just a typical MC descriptor.
“Jackie boy!” A voice interrupted your conversation.
Then there was another yell, “Alright, break these guys up!”
Chaos was starting to ensue and you were gonna take it as a sign to head inside and grab a drink.
You leaned your elbows against the bar as the prospect grabbed a cold beer from the cooler, popping the cap off for you.
“Hey,” a raspy voice sent chills down your spine and you turned to see who was calling your attention. It was the guy who had just been in the ring. Tacoma. The Nomad. But he wasn’t looking at you, he was looking at the prospect, eyes burning into him like he owed him something. He wasn’t getting your attention, he was getting the prospect’s.
“That was the last one, Hap,” the shaky voice came from the kid earning his stripes for SOA. “I got Half-Sack grabbing another case from the liquor store.”
The tatted man didn’t say anything, just stared at him, no expression on his face, which in all honestly was probably scarier than an intimidating one for the prospect.
“Here,” you pushed over your beer towards the 6 foot biker, offering a solution that would allow the kid to take a minute to change his pants because he was clearly shitting himself at the moment. “Get me vodka on the rocks,” you smiled at the prospect that Jax was currently sponsoring.
“Yes ma’am,” he gave a polite smile.
You quickly spoke out your name as a demand. “No ma’am, Juice. Just my name.”
Now, the tall man’s eyes were on you. Boring into you much like he had just done to Juice.
“Shit won’t work on me,” you waited for your drink, not bothering to look at him.
He said nothing.
It was like that for a few more seconds. Quiet, if you could call it that, there was so much noise around you it’s not like it was an awkward silence.
Juice came back with the glass of clear iced liquid and spoke your name as he placed it down. Just as you went to grab it, the tatted man pulled it away.
Your brows knitted together faster than him grabbing your drink.
“You take the beer,” the words were raspy and firm coming from his mouth.
Glancing over to him, your eyes squinting slightly like if you strained hard enough you’d be able to read him clear as day. No dice.
Now it was your turn to stay silent and bore a glare into him.
“I’m not taking your beer,” he spoke through your silence.
“Half sack’s back with the beer!” Juice exclaimed so cheerfully as he stepped away from your staring competition. Normally it’d make you laugh, he was so different from the other guys, always joking, usually going on about some tech thing that no one knew what the fuck he was talking about, but it’d always make you smile, except now. You kept your eyes on the man, the Nomad, taking in his shaved down head, the stubble was greying, a sign of a weathered biker. The stubble around his face, though, was different. It had not quite caught up to his head yet, not that he ever let it grow out for anyone to really tell. The tattoos that were on full display as he stood there sweaty, bloody, and shirtless, were detailed. They told a story, they told his story. Or at least part of it.
‘Filthy few.’ If you didn’t know what that meant, the ‘I live, I die, I kill, for my family’ tattoo would have given it all the explanation it needed. You were no stranger to the shit the club did. Outlaw life. If your dad didn’t get sick, he would have joined, there was no question about it. With how the club took care of you, even when you weren’t really “a part” of it, you got it. That pull for a family, a group of misfits that would do anything for one another. It made sense. Even despite the criminal shit.
Honestly? With how the system fucked you, the medical debt, the bills, the back taxes, making just enough to kick you off government-assisted programs but not enough to buy fucking milk the week between paychecks, how couldn’t someone resort to other measures?
It was silent between you two before Juice came back with another beer.
“Give me an empty glass, Juice,” you gave the order to him and he obliged and stepped away from whatever was going on between you and the Nomad.
Juice slid the glass toward you before retreating to one of the many other people crowding the other side of the bar. You poured half of your vodka into the glass, and then pushed it so it clinked next to the fresh beer. An act of evening the score between you.
“Now we’re both happy,” you smiled, sarcastically.
“No, I’m Happy.” He nodded, somehow without his expression changing at all, you felt him soften just the slightest bit.
“Well… I’m glad.” Your voice had a bit of confusion tied to it as you brought the vodka up to your lips, you needed something strong, maybe it would make sense of whatever was happening here.
“No, my name.” He rasped. “Happy.”
He was introducing himself. If you could even call it that.
“Your personality really embodies your name,” you nodded and then after a beat of him not responding you clinked your glass to his. “Nice to meet you, Happy.”
An olive branch? Was that you offering some sort of truce to peace over whatever was happening between you?
“You from Charming?” It was the first question he had asked you, everything else before was just a sentence, or more like a demand.
“You gonna ask me if I come here often?” You were pulling back that olive branch just as fast as you were offering it. “If I’m free for a ride or to drive around? If you could take me home?” You had heard it all before, as jokes from most of the guys and occasionally a serious offer if they were drunk enough or someone from out of town rolled in.
“No, just asking if you’re from Charming.” He held no disdain from your reaction.
“If you try anything, I’ll cut your dick off,” you spoke the words with gusto, almost like you had to convince yourself that you were capable of the violent act.
He tilted his head and studied your face and then nodded. “I completely believe you.”
At first, you thought he was being sarcastic, his voice was so monotone that it was hard to pull context from it. Maybe you didn’t need to pull context from it, maybe he just was saying what he was thinking. You weren’t exactly used to guys doing that, not that you had time for guys. But from your little experience it was always games.
He wasn’t giving you a reason to not believe him, although there was a little voice in your head that was probably Gemma’s saying, if it’s got a dick, that’s reason enough not to trust it. But fuck it, this felt different.
“Well, good.” You didn’t know how else to respond and he was just there, standing there, not phased at all, still fucking staring at you. “I am,” you lowered the claws, “from Charming.” You answered his question from earlier. “Hear you’re kind of a nomad.”
“Ain’t kind of. Am.” He shook his head at the first sentence, then nodded once at the last, he pulled a toothpick into his mouth letting it bounce around with his tongue.
“So what, you just… float around?” Now it was your turn for a question.
“Drive around,” he said with a slight smirk calling back to your earlier remark.
It was the first joke he made, and you couldn’t help but smile at him.
“And somehow we’re back to my point. You bikers are all the same.” You were teasing, you appreciated his quick wit there. You looked down at your glass, the vodka was getting watered down now.
“I ain’t like anyone.” He wasn’t arguing with you, wasn’t being defensive, he was just telling the truth and you found it refreshing.
“You know what, Happy?” You nodded, taking down the rest of the vodka before pushing the glass forward and grabbing the neck of the beer bottle. “I completely believe you.”
He smiled. You could see why Juice was terrified of him. His smile wasn’t warm or welcoming. And yet? And yet. It was all the invitation you needed to decide to break that internal rule you gave yourself.
No fun. That was the rule. You didn’t have time for it, not with multiple jobs, not with your father being sick. All the fun you allowed yourself was coming to these parties, you could bottle it into one night, no aftermath, no fallout.
That’s what this could be. One night. No aftermath. No fallout.
“So Happy?” You took a breath in. “You come here often?”
He grinned, wide. “Yes, ma’am.”
—
“Oh God, Jesus Christ, you gotta be fucking kidding me,” Jax stumbled out of the dorm room where you were laying pretty much bare across the full mattress. Why he was walking into it to begin with was a mystery to you, but it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t expecting to walk in on one of his oldest friends, indecent and clearly disheveled from an entertaining night.
All you could do was laugh. You were alone in the room, but it was obvious you had company from someone last night and Jax wasn’t expecting to find you in such a delicate state.
Rolling over, you saw the cup of coffee on the nightstand. It had the smell of spice to it, something earthy besides the coffee. You took a sip and closed your eyes. “That fucker put cinnamon in the fucking coffee.” After last night, you shouldn’t have been shocked that Happy had more surprises up his sleeve. In fact, you figured there were a lot of surprises Happy had up his sleeve.
You pulled your clothes back on and peeked out of the dorm, checking if anyone else was going to see your walk of shame. When the coast was clear, you made your way to the main part of the clubhouse, mug in hand. Your eyes scanned across the clubhouse, it was just a mess of bottles, garbage, a couple of the guys and random women passed out. No Happy. You ducked into the kitchen where Jax was grabbing a beer and chugging it down.
“Oh, relax.” You rolled your eyes.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, his face scrunched up and almost immediately his brows rose again as his nostrils flared. “Who are you doing here?”
“None of your business,” you matched his expression, mug pulling up to your face.
“I thought you had a rule?” He simmered his temper down just slightly.
“Wasn’t broken,” you lifted your eyebrows and shook your head.
“You’re unbelievable,” he wasn’t going to let this go, which honestly was fair, you were like a sister to Jax, a sister he just accidentally walked in on naked. But, his face had twisted from disgust to humorous. Eyebrows raised almost like he was impressed, maybe even a little proud of you.
“You’ll be alright,” you patted him on the back.
—
It was two weeks after you slept with Happy. The idiot nurse was still an idiot, but it made sense why. She was balancing her own shit, like everyone was. Her brother was on hospice, she was spending most of her time on the road between your house and her brother’s in Lodi. It made those mixed up text messages and spaciness track, she was in a million different places at once. You could relate. With that, you figured you’d make the decision for her, offer her a decent severance, which honestly was just what you could pull together, and pay your respects. She needed to lighten the load, this money would give her that and the opportunity to be closer to home.
You wanted to be further from home. It felt like you spent all your time at home, it didn’t even feel like work offered you enough of an escape. But then, when you were gone, you felt guilty. Things had been bad, it made you feel like that last spurt of good before the new nurse started was just a favor from the universe, your time to create the last good memories with your father before things took a harsh turn. Dementia had fully crept its way into your father’s mind, as if the in and out remission cancer wasn’t enough. The medications already made his mind fuzzy, but this was different and you knew it. Sometimes, you just needed to be away from it all. Act like none of this was happening.
It’s why you stayed at this 24 hour diner a little longer than you should’ve. It was 1:30AM, you had two dirty plates next to you, one from a meal, a burger and fries, and a smaller one from a piece of pie. You were nursing a cup of coffee, it was stale, and not because you had been taking your time to drink it, but because it was probably sitting in the pot for hours before you had walked in, there weren’t many people passing through at this hour.
But it was better than being home.
God, the guilt that ate you away with that thought.
“You come here often?”
The rasp of a familiar voice pulled you out of your thoughts and your attention shifted to the tall man standing right at the edge of your booth. Two coffee cups in his tattooed hands.
A smirk twitched at the corner of your mouth and your brows furrowed.
“No, can’t say I do,” you looked down at his hands, his rings were large, silver, covered most of his skin, and what wasn’t hidden, was covered with ink. He had on a sweatshirt, a dark gray hoodie that had no markings but if it did they’d be hidden by his kutte, the worn leather had some droplets on it, your ears then noticed the sound of rain hitting the window to your right, it’s probably why he was here, pulling in to wait out the rain.
Happy looked at the booth, his way of asking for permission and you nodded, tilting your head as an invitation to slide in.
He slid the coffee to you and you shook your head. “Coffee’s stale, been sitti—”
“Fresh pot,” he cut you off and pushed the cup with two fingers towards you.
When you had asked the waitress to make you a fresh pot and she declined, pretty rudely too. So, you wondered what Happy said or did to get her to come around. Your mind started to go wild at that, you didn’t hear any commotion, but also you couldn’t imagine him asking nicely for anything let alone a cup of coffee. Mystery. Happy was a mystery.
You met his eyes and then looked down at the mug. Black, lightened just slightly with something. Something sweet? No, you breathed in a faint inhale, something spicy.
You took a sip. “Cinnamon.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, but you were kind of asking him for confirmation.
“And nutmeg.” He nodded.
“Christmas in a mug,” you smiled and took another sip.
“Why’re you here?” He asked, his face searching yours for answers. 1:30AM at a diner that was mainly truckers and homeless people, yeah you stood out, but it did make you smile at how abrupt he was in his questioning.
“You don’t know subtlety do you, Happy?” A smile grew on your face, followed by a harsh exhale that held the weight of why. “I’m on my way home from giving my dad’s at-home nurse a severance package, got caught up helping her out with her sick brother, so I hit the road kind of late,” you tapped your fingers against the mug, the warmth of it not giving you nearly enough comfort.
“I thought she was an idiot.” Happy’s brow frowned slightly.
“She was—is,” you shook your head. “She’s going through something, something I understand.” You shook your head trying to get the thoughts straight.
Happy’s brow twitched just slightly. He looked thrown. Like the idea that someone would be that kind, to offer help to someone who not only was an idiot but fucked up things in their life was a little beyond him. He was intrigued, though.
“I’m sorry, how do you know she was an idiot?” You asked him, confused how that information was public knowledge to him.
“Jax.” That was all the answer he gave you, he was still wrapping his brain around what you told him, trying to figure you out. He thought he had a decent picture, you two spent a night together and before things escalated to the bedroom, you had some conversations. He learned you liked Led Zeppelin. He knew you liked vodka, preferably on the rocks. He found out your favorite book was One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, and that you’d reread it every year. Those were his favorite things, things that made him think: this girl’s a woman after his heart. But there were other things, too. Things he normally didn’t care about, that he found himself intrigued by. Sudoku puzzles, baking, volunteering, all the different jobs you held.
You were a fucking saint. He kept asking himself what the fuck you were doing there that night. But he never asked. Just listened.
You lifted your hand up at him and twirled it around, your way of asking for more explanation without verbally doing so.
“He asked me if I knew any good nurses.” He shrugged, coming back to the conversation, thinking back to Jax’s question before he hit the road again a week ago.
That sentence did nothing more to explain anything for you.
“You know, I wish your communication skills were as good as you were in bed,” you brought the mug up to your lips and hummed. “Or your ability to make a damn good cup of coffee.”
“I got a lot of practice in two of those things,” he grinned hard, like the joke wrote itself.
You rolled your eyes, ignoring his clear confidence in himself and continued your conversation. “Why would Jax ask you about nurses?”
“I’ve got an in-home nurse for my mom,” he sipped his cup of coffee, his rings clinking against the ceramic of the mug as he did.
In that moment, you looked up at Happy, surprise on your face, and nodded. “How’d you find the right nurse?”
“Anyone is the right person if you press enough fear in them.” He spoke the answer like it was simple.
“You’re serious?” You weren’t shocked, but with how straight faced he told his jokes, you had to be sure.
“As a heart attack,” he nodded.
“I can see why people are terrified of you,” you appreciated how honest and straightforward these conversations tended to be with Happy.
“Are you?” He asked, curiously, as if you could pull that emotion from the straightforward way he spoke it. “Terrifed of me?” He clarified his question, as if you didn’t get it from the original two worded question.
“No,” your answer came quickly, you didn’t need to think twice to deliver an honest answer.
“Why?” He squinted his eyes. Maybe he was trying to warn you off. Intimidate you. Or maybe he was trying to read you, any tell you offered up, a twitch of your eye, a fidget of your fingers. But you gave him nothing.
You pulled a page out of his book, no emotion, no tell, just a straightforward sentence. “Because you put cinnamon in my coffee.”
He smirked, slightly, just the corner of his mouth twisting up. “And because I’m good in bed,” he leaned back now, satisfied with your answer, with the truth.
“No,” you laughed, leaning back too. “That should terrify me.”
“If that’s the case, I’m terrified of you,” he lifted his head as a way to point to you.
“Because I’m good in bed?” Your eyebrows raised, nostrils flared as you held back the humor despite it being laced in your tone.
“Extremely,” he nodded a few times, dramatically.
You let out a laugh. One so genuine it felt like a release of things you had bottled up for ages.
Happy stared at you, well, more like beamed at you. When you settled down from laughing he dropped his mug on the table, it was empty now. There wasn’t anything else he had to say, he got the answers he wanted, his coffee was done, but instead of getting up and leaving, he said something that knew was going to put him in a little deeper with you than he planned.
“And you give grace to people. That’s extremely terrifying.” His hand was mindlessly playing with the mug.
“Nothing scary about being a human going through human things,” you shrugged. Those words stirred something up in you. You blinked back the tears, swallowing the lump in your throat.
“I think a lot of people would disagree,” Happy either didn’t notice you were fighting tears or he was doing the honorable thing and ignoring it.
“I’m sure they would,” you inhaled sharp. “Doesn’t stop it from being true.”
Silence. The truth tended to do that. Honesty had a tendency to make everyone look inward.
“What’s the deal with you and Jax?” Happy broke the silence.
“Excuse me?” You couldn’t hide your shock at those words.
“I saw him that morning, talking to you, he was pissed we slept together,” Happy explained.
“He doesn’t know we slept together,” you shook your head understanding what he was getting at now. The SAMCRO members used to tease you about Jax, a lot of people assumed things, it was nothing new. Although, it had died down, most of the guys had known you for a long time, known your friendship with Jax.
“Hiding it because you and him got something going on?” Happy wasn’t going to drop it. Why? That’s what you wondered. These guys didn’t care about shit like that. If you were someone’s old lady, none of what happened that night would have gone down, there wouldn’t have been the chance. Someone would have stepped in and set shit straight. That meant, if Happy believed there was something between you and Jax, it meant you were just having fun, and guys like Happy, outlaws, club guys, they didn’t give a shit about passing women around. Unless they were resenting something.
“You jealous?” The question came out fast, you didn’t even mean for it to, but you were so used to not holding back with Happy at this point, it just flew out before your brain could tell you no.
Happy didn’t answer. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, the only tell that answered your question. Any one else, you would have rung them out, gave them a whole ‘mind your business’ speech, all that jazz. But when Happy’s jaw ticked, you couldn’t help but soften up just a bit.
“No, Jax is my neighbor, we were kids together,” you shook your head. “He’s like a brother to me. Very much like how he’s a brother to you. Nothing going on with us, never has been, never will be. He wasn’t pissed, he was grossed out,” you let out a chuckle. “I don’t usually make a habit out of sleeping with people from the club.”
“So that’s why you were at the club,” Happy’s words were like he finally put something he’d been questioning all this time together.
“You were questioning why I was there?” You made a face.
“A girl who does fuckin’ sudoku puzzles, volunteers at charities,” he lifted his hand, “drive out to give the lady who twisted her life up a paycheck and help. Doesn’t exactly scream crow-eater.”
“I told you, I don’t usually make a habit out of sleeping with people from the club,” you answered.
“Rule breaker,” Happy seemed to relax a bit now.
“If we want to be technical, not exactly yet,” you smirked, biting your lip inward, looking down at the table. “Haven’t made a habit out of it yet.”
Happy’s expression didn’t change but you saw his eyes get curious, curiously excited. But then he looked at you, saw the exhaustion in your eyes.
“It’s tough, being a caretaker,” Happy lowered his head, attempting to make eye contact with you.
It worked, your gaze shot up to his. “How long has your mom been sick?”
“7 years, M.S.” he answered. You could tell his brain was reliving every moment with her over the time period she was going through it. Dealing with a person who's been sick for a long time comes with a lot of baggage, usually in the form of memories that splashed across your mind in the worst of times. “Your pops?” He asked, turning the question to you.
“9, first five were different,” you closed your eyes, exploring your own film of memories in your brain. “He moved around the house a lot more. He laughed, saw friends, even entertained the idea of joining the club, said he’d do it after the chemo,” you pulled that memory to the front of your mind. Him sitting in those stupid chairs, needle deep in his vein, blanket over his body, talking to you about the bike he’d get. Then the image of him getting off the chemo jumped ahead. Pale, thin, shakey. “I don’t know what was worse, him sick for the year and a half he was on it, or him sick from it after. He couldn’t stay on it for the full 2-year treatment. It was preventing him from walking near the end. Guess it did the job though, he was in remission for a few years before it came back.” You sighed. “Thought he’d made it through the thick of it, we would spend our days on the porch together, watching fucking birds, I really thought that maybe old age would be the thing that did him in,” you scratched your head, a motion to try and pull your brain from the thoughts. “Now he’s got cancer and dementia,” you laughed because it was the only thing holding you back from crying.
“You do anything for yourself?” Happy might’ve been the first person to truly ask about you. Jax asked how you were holding up, but this question from Happy, it wasn’t just checking in, it was making sure you were taking care of yourself.
“You’re looking at it,” you extended your arms out, giving a curt smile.
“This wasn’t for you, this was for your idiot nurse,” he shook his head.
“I go to the club parties when I can,” you were pulling anything out to give the impression that you had things controlled.
“Something tells me that’s more for Jax than for you. Show face so he doesn’t ask questions.” It was one of the longer statements that came from him, but true. 100% true.
“That’s still very much for me,” you laughed, keeping Jax’s questions at bay made life easier for you for sure.
Happy let out a breathy laugh, like he was pleased to have gotten that right.
“I guess, I slept with you, that was very much for me,” you drank the last of the coffee from your mug, it was cold now, but still damn good.
“Hate to break it to you but that pleasure was all mine,” he tapped his hand on the table and shook his head.
“Well then, Hap. I guess I don’t do shit for myself,” you gave up at trying to come up with excuses.
“Well then,” he mimicked you, “why don’t we change that.” His eyes connected to yours again, less staring and more beaming, like he was in awe of you. “Name it, one thing you want.”
You looked out the window, the rain had stopped, the window was fogged slightly, probably from the outside humidity and the inside air conditioning. Your eyes fell on the bike, it was next to your truck. Despite being around the club since you could remember, you never got on the back of a Harley, never learned how to ride, never felt the thrill of it.
“Can we go for a ride?”
“No,” Happy’s response made you snap your head to him, brows knitting at his refusal.
He gave you a look, like he knew that wasn’t what you genuinely wanted and he was going to make you say exactly what it was.
A slight nod came from your head and you closed your eyes for a brief moment to let the words come out.
“Can you teach me how to ride?”
There it was. What you really wanted. Something for you.
Happy grinned, a nod leaving his head.
“Yes ma’am.”
—
“Pull on the clutch, ease on the break,” Happy’s breath hit your neck as he sat behind you, his hands guiding yours on the handles of his Harley as he gave the direction.
“Atta’girl,” his voice rasped as you successfully brought the bike to a stop. “You ready for a real ride?”
“I don’t know,” you hesitated, you felt the drop of sweat fall down your forehead, maybe it was the humidity, maybe it was the stress.
“You got this,” Happy pushed.
With a glance over your shoulder, you gave Happy a look, one that said everything while saying nothing.
He laughed. You couldn’t believe you were making this intimidating biker laugh so much.
“You think I’d let you go through with this if I didn’t think you could on my bike?” He framed it now so you would have the confidence in yourself.
You rode for two hours. Happy’s hands on yours the entire time, helping you clutch and break. His feet were the ones controlling the rear break and the gears, but it was everything you needed, everything you wanted. The wind, the thrill. You forgot about everything, your focus was on when to let the clutch up and when to slowly pull the break, and when your thoughts did come back to you, it was because Happy tapped your thigh to offer you another ‘Atta’girl’, or maybe let out a laugh when you turned a corner nervously and pulled the break just a tad to fast. Which has resulted in him grabbing your hand to slow you down. Completely and totally in the moment.
He brought you to a park, completely abandoned and drove you on a long gravel path that led to a field a few miles deep into it.
“You planning on murdering me?” You yelled over the idling engine.
As he shut the bike off he shook his head as he stepped off the bike. “Thought you weren’t terrified of me?”
“I’m not, I could take you,” you brought your leg over the bike, standing inches from him, removing the helmet and then moving to jokingly tap your fist to hit his abdomen.
Not only did he catch your hand but he twisted you around like you were dancing, pulling you close as you hit the 360 mark.
Inches away were now centimeters. You felt his breath against your face now.
“Thought you could take me?” He whispered.
“Still could,” you mumbled back, your eyes dropping to his lips and back to his eyes.
He said nothing, just stared back at you. As your heart pounded you figured you’d keep up this streak of doing things for yourself.
“Kiss me,” you whispered.
Happy’s mouth crashed against yours, his hand moving from his grip on yours to your neck, wrapping around the back of it to bring you closer as if it was possible.
You melted into him, stepping on your tiptoes to reach him, your hands moving to grab his kutte and pull his chest against yours.
His tongue slipped into your mouth and then his lips moved from yours to your jaw, then your neck.
You let out an audible moan and Happy let out his own. Less of a moan and more of an eager grunt.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he gruffed in your ear, taking your lobe between his teeth.
“You gonna fuck me in the middle of the woods, Hap?” You were teasing him and Happy had no room for play right now.
“I’m gonna fuck you on my bike,” he pulled you onto his bike, moving your arms around his shoulders so you could hang on him as he lifted you up and pulled your pants down. As he placed you back down on the seat of his Harley, he undid his zipper and pulled himself free. He rubbed against your entrance a bit, feeling the slick heat between your legs.
“Fuuuuuuck,” he let out as he watched himself.
You let out a breathy laugh and dropped your head back.
“Hap?” You questioned, your head in another fucking world right now.
“Hm?” He hummed, still taken by you.
“You gotta hold me, if you keep this up I’m gonna lose my senses and fall,” you managed to get out through breaths.
Happy let out a humorous chuckle and gripped your hips, all while bringing you down on him.
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he said as he pumped in and out of you.
This was better than the first time. You weren’t drunk, you were actually better than sober. You were alive from the ride. And now living for the thrill of this.
At some point you moved onto the grass, if you started there you might’ve thought to put down a bedroll but that wasn’t even a thought in your head at this moment.
“Don’t stop,” you moaned as Happy kept his pace up.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he rasped.
“You feel so fucking good, Hap,” you gripped him deeper every time he pushed in, letting out a moan as he hit deep inside.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, woman.” He moved his thumb on your clit and that was it for you.
“I’m gonna cum,” you breathily said.
“Don’t whisper, scream it out,” he demanded.
“I’m gonna cum!” You yelled, feeling the intensity start to build, moments away from breaking.
“Yeah, baby. Scream.” He demanded again.
You listened. Your orgasm came from deep down, no holding back, no restrain, just you riding out the wave as Happy guided you through it and reached his orgasm right after.
Side by side, both of your chests rose and fell from the activity. Your back was soaked from the grass, and now his was too. He looked over at you.
“C’mere,” he gripped your hand and signaled for you to come closer to him.
“What’s the real reason you brought me out here?” Your hand landed on his chest.
“That wasn’t a good enough reason?” His eyebrows rose up.
“You could have brought me anywhere to do that,” you traced his rings with your finger.
“I brought you here to shoot shit,” he said with no emotion.
You shouldn’t have been shocked, but you couldn’t hold in your laughter, your head falling on his chest as you did.
He laughed with you. His hand moved to cradle your head and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.
It made both of you stop, your eyes connecting and saying so much without saying a single thing.
“I’m not really—” you started to say and cut yourself off. “I’m fucked up, Happy.”
“Yeah, I ain’t really put together either.” He joked.
“I’m serious, Hap,” you said.
“Love it when you call me that,” he rasped.
“Everyone calls you that,” you brought your hand to his face, feeling the stubble on his chin.
“Only love it when you do it,” he moved to wrap his teeth around your hand and then kissed it.
“Alright, Hap,” you started. “Let’s shoot some shit.”
—
You shot at trash for an hour, Happy told you about how he got into riding, about the chop shop he used to work at that changed his life. You had a feeling there was probably more than just the Harleys that left an imprint on his life but you weren’t going to pry. The rain picked up soon after that, he pulled out a zip-up sweatshirt from the bike compartment and wrapped it around you, bringing the hood over your head.
“I can drive us back to the diner,” he looked down at you, not phased by the rain at all.
“Shouldn’t we wait out the rain? Slick roads and all that?” You looked behind you towards the road, it was pretty foggy, hard to see, it couldn’t be good riding conditions to drive back for an hour and a half.
“Could be a while,” Happy looked up at the sky now.
“How far are we from Charming?” You asked.
“10 minutes,” he shrugged.
“You want to hang at my place for a bit?” The question shocked you, you didn’t bring anyone into your life. Let alone some guy you barely knew, some guy you decided to sleep with in the middle of the fucking park.
“Sure,” Happy didn’t hesitate.
And before you knew it, you were taking the exit for Charming and you were tapping Happy’s abdomen signaling him to turn into your driveway.
It was dawn, not that you could tell with the rain. It had to be close to 5:30 in the morning, give or take a few minutes. As you took the helmet off and descended off the bike, you saw the rocking chair on the porch moving.
Shit. No nurse, what the fuck were you thinking. This is why you didn’t do shit like this. You needed to be responsible, you needed to be present.
“He seems fine,” the rasp brought you back from the blame, Happy clearly reading everything going on in your brain. “Come on, we’ll have coffee. Sit on the porch, watch the birds.” Happy was walking past you now, dropping his keys into his kutte and then removing his riding gloves.
“Sir,” he greeted your father from the grass in front of your home.
You quickly jogged to catch up to him.
“Pops, this is my friend, Happy.” You placed your hands on Happy’s arm to politely squeeze past him. As you made your way to the rocking chair, you placed a quick greeting kiss on his cheek and bent down to be balancing on the arm of the chair to get a look at him. “You alright?” You whispered the question, tears just beyond your eyes. He looked fine. Slight stubble on his face, but he looked healthy, not too tired.
“Saw a towhee,” he pointed at the tree where he spotted it. Towhee birds loved rain.
“You’ve been waiting for that one,” you followed his gaze, seeing if you could catch a glance yourself.
“You like birds, Happy?” Your father asked the man who was standing a few feet behind you.
Turning your head, you looked up at Happy. He looked different and exactly the same all at once. His kutte was still on, proud of what he was, who he was, not nervous to hide this part of him, but his eyes looked soft, not like an outlaw biker, but like someone who knew this life. Knew this struggle.
“I do,” he nodded with an answer.
“Well, pull up a seat.” Your father waved at one of the rocking chairs on the porch.
“Sit, I’ll make coffee,” you nodded at Happy, pushing up off the armrest and moving to the front door. “Cinnamon,” you paused for a minute at the door looking at Happy who took no time to comfortably sit sprawled in the chair, using his legs to rock it back and forth.
“And nutmeg.” One nod, and then a hint of a smile as he tucked a toothpick from his kutte in his mouth.
With the front door open, you let the screen door keep the threshold between the porch and inside. As you approached it with three mugs balancing between your hands, you paused as you heard the conversation happening on the porch.
“I can put up a hummingbird feeder, on this side of the coast you could see Anna’s hummingbirds, fat little fuckers,” Happy chuckled.
“Pink,” your father nodded.
“Very,” Happy agreed.
“I don’t have a lot of days like this,” your father started to say, slowing his rocking.
Happy kept his rocking pace up, not thrown by your father’s words.
“Lucid ones,” he kept explaining. “Days where all I want to do is just sit on the porch and watch birds. Maybe get a game in of whatever’s on, eat dinner with my kid.”
“Sounds like a damn good day,” Happy agreed.
“Is she okay?” Your father’s voice cracked a bit and it took everything in you not to let out a sob at the sound of it. He was now looking directly at Happy.
Happy stopped rocking, his head turned to look your father directly in his eyes.
Silence. He stayed silent.
Lie. That word repeated in your head. Just lie. Say yes. He needed to believe you were okay. It would make him better, or at least not worse.
“I want her to be okay,” his voice was pleading, like he was begging for it.
“She’s okay,” Happy nodded. There it was. The lie. You understood the sentiment of ‘be careful what you wish for’ because you hated it. The minute he said it, you hated it.
It was a lie. It was the first time you saw Happy lie, but he was damn believable at it. Two words and the way he said them, so honestly.
Now your dad stayed silent. He believed him too.
“You love her?” your dad looked back out at the birds in the trees as the rain picked up from a drizzle.
You weren’t going to make Happy lie again, he was already doing too much by even being here.
“Coffee’s up,” you opened the screen door. Both of their heads turned to you, hands extending out to grab their mugs. “Did you take your meds, Pops?” You had the pill organizer in your pocket in case he didn’t.
“Not yet, wanted an hour without being numb,” he didn’t mean for the words to break you but they did.
With a nod, you kept the organizer in your pocket and plopped down next to Happy.
The only thing the three of you talked about for the next hour was birds. Ones you saw, ones your Dad missed seeing, his favorite ones. Happy had a couple favorites, too. When the rain began to slow, and the sun crept its way through the dark clouds, your father stood up off the rocking chair, made his way over to you and stuck his hand out.
You put the organizer in his hand and as he went to grab it, he leaned down and placed a kiss on your forehead. “I love you, sweetheart.”
You closed your eyes, hearing those words in your head repeat over and over. You did this every time, knowing time was limited. Although, you thought time was limited nearly 10 years ago, and yet here you were. The worry became a part of you.
“I love you, too.” You whispered back.
He moved over to Happy, extending his hand out to his.
“Thank you,” your father said to him. Happy gave no verbal response, just a nod.
And then it was just you and Happy on the porch, the sun’s rays were more pronounced as they casted the shadows on the deck.
“You wanna go pick up your truck?” Happy asked after 10 minutes of sitting there.
“Yeah,” you pushed along the arm rests and stood up.
Happy followed suit. As you stood at his bike, waiting for him to pass you a helmet, you looked up at the porch.
“You lied.”
“What?” Happy’s hand extended out with the helmet.
“You lied,” your eyes snapped to him.
He looked confused and for Happy that meant angry. He was burning a hole into you as he stared.
“I don’t lie.” His voice was tense.
“I’m not okay,” the words felt like shit to admit.
“Now you’re lying,” he moved his hand for you to take the helmet like he was over this, like that was the end of the conversation.
Grabbing the helmet, you shoved it under your arm. He was lucky you didn’t throw it. “I’m not fucking lying. You don’t know me, Hap.” You scrunched your face up. “I’m not okay,” you brought the helmet to your chest as you pointed to yourself. “I’m a daughter who feels the pain of her father so deeply in every fucking bone of my body, he struggles and I’m the one who notices it, the one who carries it. I do whatever I can to hide it, but it’s so fucking big and present that even my dying dementia ridden father can pick up on it. I can’t run from it, I can’t live in it, I can’t escape the weight of it. I have done so much to escape the weight of it, I have given up my dreams, my happiness, my peace, and all that does is give me more space for more weight, so no I’m not okay.”
Happy stared at you, his eyes were frozen.
“You are okay,” he spoke it slow, and then before you could argue he pointed at you. “Are you breathing?”
“That’s not what I me—”
“Are. You. Breathing?” He said it firmer.
“Yes,” you answered.
“Did you have a nice morning?”
“Yes.”
“Have a good time last night?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me something you’re looking forward to.”
“Smoking a fat joint when I get back here.”
Happy smirked. “You take it day by day. You do something—one thing—everyday for yourself. I don’t give a fuck if it’s a bubble bath, a joint, a fucking movie. One thing.” He held his finger up. “That’s how you stay okay.”
“Is that what you do?”
“It’s what we all do.”
With that, you nodded and placed the helmet on top of your head.
—
You did do something—one thing—everyday for yourself. You slept with Happy.
You did other things, too. You visited him up north, at his place, sometimes at his moms. He kept teaching you how to ride. He gave you a tattoo, three of them actually. He brought you to pawn shops, bought you knives, a gun, even throwing stars, although, those were definitely more for him.
He found you not one but 3 rotating at-home nurses who were great at what they did.
He sat with your father, watched birds on the porch, made both of you coffee.
Things were okay. You were okay.
No one knew you and Happy were, well whatever you were. It’s not like you put a label on it. You didn’t flaunt it around, especially when you were at the club. In fact, there weren't too many times you and Happy crossed paths at the club. With him being Nomad, he was on the road more often than at SAMCRO.
But there was one day. The day. The day everyone found out.
Jax had called you, told you that there was going to be a lockdown at the club, how he wanted you and your Pops to come in. You put up an argument, there was too much logistics around bringing your father in. Meds, beds, IVs. I mean half your home looked like a hospital wing.
But then Happy called.
“You should take him in,” he rasped over the speaker.
“How am I supposed to bring all his stuff? How am I supposed to even convince him to get out of the house?” You were looking through the window on the porch at him eating at the dining room table.
“I can bring it,” Happy always had a solution for everything.
“Is it really that bad?” You asked, hand to your forehead.
“Yes,” Happy answered.
You let out a sigh, frustration littered in the tone of it.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” his voice was soft.
“I know, Hap.” You dropped your hand down.
“Want me to pick up his things on my way down?” There was rustling on the other end.
“No, I got it. What time are you planning on being there?” You tried to push past whatever anxiety was building in your brain.
“Couple hours,” you heard the rev of his bike.
“Drive safe,” you pleaded with him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
—
Closing the door to the guest dorm you let your head lightly hit the door as it fell back. Getting your father settled here was more work than you expected. You wanted to get the machines plugged in, the IV ready if needed, all of his meds organized, unpack his things, whatever you could to make it feel like home. You made the bed with the same sheets from home, even brought some pictures, too.
As you made your way over to the bar, you didn’t even realize you had sat down next to Gemma.
“Can you get her some coffee?” Gemma spoke to one of the crow eaters.
“Thanks,” you looked over at her.
“He all settled?” Gemma asked as she sipped her own mug.
“As settled as he can get,” you inhaled sharply. “I don’t know how long he’s gonna last. He gets worse when he’s not somewhere familiar.”
“He spent plenty of time in this clubhouse,” Gemma smirked.
“On his more lucid days, I think he regrets never getting to wear a kutte,” you smirked back.
“Him and JT used to talk for hours about it, the cancer hit him so fast,” she shook her head.
“Life has a tendency to do that,” you smiled at the woman who dropped your coffee in front of you. “Can you get me some Cinnamon, doll?” You asked her politely, Gemma’s eyes looking at the girl to make sure she followed through before looking back at you.
“The guys are heading out soon, take care of what they need to,” she looked over at you, but your eyes searched for Happy’s.
He was in the corner talking to one of the guys from the Tacoma charter but his eyes were on you. Your eyes softened, the nerves and anxiety taking over at the idea of whatever it was they were going to take care of.
Quickly you moved back to look at Gemma. “You holding up okay?”
“I’ll be better when this is all over,” she nodded. “How long you been sleeping with Happy?”
You almost spit your coffee out.
“Doesn’t take a genius to put it together, sweetheart. He’s been staring at you since you stepped out of the dorm.”
“Happy stares at everyone,” you weren’t sure why you were trying to hide it, maybe because you didn’t want Gemma to be the first to know, you weren’t sure how Jax was going to respond, not that it mattered, but you were trying to contain it so you could control it.
“You’re putting Cinnamon in your coffee,” she brought her mug to her lips again. “Happy’s an early bird, he usually makes the coffee when he stays over here.”
Your brain was trying to rack itself around what to say or do.
“Relax,” she smirked. “I won’t tell big brother,” she laughed, outloud. “The killer and the caretaker,” she shook her head. “Who would’ve thought?”
“It’s been a few months,” you answered her question.
“I’m sure that’s been fun,” her grin was wide.
You smiled, it had been fun. But it was also more than that. “He’s good company,” you agreed. “Pops enjoys when he comes over too.”
That got Gemma to look at you, shock written all over her face.
“Well shit,” she looked at your face. “You’re in fucking love.”
“Gemma,” you used her name as a scoff.
“Thank God I never had daughters,” she shook her head looking over at Happy now who was focused on his conversation with Kozik.
Jax walked in then, a whistle came from Tig to get the guys attention and they all gathered, making their way out the clubhouse.
Just when you thought Happy was going to follow them out, he walked straight over to you.
“Hap,” Gemma smiled and squeezed his arm as she dismissed herself.
“Gemma,” he nodded back to her, giving her a small smile.
“Where you guys headed?” Your gaze moved from Gemma to Happy.
He just gave you a look. He wasn’t touching you, but he was towering over you.
“I hate this shit,” you sighed.
“Be back later,” he said like he was running to the grocery store.
“Be careful,” you brought your hands up to his kutte, not in a romantic way, just a quick tap.
“Always am,” he nodded.
“Nuh-uh,” you shook your head in disapproval. “None of that, what I said wasn’t a statement or sentence or casual conversation.” You dropped your hands. “It was an order.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His lip twitched slightly as he said it.
“Go get ‘em, killer,” it took everything in you not to kiss him.
“No.” He shook his head unemotionally, his way of showing disapproval. “Don’t like when you call me that.”
You quickly wrapped your arms around him, giving him a hug. The only people left inside were family and crow eaters and it’d do you more good than harm for them to see you pressing up on Happy. As you squeezed your arms around him you whispered.
“Come home to me in one piece, Hap.”
—
You fell asleep on the couch. Phone in hand and next to your face in case you got a call. When you woke up to someone shaking you slightly awake, you went to grab them when you heard his voice.
“It’s me,” two words was all it took.
You took him in, a few cuts on his face, not too deep, just a little scuffed up. Your fingers
ran over them and he didn’t even flinch. This was what it really was, what it would be. Him going out and doing things like this, you worried at home. Worried. That was all you did lately. It felt like it was who you were. Someone who worried and took care of everyone.
“You don’t need to take care of me.”
Happy always knew how to read your mind. And that was true though, wasn’t it? You didn’t need to take care of him.
“I think you’re the first person I haven’t had to take care of but want to take care of.”
It was true, obviously you wanted to take care of your father, but there was also an element of having to. This was different. You didn’t need to do anything. This was all purely want. A desire. Something to look forward to. One thing for yourself. Happiness. Happy.
“Happy?”
He hummed.
“I love you.”
It was the first time you said it. First time you ever said it to a man who wasn’t considered family. Although, Happy was considered family. Your father loved him, you hadn’t seen him enjoy talking with someone so much since JT. But that was one of the many reasons why you loved Happy. That, and his presence. His ability to make you smile when there was nothing to smile about. His fierce loyalty, to the club, to you, to his mother. The list could go on forever.
His hand came up and cradled your face. His palm was so big it covered your entire face. “I love you, too.”
And at that moment, you should have gone back to one of the dorms, hell, even your truck. You should have made love for the rest of the night, laughing in his arms and feeling him inside you, loving every part of him as he worshiped every inch of you.
But then there was a scream.
Followed by a slam.
Your father walked out of the room, he looked frantic. He looked scared. His voice shook as he called out a name. You expected it to be yours but it wasn’t.
“John?” His head swivelled. Looking for a man he’d never find.
You gripped Happy tighter as you moved to stand up and while he gladly lifted you up off the couch with ease, he stepped in front of you to handle this himself.
“I got it,” he said back to you and was walking over to your father.
You couldn’t hear them, but you saw the minute your father recognized Happy. How his tension eased away the minute Happy’s hand landed on his shoulder.
The commotion got everyone up, patches stood in the hallway with their guns drawn, the main clubhouse was filled now with club members.
“S’alright!” Happy yelled out over his shoulder. “You want some fresh air, Lieutanant?” He always called your dad that, a sign of respect.
He nodded. Everyone’s eyes were on them, watching as Happy led your father outside.
“Are you going to be staying over again tonight, Happy?” Your father’s voice echoed in the silent clubhouse.
You immediately closed your eyes. Suddenly, everyone’s eyes weren’t on them, but on you instead.
There was one set you felt burn into you. It was where you looked first when you opened your eyes again. Jax must’ve been in the hallway, but had moved closer into the main part of the clubhouse when he realized it was your dad who was causing the commotion. Similarly to Happy he had cuts and bruises on his face.
He waited a few minutes, likely for everyone to go back to their business and you could have a sort-of private conversation.
“It serious?” He sat down next to you.
You thought back to seconds ago when you told Happy you loved him.
“Yeah, it’s serious,” you smiled, nodding.
“How long?” He leaned back.
“Been about 6 months,” you thought back. He looked shocked, his head snapping to you. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know what it was, we were just hanging out.”
“I wouldn’t have given a shit no matter what it was,” Jax said. It got silent, both of you just sitting there. “You and Hap, huh?” Jax was clearly trying to wrap his head around it.
Before you could answer, Happy was walking back through the door and you were standing up and making your way over to him.
“He’s fine,” he looked down at you. “Wants to sit outside for a bit.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have brought him here,” you inhaled.
“He’s fine,” he repeated again, this time softer, but more convincing.
You felt the tears in your eyes well up, crossing your arms you inhaled harshly again and Happy matched it with a sigh.
“S’alright, c’mere, none of that.” He brought one hand around your shoulders and brought you against his chest.
“Thank you,” you managed to say through sobs.
Happy’s eyes connected with Jax’s, he was smiling on the couch, a nod escaped him and Happy nodded back. It was how these guys communicated, and Happy was fluent in nods and grunts.
He pulled your face from his chest and moved his head to point to the door. “Come on, we’re gonna wait for the birds.”
—
That was the last time you brought your dad to the clubhouse. If anything, that night was the beginning of the true end. You had 6 more months with him until one day, he just wasn’t awake anymore.
Everything felt like a tunnel. Like you were stuck in one. Like you were looking through one. Like you were hearing through one.
And yet, you only had one thought in your head. Buttercups.
You had replayed this day in your head for 10 years. The day your father got his cancer diagnosis you thought through what you’d wear. What shoes—something comfy, but something nice. People would probably talk, they always did. You thought through how you’d plan for it, who you’d have to invite, where you’d hold the repass, what you’d say, you’d probably have to say something, he was your father after all. Your mind would jump to the food, what kind of food did you serve at these things? Would you get a priest? Your family wasn’t exactly religious, but surely you needed someone to spit out some silver lining hope to keep everyone together. To give everyone that one nice thing to say when they left and went back to their normal lives. As they got in their cars and drove back home and stripped from their black clothing, bellies full of chicken parm and garden salad. That’s what you figured would make sense, italian. Fan favorite, something for everyone.
You wouldn’t have that moment though, you wouldn’t be able to strip yourself from this. You’d go home and feel the emptiness of the house, the silence of it, you’d probably have an empty stomach, for days. Because no matter how long you had to prepare for this moment, it still managed to shock you, push you in a direction you never expected to be.
Like now, you were in the front row of the funeral parlor, staring at the casket, thinking about buttercups. The small yellow weed that disguised itself as a flower. Your father used to sit with you in the yard when you were a kid, beer in one hand, cigarette in another, jeans littered with the green stains of a freshly mowed lawn.
“Can we put these in a vase?” You asked him with a hand picked bouquet of buttercups.
“We can.” He chugged down his beer and handed it to you, you placed the short weeds into the neck of the bottle and they sat there perfectly.
“You know these are butter flowers.” He picked one out from the bottle and twirled the stem in his finger.
“Butter flowers?” You looked at him like he was crazy. “What, they make butter out of it?”
“No,” he chuckled. “They say if you hold it under your chin and it reflects yellow, it means you like butter.” His hand pushed out and held the weed under your chin, you lifted your head up slightly to accommodate, and your father smiled. “Yep, you like butter.”
You laughed, taking the flower from his hand. “Everyone likes butter.”
“Not everyone,” he shook his head and pointed his finger to his chin as he jetted it out and forward.
Without a second thought you pushed the flower under his chin and there was no reflection, your brain couldn’t comprehend that it was because of the thickness of his beard preventing a reflection.
“Not even on your popcorn?” You looked baffled at your father.
“Not even on my popcorn.” He shook his head and placed the bottle between you two.
“How can they tell?” You looked at the flowers, like they’d tell you themselves.
“They know you,” your father answered without a trace of question in his voice. “Like I know you.”
“I didn’t know you didn’t like butter on your popcorn,” there was a hint of heartbreak in your tone.
“Now you do,” he brushed it off like it meant nothing. Like you weren’t completely destroyed by the idea of not knowing your father. Maybe that’s where the weight of this all started. At 7 years old in your backyard. You don’t think you ever got to know him, maybe he didn’t even get to know himself. He went to war young, came back fucked up, got left with a kid, got sick, he had so many things happen that prevented him from being his trueself, from experiencing life the way he planned.
You felt a hand grab yours. You weren’t sitting down anymore, you were standing in line next to your dad’s brother, no clue how you even got here, but nonetheless you were in the receiving line, shaking hands of everyone offering their condolences.
After sitting through the tunnel vision of the receiving line, you felt a warm body behind you, then a squeeze of your side. A soft kiss pressed to your temple and you fell back into it.
“Let’s go sit down,” He rasped into your ear.
That tunnel vision widened for a minute and you realized you were on the prayer kneeler, frozen over the casket, your hand wrapped in your fathers.
“How long have I been here for?” You were mortified, wishing you were back in that tunnel.
“Doesn’t matter,” he rasped again, his hands strong on yours pulling you to a standing position.
Turning around you saw the packed funeral home, all the seats were filled, the standing room was also pretty full, there was a sea of kuttes, a lot of veterans, people you never met before.
“I can’t do this, Hap.”
“You can,” it was delivered like a demand but it was truly him offering you confidence.
And you did. You threw a handful of buttercups on the casket as they lowered it to the ground, buried your head into Happy’s chest as you sobbed through the prayers and speeches. You weren’t able to get up and talk, when the cries stopped your face was so puffy, your body had no energy to get up let alone say something profound.
Which is why Happy did.
The loss of his body heat next to yours was replaced by Jax as he sat down next to you, tossing an arm around the chair so you could lean into him as Happy went up to the small podium. It was comical, the 6 foot 3 man towered over it, the bright beige pristine podium, only detail being a small layered moulding at the top, but other than that, completely blank. The complete opposite of the biker standing behind it, in a long black sleeve button up, even with the jeans and long sleeve you could see the tattoos on his hands, on his chest, on his head.
Happy was the opposite of all of this, the mourning, the sadness, the properness of it all. And yet, there he was.
“I, uh, got to spend the last year with The Lieutenant," Happy began, gripping the podium and looking down despite not having a piece of paper to read off of. “It started out as Sundays, we’d sit on the porch, watch birds, eat food, play cards if he was up to it. But, uh, Sundays turned into Tuesdays, and Thursdays, and Fridays, and then Mondays, and soon enough everyday.” He smirked a little. “I’d like to say it was just because The Lieutenant was great company, which he was, but it had a lot more to do with me being enamoured by his daughter.” Happy paused, looked at you and offered the softest twitch of his lips. Not a smile, nowhere near one actually, just a soft acknowledgement. “Her ability to put everyone else before herself, her humor, her mind, any moment I could spend getting to know her more was one I’d jump at.” He laughed a little to himself, it wasn’t like him to talk this much, open up about his feelings. “But along with that, came getting to know him, and I can say, I see where his daughter gets it from, her selflessness, her ability to inspire,” he paused and shook his head. “This last year I saw a man lose himself, but never lose who he was. A father, a friend, a brother.” He cleared his throat. “I’m lucky to have met him—a better man to have met him.” He inhaled and looked up at you and nodded. “Gave him a promise that first day I met him, that I’d take care of his daughter, and it’s why I’m standing up here right now, I’ll do whatever is in my power to keep that promise.” His eyes were on yours and you wiped the stray tears away. “Rest easy, Lieutenant."
—
After the funeral, you stayed a total of 1 day at your father’s place before crashing at the clubhouse and once Happy found out you weren’t staying at home, you think Jax called him that night, he brought you to his moms house.
It probably wasn’t the best move, you fell back into caretaker mode without missing a beat. Spending time with Happy’s mom and aunt was different though, it was a lot of laughing, talking about random things, you’d cook, read, relax. It was the feminine touch you didn’t experience when taking care of your dad. He’d eat anything, usually take out, you’d watch sports games and play cards, nothing like this.
But Happy saw it for what it was. You went from one caretaking role to another, not mourning your father just putting a bandaid on the grief.
You were standing by the sink, hand deep into a dutch oven cleaning the bottom of it when the door opened. Looking over your shoulder, you smiled.
“Hey, killer.” You nodded at him.
He made his way over to you in seconds.
“What I say?” He cupped your face in his hands.
“Hey, Hap,” you enunciated.
“Hey,” he placed a kiss on your lips.
“Who cooked?” He frowned looking at the stove where there was a mess of pans and bowls of batter.
“Miles,” you followed his gaze. “Woke up too late and missed breakfast,” you looked back at the dutch oven that used to have a bowl full of pot roast in it. “And lunch,” you laughed. “There’s left overs in the fridge if you want, I’ll join you after I finish cleaning all of this up.”
At that, Happy pulled away from you so fast you barely could register that he was opening the back sliding door.
“Hey!” His voice boomed. “Dickhead!” As he stepped outside, the door slid shut but you could still hear him. “You the one who made pancakes?”
Miles must’ve answered because Happy’s voice echoed even louder. “You gonna clean your shit up?” You couldn’t help but smile, placing the dutch oven on the drying rack you went to dry your hands off. You knew better than to start cleaning what was on the stove, so you left it.
“My old lady ain’t your fuckin’ maid.” Was the last thing out of his mouth when he came back inside.
“Get your things,” he walked right past you and into his mother’s room where you heard his voice a lot more low and calm.
Grabbing your bag, you placed it cross-body and waited for him at the front door.
When he reappeared, he was shaking his head. “No, all of your things, your clothes, your toothbrush, all your bags.”
“We goin’ somewhere?” You asked the question as you walked past him and into the guest room where you had been staying and keeping most of your things, not that it was a lot.
“Yea,” Happy answered, giving no more context.
He grabbed the bag from your hand and opened the front door.
“Keys,” he dropped the bag in the bed of your truck and held his hand up for you to toss him the truck fob.
The ride was silent for a few minutes, but Happy’s knuckles white on the steering wheel showed you there was more going on in his head than he was letting up.
“What’s wrong?” You asked him. “Something happen with the cartel?”
Happy was a man of few words but he’d keep you in the loop on club things the moment things got more serious between you two. With your dad gone he knew that worry would manifest somewhere else, and he didn’t want to make this harder than it already was. He’d say enough for you to get the picture, know what was going down and when. It’s why some of the guys were staying at Happy’s mom’s house and keeping a close eye on the truck in the driveway.
“No,” he kept his eyes on the road.
Alright, if it wasn’t that, then you were at a loss.
“Hap, why do I get the impression that you’re mad at me?” You leaned forward trying to get a look at his face.
“Ain’t mad at you,” he softened slightly. You gave him a look that he saw out of the corner of his eye and he fell back against the seat. “You’re gonna move in with me.”
“Oh?” You lifted your brows. “Glad you made that decision for the both of us.”
“You wanna move back to your Pops?” Happy looked over at you now.
That got you angry. “Don’t be a dick,” you crossed your arms.
“Ain’t being a dick, just being real.”
“Take me home then,” you shrugged. It was the last place you wanted to be, but you felt like you had to prove yourself to Happy right now.
“Yes ma’am,” he nodded and made a u-turn in the middle of the road, no hesitation.
He pulled into your driveway 30 minutes later. The truck’s familiar creaks and rumbles as it pulled into the gravel lot sent a visceral reaction of memory and pain through you. Happy pulled into the spot that still had impressions of the truck’s tires. The way he put the car in park, you could tell he was mad, and how he pulled the ebrake up made it even more apparent.
The weight of being here, seeing the yard, the house, the porch, it made a pit in your stomach, all that tough guy act and needing to prove yourself was gone and replaced with a wobble in your voice as you caved.
“Give me 10 minutes and I’ll be back with my stuff.” You hopped out the car and slammed the door, it felt like the only thing left you could control, your anger.
You walked through the front door, avoiding the back porch because it would be the thing that broke you. Bracing for the worst, you held your breath for a minute, expecting the house to be a disaster. When you got back from the funeral, you didn’t take care of anything, no cleaning, just the bare minimum to get by. Then, you just didn’t show back up. You didn’t hire anyone, you didn’t pay any bills, so you were expecting things to be rotting, much like you. Just a stagnant piece of grief just rotting in place from the inside out.
To your surprise, the house smelled like sea salt, driftwood and clorox. The light switch worked, the clocks were ticking and accurate. Everything was working, the house was kept.
“Happy,” you mumbled and felt your eyes get heavy.
With a deep sigh, you began to pack things up. Taking a few photos from the staircase, you made your way upstairs to your room. Filling four bags of clothes, mementos, and other things, you dropped them by the steps and trekked them down two by two.
As you struggled to make your way through the opening between the stairs and the kitchen, Happy’s tattooed arm extended out and grabbed them from you with no struggle whatsoever.
He held them with such ease, his eyes were doing more of the strenuous work by boring into you.
“You gotta go through this.”
“And if I can’t?”
“You can,” he nodded.
With that, you sighed. Turning to the kitchen and grabbing a plastic bag for a couple more things to take with you. After you did that, you nodded towards the door, the back door. “C’mon. Take me home, killer.” Despite being eternally grateful for everything he did, you were still upset with how he spoke with you earlier. It was your last jab at him, and he knew it, which is why he let it slide, said nothing, and just opened the door for you to make your way to the back porch. He locked the door and began his dissent to your truck, leaving you alone for a few moments. Standing there, you looked at the empty rocking chair, the tears welling up in your eyes. It was then that your eyes jumped up when they saw something speed past. The Towhee bird landed right on the hummingbird feeder that Happy had put up over a year ago. They weren’t the type of bird that liked porch feeders, they were ground birds, foraged in the leaves, it’s why they loved the rain.
“Holy shit,” you mumbled as it flew right onto the rocking chair. It swayed ever so slightly and you stood completely still, hand over your mouth fighting the tears back.
“Hi dad,” you whispered so softly, you weren’t even sure if you said it outloud.
Standing there you looked out to the trees, the bird there too, just watching in silence. And with no warning at all, the bird flew away.
And you were left alone again. But you weren’t really alone.
You needed whatever push this was. Start the true grieving process, not avoid it.
Moments later, you followed the steps down into the driveway and saw Happy leaning against the truck, toothpick in his mouth, looking up at the sky. It was clear he wasn’t eager to leave or rush you, just patiently waiting. He would’ve waited there all night without question.
As you walked up to him, you pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and he looked down at you.
“What do you think about me moving in with you?”
“Would love it.”
“Alright, let’s move me in,” you nodded.
“Yes ma’am.”
“You paid the bills and kept the place clean.” It was spoken as a statement, your eyes soft with appreciation. He didn’t say anything or make any expression, just looked at you. “You didn’t have to do that.”
His chest rose and fell without any acknowledgement again.
“Thank you,” you let the wall down and the tears fell.
He immediately brought you into him, placing your face against his chest. His hand was over your head, his fingers moving slightly against your skull, soothing you.
“Ain’t gotta thank me,” he whispered.
You squeezed him harder and let the wails just escape you. Happy kept comforting you, bringing his other hand around you to hold you just as tight back.
He didn’t say anything else, just let you go through this, like he said earlier, you needed this. It was probably 30 minutes of this, just sobs. When you ran out of tears, you pulled your head out from his kutte. Happy moved his hands to your face, his thumbs wiping the tear stains. He didn’t show affection this way much, it was saved for your more intimate moments, when it was just you, but then again, that’s exactly what this was. Just you.
“I’ll pay you back,” you sniffed.
“No you won’t,” Happy shook his head, dropping his hands.
That made you want to cry again, but there was nothing left. Just the ache in your heart, in your gut.
“I’m gonna come back this week and clean this place out. I don’t know if I want to rent it out or put it on the market.” Changing the topic felt like the only direction to go now.
“We can move in here if you want,” Happy wasn’t taking his eyes off you.
“No,” you shook your head, a deep exhale matching your expression. “The porch is the only place here that holds any good times. Inside is like a fucking hospital wing, it’d be better to let someone else create their own memories than me try to erase the weight of mine. Plus, you got a porch.”
“I do,” he nodded.
You went on your tip-toes, hands resting on his kutte and placed a kiss to his mouth, not a sexual one, but something softer, something intimate that said everything while saying nothing at all, when you pulled away you placed the toothpick back in his mouth and smiled.
“Thank you.” This time it was said without the waterworks, but you meant it just as much.
Happy took the long way back, the one that was your favorite, through the state park so you could see the trees, hear the birds, and feel a little peace.
As you approached the light that brought you back to the main road, he cut through the silence.
“Didn’t mean to be a dick,” his hand was resting on the wheel, “when I got back to Ma’s, and I saw you just back in that grind of taking care of shit for other people, especially fuckin’ Miles,” he shook his head, “it ain’t right.”
“I don’t mind, your mom—”
Happy cut you off. “You stopped doing shit for you.”
“I—” you didn’t know what to reply to that. He was right. You did.
“I love that you and my mom and aunt get along, I love that you want to take care of her,
but you have to take care of you, too.”
He was right again.
“I shouldn’t have brought you there.” He shook his head.
“It’s not on you, Hap. I’ll find something to take care of no matter where I am.”
Happy said nothing to that right away, it was like his mind was turning something over. 5 minutes passed as he turned into a parking lot. You saw the Charming municipal building and frowned, but before you could say anything Happy was jumping out of the truck and telling you to follow him. “C’mon.”
With caution, you trailed behind him. Not because you were nervous about where he was bringing you but because you were trying to figure it out in your head first.
As he opened the large metal door for you, you walked in and were met with the sound of barking, tons of it.
The room was just a long hallway of fences and gates, it smelled like a petting zoo, and the sounds of yipping and barking overwhelmed you. Turning around you looked at Happy and he was shutting the door.
“Happy?”
“Pick one,” he pointed at the fences.
You gave him a deadpan stare.
“If you’re gonna find something to take care of, might as well be something that needs takin’ care of.”
“What?” You kept the same expression on.
“Pick one,” he repeated.
You turned to look at the dogs and then back at him.
A smile, he had the biggest grin on his face. One that made you smile, too.
You walked down the hallway, each dog running up to the gate except for the last one in the row. A black staffie mix, the smallest white spot on her snout.
“Her,” you lifted your head up and looked at her informational tag. “Black Dog.” That was it. She had no other information.
“Like the Led Zeppelin song,” Happy walked over and squatted in front of the fence, his finger sticking into the holes of it trying to get her to approach. She leaned forward and sniffed his finger and then began licking him. “Looks like you’re coming home with us.”
—
There was very little to celebrate these days with everything going on at the club. The niners, the gang task force, Opie’s death, and the random home invasions, it had been a lot of negative shit. You could feel it when Happy walked through the door. You really felt it when the home invasions were happening more frequently and he had a prospect, or even more terrifying, Chibs or Bobby take watch if he wasn’t home. They carried a lot of the heaviness too, you could see it in their eyes, their demeanor. The club needed a pick me up.
“My old lady wants to have everyone over this weekend, grill and shit.” Happy’s voice cut through the guys as they walked out of chapel.
“S’not a bad idea,” Jax said, placing a cigarette into his mouth. “Have her call my mom, Gemma would probably love to Donna Reed some shit up. She’ll actually probably want to have it at her place.”
“She’s gonna ask if she can bring Zep.” Happy plopped down on the bar stool.
Jax smirked, “Your dog?”
Happy nodded, “They’re bonded.”
“Fuck it, the more the merrier.” Jax twisted off a beer cap.
—
Gemma’s place was packed. People inside, people outside, people in the driveway, hell there were even some people in the street. It was a mix of crow-eaters, old ladies, families, locals who supported the club, and a sea of patches. Some from SAMCRO, some from other nearby charters. You recognized some faces, a few you’ve known since you could remember and some more newly acquainted faces that knew you not as a Teller family friend but as Happy’s old lady.
You had been hard at work well before the crowd showed up, helping Gemma with food prep, cooking, organizing, all of that.
“This was a good idea,” she said to you as she peeled back the husks of the corn and dropped it into the tin dish. You were placing the bowl of melted butter in the corner of it and getting ready to move to skewers.
“Everyone’s been carrying a lot of shit, they needed something to cut through it,” you said, grabbing the bag of wooden sticks next to her.
Gemma gave you a look, a knowing one. One that said she was impressed with how you settled into club life.
“Never thought you’d end up knee deep in club shit,” she said, moving to the oven now.
You let out an audible laugh at that. “When I was 16 you practically had me married off to Jax, ” you shook your head as you pierced the stick through the chunk of meat.
“I just needed something to distract him from heartbreak,” she was smiling, you could hear it in her voice.
“Nothing could have ever distracted Jax from Tara,” you dropped the skewer into a fresh tin dish.
“Happy’s right,” she said now, more seriously.
“He usually is,” you nodded.
“No,” she laughed. “He’s the right one,” she walked back over to you. “Your dad would be glad, baby.” She let her hand wrap around and squeeze your arm before going to help you with the skewers.
Happy was right. Your dad would be glad.
“He would have loved this,” you nodded to the food, with a chuckle.
Gemma laughed with you. “Oh, he would have gotten here two hours earlier than you to help.” That last word had sarcasm behind it.
“And would have tried everything twice,” you smirked.
“Quality testing,” you both said at the same time and laughed.
You felt the weight almost immediately, it was that reminder of missing him. You loved talking about him, any chance you got, but it always came with this moment, the reminder that it was all you had left, the memories.
You fell silent, your focus shifting to the skewers, at least, so it seemed. Your mind was elsewhere. There had been a lot of growth on your part, but on moments like this, where you were focusing on others, helping out, it weighed on you more.
The focus you had was pulled because one minute you were shoving a pepper down the pointed wooden skewer and the next you were cursing and letting it hit the floor.
“Shit!” You called out and grabbed your palm, moving to the sink and turning the faucet on.
“Cut yourself?” Gemma’s concern sounded from over your shoulder.
It was a slice, not deep, but long, it must’ve slipped while you were in your thoughts.
“I’ll be fine, just gotta wrap it up,” you exhaled as you watched the blood mix with the running water.
“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Gemma was leaving the kitchen to grab the kit from the linen closet.
As you waited, you heard the back doorknob turn and swing opene into the kitchen.
“Hey, I brought Zep, think she’ll be better company with you in here, I don’t want her eating Gemma’s gardenias.” Happy trailed in with the leash and your black staffy.
She didn’t have a tendency to eat plants, but she did get into Happy’s mom’s gardenias last week, but you later found out it was because she was using compost in her soil and Zep loved red bell peppers, in all forms.
“Yeah, you can let her eat the peppers on the ground.” You nodded at it as you held your hand under the water.
“What happened?” Happy ignored you and stepped to the sink to see the blood.
“Sliced my hand, I’m fine,” you said.
Before Happy could answer, Gemma was back in the kitchen. “Relax Smiley,” Gemma said as she could feel the tension coming off him. “I got our girl.”
She had pulled the gauze out already and pulled your hand to wrap it tight.
“Thanks for bringing Zep,” you looked over Gemma at Happy who was staring at your hand. “I’m fine, Hap. Really.”
“Jax told me to tell you that some of the boys from Nevada are coming up,” Happy changed the topic, his eyes still on your cut before moving to pick the skewer off the ground and feed it to Zep.
“Great,” Gemma mumbled. “We’re gonna need more skewers.” She looked up at you and smirked.
—
With the party in full swing, you took to one of the picnic tables in Gemma’s garden. Zep had been sprawled out on Tig’s lap in the grass, enjoying the attention from anyone who would give it to her. Before you knew it, you felt someone move in behind you, his hand wrapping around your waist.
“How’s the hand?” He moved his hand from your waist and up to your hand, turning it up and around so he could see the wrap.
“I’m fine, Hap,” you leaned back into him.
He had no problem cradling his body around yours. Your head rested against his face.
“What did you do today?” His voice was soft in your ear.
It was a question he asked you pretty frequently, it wasn’t so much asking about your day, but asking to make sure you weren’t forgetting to prioritize yourself.
You sighed, “My focus today has been you guys.”
“Shit around here will always be shit around here,” he ran his thumb up and down your thigh. There was a slight tickle against your cheek, the toothpick Happy had in his mouth moved just slightly against you as he spoke. “You can’t forget you.”
“This is for me,” you closed your eyes and pushed more against him, so your entire back was flush against his front.
You felt him chuckle. “Something else,” he grumbled. “Something fulfilling,” it was the same speech you’d gotten over the last few months, just different words as the reminder.
“I could think of something really fulfilling,” your head fell back to look up at him, your hand moving back to graze across his jeans.
Happy let out a low growl, the toothpick in his mouth moving to the complete opposite side so he could pull it out before your lips landed on his. “I have zero complaints,” he mumbled.
You laughed against his mouth and placed a quick peck against his mouth again.
“I love you.”
“I love you,” he nodded, stealing one more kiss from you.
“When did you know?” You asked, the question falling fast from your tongue.
“The moment I fucking saw you,” his answer came even faster.
“That’s a lie,” you shook your head.
“I don’t lie,” he retorted. “I walked up to the bar, oblivious to you and when you pushed
that beer towards me, I fuckin’ fell in love.”
“I’m being serious, Hap.” You tapped his chest with the back of your hand.
“Me too,” he shrugged. “After that night, you wouldn’t leave my mind. Saw you with Jax the morning after, thought I stepped on some shit. Tried to forget it, forget you.”
“And then you saw me at the diner,” you remembered.
“And then I saw you at the diner,” he nodded.
“That day, my dad asked you if you loved me,” you remembered that morning on the porch.
“You didn’t give me the chance to answer him,” he didn’t even need a minute to recollect the memory.
“I didn’t want you to have to lie to him.”
“Wouldn’t have lied. I did love you, he saw that.”
“I know things aren’t great right now,” you looked around at the guys, it had been so long since you saw any of them truly enjoying themselves. “But I need you to promise me you’re gonna be okay.”
“Can’t do that,” despite how he delivered that information, he hated having to say it at all.
“Then promise me you’ll be careful,” you turned your head.
Before he could answer, Jax was approaching you both.
“Sorry to interrupt,” his smirk was smug until it wasn’t. “I gotta run out,” his eyes jumped to Happy’s.
“I’m with you, prez.” Happy nodded, already moving to get up.
The loss of him behind you felt colder due to how you ended or more like how you didn’t end the conversation you were having.
“Sorry for leaving in the middle of your thing,” Jax leaned down and placed a quick kiss to your cheek since he hadn’t even said hello to you yet.
“Two apologies in the span of two minutes, you’re getting soft, prez,” you teased.
He smiled back, he looked like the younger version of him, the one that had fun, that laughed, that teased, that enjoyed life. The one that didn’t have the weight of the club hovering over him.
“Be careful,” you looked at the group of them, your eyes hovering on Happy last.
Happy leaned down now, placing a kiss to the top of your head. “I promise.”
—
You were tired, you had a few beers, ate some food, got to talk with some of the other old ladies, some of the other charter members. Now, you were helping Gemma clean up.
It was late and there were those thoughts gnawing in the back of your head. Were they okay? Did something happen? It had been hours since you heard anything.
“Worrying does nothing but wreak havoc on the heart, darlin’,” Gemma said as she walked beside you.
Your eyes fell to the scar on her chest.
“I should know,” she whispered the joke with a chuckle.
Before you could even smile let alone respond, her phone rang. Your eyes darted to her cell that was on the kitchen table. You knew before you heard anything, you knew something happened.
“Yeah?” Gemma answered and her eyes darted straight to yours. “Alright we’re on our way.”
“What happened?” You heard your heart thumping in your ears.
“Grab your keys, I’ll fill you in on the drive to the club.”
You were chewing the skin inside your mouth at every turn, Gemma was running through stop signs, red lights, going double the speed limit just to get to the clubhouse so it wasn’t like you could do anything else but just wait.
“He’s alright, baby. Jax said it was superficial.”
“I didn’t realize Jax got his medical license,” you were being catty but it was just a product of being worried.
“Easy now,” she warned, but you weren’t worried about Gemma right now.
“Jax said Happy was shot, that it went through his head,” you clarified.
“That it skimmed his head,” Gemma corrected.
“He’s probably fucking basking in the glory of it,” you shook your head thinking about the man you loved.
“Chibs is handling it,” Gemma still had her own worry in her tone.
It was silent for the rest of the ride, which was only a couple minutes anyway.
Barreling into the clubhouse, you didn’t freeze when you saw him or the blood. His shirt was soaked, the right side of his head was covered in it, and he was grinning from ear to ear as Chibs held the skin together on the top of his head with two pieces of gauze.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” you called out as you made your way over.
“You’re in for it, lad,” Chibs mumbled to Happy.
“I’m alright,” Happy said, lifting his hand to grab onto your arm.
You gave him a look and then placed your eyes back on Chibs.
“He’s alright,” he nodded at you.
“What can I do?” You needed to be doing something, your adrenaline was racing through your veins.
“Painkillers and alcohol,” Chibs said but Gemma already beat you to it, she was holding up a bottle of booze and a bottle of pills. Chucky had already started putting some sort of cream on the gauze that he was handing to Chibs.
“Hey,” Happy’s rasp pulled your attention and you squatted down to be eyelevel with him.
“You told me you were going to be careful,” you felt your body slow down now, the worry creeping back in but this time more focused on the future, what could’ve happened, what could happen.
“I was,” he nodded. “Shit just got a little crazy.”
“Who was it?” Your voice had venom in it now. You could feel everyone's eyes jump to one another. Chibs to Jax, Juice to Tig, Gemma to Happy to see how he was going to respond.
He didn’t get the chance to though because Nero was walking through the clubhouse and everyone’s eyes fell on him.
There were a few words exchanged as he approached Jax at the bar, they volleyed the exchange back and forth and then Chibs chimed in which gave you all the information you needed.
“One thing I don’t want is this half-bright gang starting a war right outside Charming,” Jax said, firm in tone.
“This was your crew?” You were standing up, moving in front of Nero now.
“Ain’t my crew,” he wasn’t backing down but he wasn’t rude in how he spoke either.
“If you don’t get your fuckin’ boys wrangled, I will.” You spoke through gritted teeth.
“Alright, down killer,” Jax stepped up now, moving between you and Nero.
“Hey,” Happy spoke up now, giving his version of a warning shot.
“If you don’t handle it Jax, I fucking will.” You pulled your attention to your friend for decades, daggers in your eyes.
“No one is going to handle anything, we’re gonna figure it out, alright? Just get him patched up,” his voice echoed off the clubhouse walls before Bobby walked up to him.
You gave a long stare to Jax then to Nero before moving where Gemma just stood up from, right in front of Happy. He was in pain, you could see it on his face as Chibs tried to stop the bleeding, but even with that he was looking at Nero and then Jax, that pull to not let someone talk to you in any way other than cheerily keeping him at the edge of his seat.
“Something tells me you loved every second of the shitstorm you were in,” you leaned forward now, grabbing a cloth to wipe some of the blood clean from his face.
He smirked, completely ignoring Jax heading out on whatever he needed to handle.
Better be this fucking piece of shit gang, you thought internally to yourself.
Happy saw you tense and leaned just slightly to grab your hand which was still wrapped up from the cut. “Where’s Zep?”
“At Gem’s with one of the prospects,” you gave in entirely now, letting your body relax knowing Happy was okay.
“I promised you I’d be careful, you gotta do the same for me,” he let his finger brush over the wrap on your palm.
“Absolutely not the same thing,” you held back a laugh.
He gave you a look, one you knew well.
“I promise I’ll be careful,” you squeezed his hand.
You two didn’t say much more, you cleaned his face off while Chibs worked to sew the skin together and patch him up. Happy never let go of your hand, only giving you one free hand to wipe his face down but it was enough. His fingers danced around yours as you sat there, the time well into the night at this point.
“I got your dorm ready,” Gemma walked over and put a hand on Happy’s clean shoulder. “Figure if I let this one behind the wheel she’s going to drive straight into one of those gangster’s houses,” she gave you a playful smirk.
“I’d love to see that,” Happy grinned.
“Don’t tempt her,” she tapped his shoulder before walking off.
“Yeah, don’t,” you shook your head.
“You come here often?” Happy nodded his head at you, his grin shifting from playful to
fully devious.
“That’s my cue,” Chibs said, standing up off the table and removing the gloves from his hands. “You’re all good, Hap.”
“Thanks,” Happy was taking the cloth you had used just previously and dabbed it along his head, picking up any extra residue he could. “C’mon, I think you oughta show me what you were gonna do to those pieces of shit.”
“I don’t think you want to know,” you were standing up now, eyes glued to the patch up job on his head, anger and upset mixing like a cocktail in your veins, in your thoughts, in your muscles.
“Oh yes I do,” he nodded and gripped your waist, leading you back to his dorm.
—
You woke up to the smell of coffee, strong and with a hint of spice. Based on the power of the aroma, it had to be warm still, if you were lucky, maybe even hot. As your eyes opened, you saw the mug on the nightstand, the reaper image half peeled but still holding strongly printed on the side of the mug staring right at you as the steam slowly lifted over its head.
Sitting up, you grabbed the handle and immediately took a sip, your head falling back as the warm liquid trickled through your body, practically giving you chills. “Fuckin’ perfect.” You hummed.
“Hap?” You called out, thinking maybe he was in the bathroom but you were met with no response.
You picked up the flip phone that was tucked under your pillow after the few sips of coffee started to work their caffeine magic on you. There were no messages or calls. You weren’t expecting anything, Happy wasn’t in the habit of leaving notes behind. Gestures, sure. Hence, the coffee, but no notes.
You shot him off a text, you normally wouldn’t care, but with his head you were just being precautious.
To Happy (6:45AM): Hate when you don’t wake up next to me, the coffee is an appreciated second choice though. How you feeling?
After you hit send, you stood up, tossing one of the many SOA shirts that were kept in the dressers here. With that, you stepped out of the dorm and made your way down the hallway. There used to be a time that when you left Happy’s dorm at this hour of the morning, you’d peer out and make sure there was no one there, no prying eyes, no one to tease you or even know you stayed the night. A time where you stayed true to the idea of a walk of shame. Shoes in your hand verse on your feet, makeup smeared under your eyes, last night's clothes on.
You smirked at the memory and ducked into the kitchen for something to eat, opening the fridge door so you were fully behind it as you looked at the contents inside.
“What are you doing here?” The familiar boyish voice made you smile. As you turned your head around to see the blonde biker, you took in his face. It wasn’t boyish at all, not anymore. Not for a long time. It was worn, heavy, his hair slicked back probably from all the times he stressfully ran his hands through it. It had been a rough night for him. A rough night for everyone. Your last interaction with Jax wasn’t great, but you two tended to bounce back from these things pretty quickly.
You closed the fridge door, making it completely obvious all you had on was a long t-shirt.
“Jesus Christ, you gotta be fucking kidding me,” Jax turned around, almost embarrassed.
“Oh relax,” you shook your head and walked past him, back to the dorm where you grabbed the jeans you were wearing last night. You put them on, hopping your legs through the holes as you made your way back down the hallway. Leaving the zipper and button down, since the t-shirt did a well enough job at covering it. As you walked back into the kitchen, Jax had on a that playful smirk again, he was tossing two pieces of toast in the toaster, the jelly and butter already out on the counter.
“I slept here,” you looked into Jax’s eyes which although were laced with burden, had a hint of humor behind them. “Hap was too drugged up to drive and your mom was convinced I was going to hunt the guys down who shot at you so she set us up in a dorm,” you sipped from your mug.
“Hap’s rubbing off on you,” he laughed, grabbing a beer from the fridge. It wasn’t like his typical morning beer. Not his frat-like beer and bud in the morning before the shenanigans, this was something to take the edge off.
“Oh, definitely,” you nodded, a smirk of your own on your face as you hoped the innuendo would go over his head, your eyes jumped to the toaster as the bread popped up.
“Gross,” he tossed the beer cap at you and twisted his face up.
“I handled it, just so you know,” Jax said before turning around.
“Handled it or figured it out?” You asked curiously, a little jokingly.
“Handled.” He nodded, serious in response.
You nodded back at him, just as seriously, your way of thanking him.
“You and Hap,” he turned to start buttering the toast. “You’re good for each other.”
“Hap just gets me. Always has.” You smiled at Jax, one that came with memories you enjoyed reliving. Something you never expected of your life. He scooped an absurd amount of jelly onto the bread and turned to hand you one with a paper towel under it.
“You know, when your Pops died, I was worried you were gonna get lost in that,” Jax said as he leaned back against the counter, his own breakfast in his hand. “I’m glad to see you’re alright.”
“I’m sorry to see you’re not,” you looked up at Jax, your longest friend, who looked so incredibly different, so incredibly worn. He was the furthest thing from alright.
“I’ll be fine,” he smirked, it wasn’t believable. Your face did no effort in holding that truth back, but you nodded to let him know you wouldn’t push it.
“Maybe you just need to get laid,” you tried to lighten the mood.
“I need a shower and a nap,” he joked, a sigh escaping his mouth. “But only got time to handle shit around here.”
“Shit around here will always be shit around here.” You quoted Happy, although Jax had no idea.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Jax’s face dropped to the version of it you barely recognized.
“You’re gonna drive yourself into an early grave, Jax. Something’s gotta give.” You didn’t know the ins and outs, you knew the club got into shit with the cartel and even without details you understood that was a hard thing to get out of, but you saw how the things that happened changed him, how worn he was, how shit the club had gotten.
“If you could get out would you?” Jax was looking at you now, deep into your eyes, trying to see if you had a tell.
“I’m not in,” you took a bite of your toast.
“You know what I mean,” he dropped his head.
“Happy isn’t the kind of guy that leaves the club, Jax.” You put the toast down next to you.
“And you’ve made peace with that?” His question was curious, like he wanted to see how things worked for you both.
At that moment, a prospect walked into the kitchen for coffee. “Sorry,” Ratboy mumbled as he grabbed the pot and moved back to the bar. Just like clockwork a group of the guys came walking in from outside. Juice, Bobby, Tig, but no Happy. You had a few seconds before they approached you guys in the kitchen. Not enough time to actually have this conversation the way it should be had.
“I haven’t made peace with anything,” you shook your head, kicking off the counter. “This is who he is, Jax. I fell in love with him knowing that. The club is a complicated shitshow, but Happy’s my peace, if I got that, then I’m good.”
It was then that Tig walked in, “Hey, doll,” he whispered to you before placing his hand on the doorframe and then tossing his thumb over his shoulder and looking at Jax. “Bobby’s got Nero on the line.”
“Alright, thanks Tiggy.” Jax kicked off the counter too, his eyes moving from Tig to you.
“We gonna finish this conversation later?” You stepped toward him, he was placing a cigarette in his mouth.
“Nope,” he smiled and pinched your elbow as a form of thanks.
“Tell Nero I’m sorry for bringing the claws out,” you grimaced slightly.
“Oh I’d pay to see that again,” Tig’s face was now against the doorframe, smile so satisfied on his face.
“He gets it,” Jax smiled and began walking out towards Bobby.
“Where’s Hap?” You asked Tig, grabbing your toast again from the counter behind you and when you turned back around you bumped into someone’s firm chest as they towered over you.
“Right here,” he looked down at you, seriousness on his face until a smile crept up. His thumb raised up and swiped at the remnants of jelly on your mouth.
“Hi,” you smiled and he leaned down to place a kiss on your lips.
“I love love,” Tig said before leaving you two alone in the kitchen.
“How’s your head?” Your eyes jumped to the bandage on his skull.
“You tell me,” he had a devilish grin on his face.
“Be serious for two seconds,” you lightly slapped his chest.
“I’m all good,” he brushed his hand over his head. “Could use some of the same medicine you gave me last night.”
“You’re shameless,” you laughed against him now but before you could act on anything, Bobby was walking into the kitchen. “We’re going to meet up with Lin, you good to ride?”
“I am,” Happy nodded and went to kiss you goodbye. “Raincheck,” he mumbled against your lips.
“Be. Careful.” You gripped his kutte before he walked away.
He nodded in agreement, all jokes and sarcasm wiped from his face. “Promise.”
—
Two Years Later - The Cemetery
“So yeah, I guess that’s really it,” you sighed as you wrapped up the entire story of you and Happy. “I realized, I never told you any of it because you were so grossed out that first time, then we hid it for so long and then it just…was.” You leaned against the gravestone that held the name of your childhood best friend on it.
Jackson Nathaniel Teller.
"We got another dog, named him Opie,” you smirked. “Club got out of guns, Happy, Chibs, and Tig made sure of it.” You heard branches behind you snap and as you turned your head, you saw Happy there, no kutte on his body. Just a plain white t-shirt, hands in his pocket waiting for you patiently.
“You asked me that time all those years back if I could get out, would I?” You took a deep inhale. “I wish I just said yes. Maybe it would’ve sparked something in you.”
“It would’ve been a lie,” you shook your head. “I gave you the only truth I knew. The one that remains true today. Happy’s my peace, if I got that, then I’m good.” You turned around and saw Happy just staring off, making sure you were okay but giving you your privacy.
—
The Funeral
It wasn’t an open casket. The damage had been too extensive to fix to a point of a proper viewing. Not that any of this was proper, this was pure SAMCRO when it came to the burial. The construction on the original clubhouse was renovated enough to have the service here first before bringing him to the cemetery. It was right, for this to be the place you all memorialized Jax.
You wished you could’ve been in a tunnel for this. Be so out of it that you were almost
numb. But that was the thing about healing, it meant you had to go through everything instead of bury it or ignore it. So you felt it. The loss of your longest friend. His death. His suicide.
Happy came up behind you, his hand moving around your waist as he stepped next to
you. Resting your head on his shoulder, you sighed.
“I should’ve made him promise me he’d be careful,” you whispered.
“He was,” Happy’s bandaged arm moved from your waist to your arm. The arm that was shot as a cover story. The one thing regarding the club Happy gave you every single detail on, leaving nothing out, none of the general overview, you two sat for hours discussing this.
As you arrived at the cemetery, you dropped your sunglasses from the top of your head to over your eyes, your face stoic, but still tear stained.
After everyone dropped flowers on the casket, it was Chibs’ turn to speak but you saw him leaned over, sobs coming from his mouth.
Standing up, you squeezed Happy’s hand and smiled at him. Mouthing 3 words to him you vowed to say everyday when you got married last year. The small ceremony at Happy’s mom’s place, she wasn’t able to leave home and you both knew it was something she wouldn’t want to miss. Gemma hung up string lights, cooked a shit ton of food, it was a glorified barbeque and it couldn’t have been any more perfect. Jax spoke, a short speech, but one that you’d remember forever.
As you walked towards the podium, you let your hand rest on Chibs for a moment before you kept going.
“For those of you who don’t know, I’ve known Jax since we were kids. He beat the shit out of Sean Heston when he saw him breaking into my locker and stealing my weed and lunch money, he made me do his math homework,” you chuckled through a slight lump in your throat. “He took the fall for me when I was caught passing notes to Tara in class, he took me to my prom, just so my father could see me go with a date, he helped me with my sick father, in every way imaginable.”
You swallowed. “Jax was a brother to me in such a similar way that he was a brother to all of you.” You gripped the podium. “When I got married last year, Jax gave a speech, he said the thing he’d always tell Hap once he knew him and I were together, that he’s never known Happy to know peace outside of mayhem until he met me. To which my loving groom would reply: there is peace in mayhem.”
“Jax knows peace. So when I cry, when I miss him, when I miss my brother, I’ll know through all this mayhem, he finally knows peace.”
—
The Cemetery
“I hope you did find your peace, Jax.” You looked over your shoulder again, Happy was in the same spot, hands in his pockets still, patiently waiting.
“He left today,” your eyes were still on Happy as you spoke. “We both think this is what you’d want. What my dad would want.” You shrugged. “I hate how this is how things are now. Guessing what you two feel or want,” you sighed but shook your head.
“But I guess what’s more important is it’s what we want. We gotta do this for us.”
At that you kissed your hand and then the headstone before standing up and walking up to Happy.
“You come here often?” You teased as you approached, tucking your hands between the open spots between his arms and waist and wrapped around him.
He smirked, kissed you and picked up a white cup that was resting next to a tree root.
Coffee, dash of cinnamon, dash of nutmeg. Grabbing the cup you took a sip and closed your eyes. Perfect. Always perfect.
“Got the dogs in the truck, bags in the back, bike in the trailer and hitched it.”
“You gonna miss it?” You were worried he’d regret this, the club was all Happy knew, it was in his blood, embedded in his DNA.
“Probably,” he never lied to you.
His response made you uneasy.
“Hey,” he raised his brows. “Did you have a nice morning?”
“Yes.” You nodded, you got to talk to your best friend.
“Have a good time last night?” He smirked, devilishly.
“Yes.” You smirked back.
“Tell me something you’re looking forward to.”
“Smoking a fat joint when we get to the new house.” You were exhausted, packing and wrapping things up here, it was a lot.
“Ask me what I’m looking forward to.” He lifted his head in a nod.
“What are you looking forward to?”
“Riding out with you,” he rasped. “And peace,” he nodded, a tension in him releasing, you could feel it under your grip on him.
“S’how we stay okay,” you agreed with him.
Happy reminded you every day for years to do something for yourself, that’s how you stayed grounded, how you stayed okay. Now it was about time you two do something for both of you. Something that took you out of the day-by-day. Something that would offer you permanent peace. No more fighting for little daily joys. Life would be the joy.
So as you climbed into the passenger seat of your truck, you looked back at the two dogs whose tongues were hanging out and their tails wagging at the sites of you and smiled.
“You know, Gemma had everyone calling us The Caretaker and The Killer,” you looked back at Happy.
“Wonder what people will call us now,” he pulled the gear shifter down.
“Hopefully nothing,” you lowered your window and let your hand rest out as the wind picked up against your scarred palm. “And if it’s something, hopefully just ‘in love’.”
Happy looked over at you and smirked.
“My old lady, the romantic.”
“Come on, Hap. Take me home.”
💀SOA Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @kmc1989 (Let me know if you’d like to be added!)
Happy has a wife. The club has no idea.
When they find out, all hell breaks loose.
The first person to find out is Juice.
Which is fitting, really, because Juice finds out everything by accident.
It happens on a Tuesday afternoon in late September. Charming is hot in that dry California way that makes the air shimmer over asphalt, and the garage smells like gasoline, motor oil, and sweat.
You’re standing in the office doorway holding a paper bag full of takeout and trying not to look nervous.
You fail miserably.
Juice looks up from the laptop.
“Uh,” he says slowly.
Behind him, Happy Lowman freezes mid-cleaning of a handgun.
And that’s the thing about Happy.
Most people think he doesn’t react to anything.
But you’ve learned the tiny tells.
The slight stillness.
The way his shoulders lock.
The faint narrowing of his eyes.
He looks at you for exactly two seconds before saying flatly, “You weren’t supposed to come here.”
Your mouth drops open. “You literally texted me the address.”
Juice’s eyes bounce between you both like a tennis match.
“Wait,” he says. “Wait wait wait—”
Happy stands abruptly.
“Juice.”
“No, no, hold on—” Juice points at you. “Why do you have food?”
You lift the bag slightly. “Because my husband forgot lunch.”
Silence.
Complete.
Absolute.
Silence.
Juice blinks.
Once.
Twice.
“…your what?”
Happy closes his eyes briefly like he’s already exhausted.
You stare at Juice.
Juice stares at Happy.
Happy stares at the wall like he’s contemplating murder.
“You’re married?” Juice whisper-yells.
Happy deadpans, “Congratulations. You can hear.”
Juice makes a choking noise.
“Oh my God.”
You suddenly feel awkward.
You hadn’t really thought this through.
Happy always kept you separate from club business. Not because he was ashamed of you—God, never that—but because SAMCRO was dangerous, messy, chaotic, and violent. He liked keeping one thing in his life untouched by it.
You.
The marriage had happened fast and quiet two years ago in Reno after three years together.
Tiny chapel.
Cheap rings.
Happy in a black button-down looking deeply irritated by the existence of flowers.
You laughing so hard during the vows that the officiant had to stop twice.
It had been perfect.
And somehow… nobody in the club knew.
Mostly because Happy never volunteered information.
And nobody ever asked.
Juice is still staring.
“You’re serious?”
Happy looks at him blankly. “No. We forged documents for a joke.”
“Jesus Christ.”
You hand Happy the takeout bag carefully.
He takes it with one hand, the other automatically settling against your lower back.
The movement is unconscious.
Possessive.
Familiar.
Intimate enough that Juice’s jaw nearly hits the floor.
“Oh my God,” he repeats.
Happy looks annoyed now.
“You done?”
“No!”
Juice points wildly. “You’re married!”
“Yeah.”
“To her!”
Happy’s expression goes dangerously flat.
“Yes. Generally how marriage works.”
You bite your lip to stop laughing.
Juice looks scandalized.
“How does nobody know this?!”
Happy shrugs.
“Nobody asked.”
By that evening, the entire clubhouse knows.
Because Juice cannot keep information to himself to save his life.
You walk into the clubhouse later that night beside Happy and the room goes dead silent.
Like, horror movie silent.
Music still plays low from the speakers.
Pool balls still clack somewhere in the background.
But every single member of SAMCRO is staring at you.
Jax looks genuinely disturbed.
Chibs is smoking with the expression of a man reevaluating reality itself.
Tig looks delighted.
Which is honestly the worst reaction possible.
Clay leans back in his chair slowly.
“…you got a wife?”
Happy grunts once.
“And you didn’t tell us?” Jax asks.
Happy shrugs out of his kutte.
“You didn’t need to know.”
Tig bursts out laughing.
“Oh, this is unbelievable. This is unbelievable.”
You smile awkwardly. “Hi?”
Every eye in the room swings toward you.
Happy immediately moves closer.
Tiny movement.
Barely noticeable.
Unless you know him.
Unless you’re looking.
Chibs notices.
His brows lift slightly.
Because Happy Lowman is many things.
Violent.
Quiet.
Terrifying.
Loyal in a way that borders on feral.
But protective?
Like this?
That’s new.
That’s dangerous.
That means something.
Tig stands dramatically.
“Well, sweetheart, I gotta ask—”
“No,” Happy says immediately.
“You don’t even know the question.”
“Still no.”
Tig ignores him.
“How the hell did this happen?”
You grin despite yourself.
“At gunpoint.”
Happy snorts softly.
Actual amusement.
The room collectively looks like they’ve witnessed a ghost.
Jax points.
“See? That. That right there. What the fuck was that?”
Happy’s face immediately goes blank again.
“Nothing.”
“You smiled.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“You’re proving my point.”
You laugh then, unable to help it.
Happy glances down at you automatically.
And there it is again.
That tiny softness.
That impossible warmth.
The whole room catches it this time.
Tig clutches his chest dramatically.
“Oh my God. Happy’s whipped.”
Happy throws a bar rag directly at his face.
The chaos gets worse over the next few weeks.
Because once the secret’s out, everyone becomes obsessed with it.
Mostly because it makes absolutely no sense to them.
You don’t fit into the image they had of Happy Lowman.
Not because you’re weak.
You’re not.
You’ve got a sharp mouth, a stubborn streak, and enough nerve to tell Tig Trager to shut the hell up without flinching.
But you’re soft in ways Happy isn’t.
Warm.
Open.
You hug people.
You smile easily.
You bring food to the garage sometimes.
You touch Happy casually—fingers against his wrist, your head against his shoulder, your hand slipping into his while talking.
And Happy lets you.
That’s what really breaks everybody’s brains.
Because Happy doesn’t let anyone touch him.
Except you.
Especially you.
One night, Tig corners you at the bar while Happy’s outside smoking with Chibs.
“I’m just saying,” Tig says, sipping beer, “I didn’t think he had it in him.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“To get married?”
“To love somebody.”
There’s no mockery in it.
Just honesty.
You glance toward the doorway automatically.
Happy’s visible through the open clubhouse doors, leaning against the railing with a cigarette between his fingers.
Big.
Broad.
Tattooed.
Cold-looking enough to make strangers cross the street.
But you know him.
You know the man who wakes up before you and makes coffee because you hate mornings.
The man who silently fixes things around the house without being asked.
The man who checks locks three times before bed.
The man who holds you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear.
You smile softly.
“He’s better than people think.”
Tig studies you for a second.
Then nods once.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess he is.”
The problem starts three months later.
Because peace never lasts around SAMCRO.
Happy comes home at nearly three in the morning covered in blood that isn’t his.
You’re waiting in the kitchen.
The second he sees you awake, his jaw tightens.
“You should be asleep.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Not mine.”
That doesn’t make it better.
You stand slowly from the table.
Happy watches you carefully.
There’s tension in him tonight.
More than usual.
Danger rolling off him in waves.
You move closer anyway.
“You okay?”
His hand comes up automatically, settling against your waist.
Grounding himself.
You realize then just how exhausted he looks.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Which is worse.
“What happened?” you ask softly.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Happy.”
His eyes meet yours.
Dark.
Heavy.
Tired.
“There’s a rat.”
Your stomach drops.
Club betrayal never ends cleanly.
Ever.
“And?”
“We’re handling it.”
Handling it.
Such a simple phrase for something that usually ended in graves.
You touch his face gently.
“You gonna come back to me after?”
Something flashes across his expression then.
Fast.
Sharp.
Fear.
Real fear.
Happy Lowman is afraid of almost nothing.
But losing you?
That terrifies him.
His forehead rests briefly against yours.
“Always.”
Except he doesn’t.
Not when he’s supposed to.
The hours drag.
Then dawn comes.
Still nothing.
Your anxiety builds slowly into something ugly and choking.
You call Chibs.
No answer.
Juice finally picks up on the fourth try.
And immediately sounds guilty.
Your stomach sinks.
“Juice.”
“…hey.”
“What happened?”
Silence.
That’s enough.
You’re already grabbing your keys.
“Where is he?”
The clubhouse is chaos when you arrive.
Bikes everywhere.
Tension thick enough to choke on.
You barely make it through the doors before Jax intercepts you.
“Whoa—”
“Where is he?”
Jax hesitates.
Which tells you everything.
Your pulse spikes.
“Jax.”
“He’s alive.”
Alive.
Not okay.
Alive.
Your heart pounds so hard it hurts.
Jax sighs heavily and gestures down the hallway.
“In the infirmary.”
You’re moving before he finishes speaking.
The room smells like antiseptic and blood.
Happy’s sitting shirtless on the edge of the medical table while Piney stitches a wound near his ribs.
Bruised knuckles.
Split lip.
Fresh bandages.
Rage hits you so fast it nearly blinds you.
“Are you kidding me?”
Every head turns.
Happy immediately stands.
“Baby—”
“Oh, don’t baby me.”
Piney wisely exits the room immediately.
Happy watches you carefully as you stalk toward him.
“You said you’d come back.”
“I did.”
“You’re half dead!”
“I’m fine.”
“You have stitches!”
“It’s superficial.”
You stare at him incredulously.
Then your eyes suddenly burn.
Damn it.
You hadn’t wanted to cry.
Happy notices instantly.
And completely panics.
Not visibly.
But you know him.
His posture changes.
His breathing shifts.
His hands flex.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You wipe angrily at your face.
“No. Absolutely not. I’m mad at you.”
He steps closer anyway.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“And I’m your wife.”
The words land hard.
Heavy.
Final.
Happy goes still.
Outside the room, several club members are very obviously eavesdropping.
You don’t care.
“I get that this life is dangerous,” you say shakily. “I understand that. But you don’t get to shut me out every time something bad happens.”
His jaw tightens.
“It’s my job to protect you.”
“And who protects you?”
Silence.
That silence says everything.
Because Happy genuinely does not think about himself that way.
You step closer until your hands press carefully against his chest.
“I can handle the truth,” you whisper. “I can handle blood and violence and club bullshit. What I can’t handle is wondering if you’re dead somewhere.”
Something in his face cracks then.
Tiny.
But real.
Happy wraps one arm around your waist suddenly and pulls you against him hard enough to steal your breath.
The hallway outside erupts instantly.
“Ohhh, shit—”
“Happy’s hugging somebody voluntarily—”
“Get a camera—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Happy snarls without looking away from you.
You laugh wetly against his chest.
And then, because apparently the universe enjoys humiliating him, Chibs leans into the doorway.
“Right,” he says dryly. “So we’re all just supposed to pretend this isn’t the most emotionally vulnerable thing you’ve ever done?”
Happy flips him off immediately.
Chibs grins.
Jax looks deeply entertained.
Juice looks like he might cry from happiness.
Tig looks like Christmas came early.
You smile despite yourself.
Happy notices instantly.
His thumb brushes under your eye gently.
“You done yelling at me?”
“Maybe.”
“You hungry?”
You stare at him.
“You got stabbed and that’s your question?”
“You didn’t eat breakfast.”
And there he is.
Your husband.
The terrifying hitman who remembers whether you’ve eaten.
Emotion swells so suddenly in your chest it aches.
You cup his face carefully.
“I love you,” you murmur.
The room goes quiet again.
Because Happy rarely says things like that in front of people.
Rarely shows things like that in front of people.
Happy looks at you for a long moment.
Then very deliberately reaches up, pulls your hand from his face, and kisses your palm.
Soft.
Lingering.
Intimate enough that Tig actually chokes on air.
Happy’s eyes never leave yours.
“Love you too.”
Absolute silence.
Then:
“WHAT THE FUCK,” Jax yells from the hallway.
You burst out laughing.
Happy looks annoyed again.
But his arm never leaves your waist.
And for the first time since the club found out about you, nobody looks confused anymore.
Just understanding.
Because now they get it.
Happy Lowman loved hard.
Dangerously hard.
The kind of love that rooted itself in bone and stayed there.
And God help anyone who tried to take it away from him.
Juice starts sleeping on your couch because he “just needed somewhere quiet.”
Eventually you realise he hasn’t gone home in weeks.
juice breaks my heart
The first night Juice slept on your couch, he showed up at two in the morning with a split lip, blood on the sleeve of his hoodie, and exhaustion carved so deep into his face it looked permanent.
You answered the door half asleep, one hand clutching the edge of your oversized T-shirt while the porch light painted him gold and bruised.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathed immediately. “What happened?”
“Nothin’.” His voice was rough. Tired. “Can I crash here tonight?”
You should’ve asked questions.
Maybe with anybody else, you would have.
But this was Juice.
And Juice Ortiz looked at people like he expected to be shoved away eventually.
So instead you stepped aside and unlocked the screen door wider.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Come in.”
Relief crossed his face so quickly it hurt to look at.
“Thanks.”
Your apartment was small. One bedroom. Tiny kitchen. Old building with uneven floors and terrible plumbing. But it was warm. Lived in. There were books stacked beside the couch and plants near the windows and soft yellow lamps instead of harsh overhead lights.
Juice stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room like he didn’t know where to put himself.
“You hungry?” you asked.
He shook his head automatically.
His stomach growled immediately after.
You stared.
He sighed. “Maybe a little.”
Twenty minutes later he was sitting at your kitchen counter eating grilled cheese and tomato soup with the kind of concentration that made it obvious he hadn’t eaten properly all day.
Maybe longer.
You leaned against the opposite counter watching him.
“You wanna tell me why you look like somebody dragged you behind a truck?”
He snorted quietly at that.
Then shrugged.
“Club stuff.”
You accepted the answer because you knew enough about SAMCRO to know pushing usually got you nowhere.
You had known Juice for almost two years.
He’d started coming into the auto parts store where you worked because the place carried some specialty imports he liked for his bike. At first he’d just been the hyper guy with too much energy and too many tattoos who flirted badly and bought energy drinks in bulk.
Then he kept coming back.
Eventually he stopped pretending he needed parts.
Eventually you started setting aside his favorite snacks before he came in.
Eventually he started fixing things around your apartment without being asked.
You never officially labeled the relationship.
Friends felt too simple for whatever this was.
But neither of you pushed harder.
Maybe because Juice always seemed halfway convinced good things would disappear if he touched them too much.
After he finished eating, you handed him a clean towel and pointed toward the bathroom.
“There’s antiseptic in the cabinet. Use it before your face falls off.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He smiled faintly when he said it.
It vanished the second he thought you weren’t looking.
The next morning you woke up to the sound of cabinets opening.
For one horrifying second you thought someone had broken in.
Then you smelled coffee.
You shuffled into the kitchen and found Juice standing barefoot at the counter wearing the same jeans from yesterday and an old hoodie you'd stolen from him years ago.
You stopped dead.
“That’s mine.”
He looked down at himself.
“I was cold.”
“You stole my hoodie.”
“You stole it first.”
You laughed despite yourself.
God, he looked better.
Still bruised. Still tired. But softer somehow. Less tightly wound.
He handed you coffee before you could ask.
Exactly how you liked it.
“You remembered.”
He shrugged like it was nothing.
But Juice remembered everything about people he cared about.
The problem was he never seemed to believe anybody would remember things about him.
You watched him carefully over the rim of your mug.
“You okay?”
His shoulders stiffened immediately.
“Yeah.”
Lie.
You let it go anyway.
He left around noon after promising he’d return your hoodie “eventually.”
You assumed that would be it.
One bad night.
One couch crash.
But then three days later he showed up again.
This time quieter.
No visible injuries.
Just shadows under his eyes.
“Can I stay over?”
“Yeah.”
And then again the next week.
Then twice in one week.
Then suddenly it became normal.
Juice would show up late.
You’d pretend not to notice how exhausted he looked.
You’d feed him.
Sometimes you’d watch dumb movies together until he fell asleep halfway through them, head tilted toward you on the couch.
Sometimes he’d sit on your tiny balcony smoking in silence while you sat beside him reading.
Sometimes he barely spoke at all.
But gradually you noticed something strange.
He slept here.
Actually slept.
At the clubhouse, even during the rare times you visited, Juice never stopped moving. Always buzzing. Always alert. Talking too fast. Smiling too quickly.
At your apartment he slept like someone drowning finally reaching air.
Deep.
Heavy.
Safe.
The realization lodged painfully under your ribs.
One rainy Thursday you came home from work and found him in your kitchen making pasta.
He looked up immediately.
“Hey.”
You blinked slowly.
“You have your own key now?”
“Uh.” He winced. “You said I could borrow it last week?”
“I did?”
“You were half asleep.”
That sounded horrifyingly possible.
You dropped your bag on the table and stared at him.
He was wearing sweatpants.
Your sweatpants.
“You’re stealing an alarming amount of my clothes.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“You own clothes.”
“Not like these.”
You rolled your eyes, but warmth spread through your chest anyway.
The apartment smelled like garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread.
Domestic.
Dangerously domestic.
“You cooked?”
“Wanted to.”
He looked nervous saying it.
Like he expected you to tell him he’d crossed a line.
Something about that nearly broke your heart.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
A pause.
Then quieter:
“I wanted to do something nice.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Okay,” you said softly. "Thank you."
He relaxed instantly.
You started noticing things after that.
Little things.
Juice replacing the flickering lightbulb in your bathroom without being asked.
Juice remembering when your work shifts changed.
Juice buying your favorite cereal because “you were almost out.”
Juice asleep on your couch with one hand curled loosely around the blanket you kept there for him.
Your blanket.
His side of the couch.
It happened so slowly you didn’t realize how attached you’d become until one night he didn’t show up.
You told yourself it was ridiculous.
He wasn’t your boyfriend.
Wasn’t your responsibility.
SAMCRO life was unpredictable.
Still, you checked your phone every fifteen minutes.
By midnight anxiety sat ugly in your stomach.
At one-thirty there was finally a knock at your door.
You yanked it open immediately.
Juice stood there soaked through from the rain.
And bleeding.
Your heart dropped.
“Oh my God.”
“It’s not bad.”
“That’s blood.”
“Mostly not mine.”
“JUICE.”
He flinched.
Not from your volume.
From the name.
Like he expected anger attached to it.
Your expression softened instantly.
“Come inside.”
He obeyed quietly.
Too quietly.
You sat him on the bathroom counter while you cleaned the cut above his eyebrow.
He hissed when antiseptic touched it.
“Sorry.”
“S’fine.”
“No it’s not.”
He went still.
You focused carefully on the bandage because suddenly looking him in the eye felt too intimate.
“You don’t have to act tough with me.”
A long silence.
Then:
“I don’t know how not to.”
That one sentence told you more about Juice Ortiz than anything else ever had.
You looked up finally.
His eyes looked exhausted.
Not physically.
Soul-deep exhausted.
Like he’d been carrying too much weight for too long.
Without thinking, you brushed your fingers lightly against his cheek beneath the bruise.
The reaction was immediate.
He froze.
Completely.
Not pulling away.
Not leaning closer.
Just… stunned.
Your breath caught.
Because nobody should react to gentle touch like that.
Nobody.
“Juice…”
His eyes shut briefly.
And for one horrible moment you thought he might cry.
But then he smiled instead.
Small. Crooked. False.
“You always patch people up this good?”
The subject change was obvious.
You let him have it.
For now.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
And somewhere during all of it, Juice stopped leaving.
Not officially.
There was no conversation.
No decision.
It just… happened.
A toothbrush appeared beside yours in the bathroom.
His hoodie got left draped over your chair permanently.
There were motorcycle parts on your kitchen table.
He started keeping beer in your fridge.
And every night, somehow, he ended up back on your couch.
Except eventually not even the couch.
That started after the nightmares.
You woke one night to a crash from the living room.
Your heart nearly stopped.
You ran out to find Juice crouched beside the couch breathing hard, eyes wild with panic.
The lamp had fallen over.
“Juice?”
He looked up sharply like he didn’t know where he was.
“It’s okay,” you said immediately.
His chest heaved.
“S-sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Hey. Look at me.”
Slowly, he did.
“You’re safe.”
Something in his expression cracked.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
But you saw it.
And suddenly he looked younger than you’d ever seen him.
Not childish.
Just worn down.
Like life had scraped him raw.
You sat carefully on the floor beside him.
“Bad dream?”
He laughed once without humor.
“Yeah.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
A beat.
Then quieter:
“I just… didn’t wanna be there.”
There.
Not here.
Your chest hurt.
Without really thinking about it, you reached for him.
“You can stay with me tonight.”
His eyes flicked toward you.
“You sure?”
“Obviously.”
He hesitated before following you into your bedroom.
Like he thought he shouldn’t.
Like he was waiting for permission to exist in your space.
You climbed under the blankets and patted the empty side carefully.
Juice stared at it for a long moment.
Then lay down stiffly on top of the covers.
Fully clothed.
Like he planned to bolt at any second.
You turned toward him slightly.
“You know you can relax, right?”
“Relaxing’s not really my thing.”
“I noticed.”
A tiny smile tugged briefly at his mouth.
Then faded.
The silence stretched.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Finally, barely audible:
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Why are you nice to me?”
The question hit like a punch.
You frowned immediately.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A real one.”
He wasn’t joking.
He genuinely didn’t understand.
Your heart twisted painfully.
“Juice…”
“No, seriously.” His voice stayed quiet. Careful. “I don’t get it.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“You’re my friend.”
He looked away instantly.
Like that answer hurt.
“You know what I mean.”
And you did.
Oh, you did.
Why him specifically.
Why patience.
Why softness.
Why safety.
Because somewhere along the line Juice had learned affection was conditional.
Temporary.
Earned.
You swallowed hard.
“I’m nice to you because you deserve kindness.”
He actually flinched.
Then laughed softly like you’d said something ridiculous.
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No,” he whispered. “It really isn’t.”
The room went painfully still.
You looked at him for a long moment before reaching across the space between you and taking his hand.
His breathing stopped.
Literally stopped.
Like nobody had ever held his hand gently before.
“You don’t have to earn being cared about,” you said quietly.
Juice stared at your joined hands with an expression so heartbreakingly fragile it made tears sting your eyes.
He didn’t answer.
But after a long time, he finally relaxed enough to fall asleep beside you.
Still holding your hand.
After that night he started sleeping in your bed more often.
Never assuming.
Always hesitant.
“You sure?”
Every single time.
Every time like he thought eventually your answer would change.
But it never did.
And slowly, impossibly slowly, Juice began unfolding around you.
Not all at once.
Just little pieces.
He laughed easier in your apartment.
Started singing quietly while cooking.
Started touching you absentmindedly.
A hand at your waist while passing behind you in the kitchen.
Your knees pressed together on the couch.
His head resting briefly against your shoulder during movies.
Tiny things.
But each one felt enormous.
One Sunday morning you woke tangled together accidentally.
At some point during the night Juice had rolled closer in his sleep until his face was buried against your neck, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist.
You went perfectly still.
Not because you minded.
Because you’d never seen him this relaxed.
Ever.
Sunlight spilled gold across the bed.
His breathing was deep and even.
Peaceful.
You realized suddenly with painful clarity that Juice only ever looked truly safe when he was asleep beside you.
God.
You were in love with him.
The realization should’ve terrified you.
Instead it just felt inevitable.
Then Juice stirred.
His eyes blinked open slowly.
And the second he realized how close you were, panic flashed across his face.
“Sorry— shit, sorry—”
“Hey.” You caught his wrist gently before he could pull away completely. “It’s okay.”
His entire body stayed tense.
“You sure?”
“You don’t have to apologize for touching me.”
He looked at you like that sentence was incomprehensible.
Your chest ached.
“You really don’t know what to do with softness, huh?”
His expression turned strangely vulnerable.
“No,” he admitted quietly.
You brushed your thumb lightly over his wrist.
“That’s okay.”
He stared at you for a very long time after that.
Like he wanted to say something.
Like he almost did.
But then he looked away first.
The first time you realized he hadn’t gone home in weeks happened by accident.
You were folding laundry while Juice messed with something on his bike outside.
One of the clubhouse hoodies had gotten mixed into the pile.
You picked it up automatically.
Something felt strange.
The pockets were empty.
No wallet.
No keys.
No cigarettes.
Nothing.
You frowned slightly.
Then glanced toward the bathroom.
His toothbrush.
Your dresser drawer with his shirts in it.
The sneakers by your door.
The charger plugged in beside your bed.
Your stomach tightened slowly.
When Juice came back upstairs thirty minutes later, sweaty and grease-stained, you were sitting on the couch waiting.
He stopped immediately.
“What?”
“How long has it been?”
“What?”
“Since you slept at the clubhouse.”
His face went blank.
Too blank.
“Uh…”
“Juice.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“A while.”
“How long?”
A pause.
Then:
“Maybe a month.”
Your eyes widened.
“A month?”
He shrugged immediately like it was nothing.
But you could see the tension building in his shoulders now.
“You didn’t notice.”
The words came out joking.
But underneath was something raw.
Something afraid.
Like maybe he’d overstayed.
Like maybe you’d throw him out now that you realized.
Your chest hurt instantly.
“Juice…”
“It’s okay if it’s weird.”
“No, hey.” You moved closer immediately. “No. That’s not what this is.”
He looked at you carefully.
“You can tell me to leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
The words came out too fast.
Too honest.
Juice froze.
And suddenly the air between you changed.
Thickened.
You swallowed hard.
“You know you’re allowed to be here, right?”
He stared at you silently.
“You don’t need permission every five seconds.”
His laugh came out brittle.
“Yeah. I kinda do.”
Your heart cracked clean open.
You stepped closer slowly.
“Did something happen at the clubhouse?”
His jaw tightened.
Club business.
Pain flashed behind his eyes so fast most people would’ve missed it.
You didn’t.
“Juice.”
He looked exhausted suddenly.
“I just…” His voice faltered. “I needed somewhere quiet.”
Not the full truth.
But true enough.
And somehow worse.
Because it meant your apartment had become refuge.
You reached up before you could overthink it and touched his face gently.
His eyes shut instantly.
Like relief physically hurt him.
“You have one,” you whispered.
His breathing turned uneven.
“You keep saying things like that.”
“Because they’re true.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
His eyes opened slowly.
"Because if you say things like that,” he whispered, “I start wanting them.”
The confession hung between you.
Heavy.
Terrifying.
You could hear your heartbeat.
“What if I want them too?”
Juice looked wrecked.
Actually wrecked.
Like hope was the cruelest thing anyone had ever handed him.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“No.” He shook his head immediately. “No, you think you do now, but—”
“But what?”
“I’m not…” His voice cracked suddenly. “I’m not somebody people stay for.”
Silence.
Then very carefully, you asked:
“Who taught you that?”
He looked away immediately.
Answer enough.
You took his hand gently.
“I’m still here.”
His eyes burned red instantly.
He tried to laugh it off.
Failed miserably.
Then, to your complete shock, Juice whispered:
“Don’t.”
Your chest tightened.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be this good to me.”
And there it was.
The truth.
He was terrified of needing you.
Because needing meant losing.
You stepped closer until barely inches separated you.
“Too late.”
He stared at you helplessly.
Then finally— finally— he broke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just suddenly.
His face crumpled and he covered his eyes with one shaking hand like he was ashamed of it.
“Oh God,” he breathed raggedly. “Sorry.”
“No, no.” You grabbed him immediately. “Hey. Hey.”
The second your arms wrapped around him, Juice made the most heartbreaking sound you’d ever heard.
Not crying.
Not exactly.
More like someone collapsing after holding themselves upright too long.
He folded against you hard enough to nearly knock you backward.
You held him tighter automatically.
“It’s okay,” you whispered into his hair. “You’re okay.”
His hands clutched the back of your shirt desperately.
And you realized with sudden horror that nobody had probably held him through a breakdown before.
Nobody had let him fall apart safely.
So you stood there in your tiny apartment holding Juice Ortiz while he shook apart in your arms.
And when he finally whispered brokenly, “I’m trying so hard,” your own tears fell too.
“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”
After that, things changed.
Not instantly.
Juice still startled sometimes when you touched him unexpectedly.
Still apologized too much.
Still acted surprised every time you kissed his forehead absentmindedly or handed him coffee or waited up for him.
But something softer started growing between you.
Trust.
Real trust.
One night you found him asleep on the couch with the TV still on.
You smiled softly and reached for the remote.
Juice stirred immediately, panic flashing across his face before he focused on you.
“Oh.”
“It’s just me.”
His shoulders dropped.
That alone nearly destroyed you.
It’s just me.
And somehow that meant safe now.
You brushed a hand over his forehead gently.
“You coming to bed?”
The question slipped out naturally.
Like it belonged there.
Juice stared at you for a second.
Then something unbearably tender crossed his face.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
He followed you into the bedroom.
And sometime during the night, half asleep, he wrapped himself around you like he finally believed you’d still be there in the morning.
The first time he said “I love you” happened accidentally.
Which honestly felt very Juice.
You were both cooking dinner.
Well.
You were cooking.
Juice was aggressively stealing ingredients and pretending he was helping.
“Stop eating the peppers.”
“I’m quality testing.”
“You’ve eaten six pieces.”
“And all six passed inspection.”
You snorted.
Then yelped when he stole another piece directly off the cutting board.
“Oh my God, you menace—”
He grinned.
Big. Bright. Beautiful.
The sight hit you square in the chest the way it always did now.
Because happy Juice still felt rare enough to treasure.
Without thinking, you smiled helplessly at him.
And Juice looked at you with so much unguarded affection it nearly stopped your heart.
“I love you,” he said automatically.
Silence.
Juice froze.
You froze.
His eyes widened in horror.
“Shit.”
Your pulse thundered.
Juice looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
“I didn’t— fuck, I mean—”
“You love me?”
He looked terrified.
Actually terrified.
Like you were about to destroy him.
And suddenly you understood:
He thought he’d ruined everything.
You crossed the kitchen in two seconds flat.
“Juice.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”
You kissed him.
Hard.
Immediate.
All the fear drained out of him in one stunned breath.
Then he kissed you back.
And it felt like everything.
Weeks of yearning.
Months of restraint.
All the tenderness between you finally breaking open.
His hands cupped your face carefully like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed.
You kissed him until breathing became difficult.
When you finally pulled apart, Juice looked dazed.
“You kissed me.”
“You said you love me.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I love you too.”
He went completely still.
You watched the exact second those words landed.
Like he genuinely didn’t know what to do with them.
“You…” His voice broke. “You do?”
You could’ve cried right there.
“Of course I do.”
Juice stared at you with devastating vulnerability.
Then suddenly hid his face against your shoulder.
You laughed softly through your own tears and wrapped your arms around him immediately.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
The shaky breath he let out warmed your neck.
“Nobody’s ever…” He stopped.
You held him tighter.
“You don’t have to finish that sentence.”
But you understood anyway.
Nobody had ever loved him gently before.
Not like this.
Not safely.
You pressed a kiss into his hair.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His arms tightened around you hard enough to ache.
“Promise?”
The word came out so quiet it almost killed you.
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.
“I promise.”
And for the first time since you’d known him, Juice looked like he believed someone might actually stay.
It's all your fault.
The way his heart feels like it's fistfighting his ribcage.
The way his thoughts always wander to you even at inopportune times.
He kinda hates it. It's messing with his head.
But fuck does he love you.
Happy Lowman hates a lot of things.
He hates traffic.
He hates cheap whiskey.
He hates anyone touching his bikes without permission.
He hates polyester shirts because they make his skin itch.
He especially hates feelings.
Feelings get people killed.
Feelings make you hesitate.
Feelings are weak spots people can wedge knives into.
Happy learned that lesson young and learned it hard.
Which means this whole thing with you is objectively a disaster.
Because somehow you’ve turned his internal organs into traitors.
It’s your fault entirely.
The way his heart acts stupid every time you smile at him.
The way he catches himself looking for you automatically whenever he walks into a room.
The way his thoughts drift toward you at the worst possible moments.
Like during gun deals.
Or fights.
Or once, horrifyingly, during sex.
That one genuinely pissed him off.
Not because the woman noticed—she didn’t.
But because halfway through, all Happy could think about was the way you laugh when you’re really tired.
Which is insane behavior.
Psychotic, honestly.
He almost got up and left on principle.
Instead he finished out of sheer stubbornness and then spent the entire motorcycle ride home furious with himself.
Because this?
This isn’t who he is.
Happy Lowman is not the kind of man who falls hopelessly in love with someone sweet enough to apologize to spiders before putting them outside.
And yet.
Here he is.
Fucked beyond repair.
The first sign something is wrong happens at the garage.
You’re standing beside a truck arguing with Juice over engine timing while sunlight catches the gold flecks in your eyes.
Happy’s trying to clean a gun nearby.
Trying being the important word.
Because you laugh suddenly—bright and warm and real—and he accidentally reassembles the magazine wrong.
Happy stares at the weapon in his hands.
Then at you.
Then back at the gun.
“What the fuck.”
Juice looks over. “Something wrong?”
Happy glares at him instinctively.
“No.”
But something is definitely wrong.
Because he’s Happy.
He doesn’t get distracted.
Certainly not by women.
Yet somehow you’ve infiltrated his brain like a virus.
You wave at him absentmindedly from across the garage.
Happy’s stupid traitor heart immediately punches his ribcage hard enough to qualify as attempted murder.
He scowls.
You smile wider.
Which somehow makes it worse.
It escalates from there.
Rapidly.
Soon you’re everywhere.
In his thoughts.
In his routines.
In places you absolutely should not be.
He’s at a weapons meet in Oakland listening to some asshole talk numbers when suddenly he remembers you complaining your apartment gets cold at night.
Three hours later there’s a brand-new space heater sitting outside your door with no note attached.
You still somehow figure out it was him.
“Thank you for the heater,” you say the next morning, smiling at him over coffee.
Happy narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Who says it was me?”
“It came with a receipt from a motorcycle shop.”
“…Shit.”
You laugh.
His chest hurts.
Again.
See?
Your fault.
The club notices before he does.
Actually, scratch that.
The club notices before he admits it.
Because Happy knows exactly what this is.
He’s just refusing to deal with it like a mature adult.
“You got heart eyes,” Tig announces one afternoon.
Happy doesn’t even look up from sharpening his knife.
“Say that again and lose a finger.”
“You bought her favorite candy.”
“She likes it.”
“You remembered her coffee order after hearing it once.”
Happy shrugs.
Tig gasps theatrically. “OH MY GOD. HE’S DOWN BAD.”
Chibs nearly spits out his beer laughing.
Happy debates homicide briefly.
The worst part?
They’re right.
He remembers everything about you.
The little things most people overlook.
You hate pulp in orange juice.
You sing under your breath while working on engines.
You always tuck your hands into the sleeves of oversized hoodies when you’re tired.
And every single detail wedges itself permanently into Happy’s brain.
He kinda hates it.
He definitely hates how much he loves it.
You don’t make it easy either.
Not intentionally.
That’s the problem.
You’re just naturally affectionate in ways that completely short-circuit him.
One afternoon you walk into the clubhouse soaked from rain.
Happy looks up from the bar immediately.
Always immediately.
“Jesus,” you mutter, wringing out your sleeves. “It’s biblical out there.”
Then you smile at him.
Just him.
And without hesitation, you walk over and stand between his knees where he sits on the stool.
Happy’s brain blue-screens instantly.
“You’re wet,” he says intelligently.
“No kidding.”
You shiver slightly.
That’s all it takes.
Happy immediately shrugs off his hoodie and hands it to you.
You blink. “What about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“You’re already cold.”
Simple.
Matter-of-fact.
Like your comfort is the obvious priority.
Your expression softens in that dangerous way that makes his pulse go stupid.
“You’re sweet, you know that?”
Happy nearly chokes to death.
Tig witnesses the entire thing from across the room and loses his mind laughing.
“You called Happy sweet,” Tig wheezes.
You look confused. “He is sweet.”
Happy stares at you like you personally caused climate change.
Because no.
No, he is not sweet.
He’s terrifying.
Violent.
A man with enough bodies attached to his name to qualify as a natural disaster.
And yet you look at him like he’s safe.
Like he’s good.
It fucks with his head badly.
The breaking point comes during a run to Stockton.
It’s supposed to be simple.
Quick pickup.
Quick drop.
Except the deal goes sideways because of course it does.
Now Happy’s crouched behind concrete barriers with bullets cracking overhead while Tig screams insults at someone across the lot.
Objectively, this should have his full attention.
Instead his dumbass brain suddenly remembers you mentioning you’ve never seen the ocean at sunrise.
Happy nearly gets shot in the face.
“FOCUS!” Tig yells.
“I am focused.”
“You’re smiling!”
Happy immediately stops smiling.
Because apparently he was.
Thinking about you.
During a fucking shootout.
This is officially untenable.
That night he rides straight to your apartment afterward.
Not because he has a plan.
Absolutely not.
Happy doesn’t do plans where feelings are involved.
He just suddenly needs to see you.
Needs proof you’re real and not some hallucination specifically designed to ruin his emotional stability.
You answer the door wearing sleep shorts and one of his old shirts.
Happy forgets how breathing works.
Your face brightens immediately when you see him.
“There you are.”
There you are.
Like he belongs here.
Like you’ve been waiting.
The ache in his chest turns almost unbearable.
You tilt your head slightly. “Everything okay?”
“No.”
Your expression shifts instantly. Concerned now.
“Happy—”
“I think about you too much.”
The words leave his mouth abruptly.
Like they forced themselves out.
You blink.
“…What?”
Happy runs a hand over his face roughly.
“This thing you do to me.”
“What thing?”
“All of it.”
Very clarifying.
You stare at him helplessly while he continues glaring at the hallway like it personally offended him.
“My head’s fucked.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “That’s romantic.”
He points at you suddenly. “See? That.”
“What?”
“You joke when I’m trying to say serious shit.”
A laugh escapes you.
Happy looks pained immediately.
“There’s the laughing.”
“You showed up at midnight to angrily confess feelings at me.”
“I’m not confessing.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re adorable.”
“I kill people.”
“You also brought me soup when I had the flu.”
“You were sick.”
You smile softly now.
And there it is again.
That awful violent tenderness crashing through his chest.
Happy exhales hard through his nose.
“It’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
“The way my heart goes stupid around you.”
Your expression changes immediately.
Softer now.
Warmer.
Happy keeps going because apparently once the emotional hemorrhaging starts there’s no stopping it.
“You’re always in my head,” he mutters. “All the fuckin’ time.”
Your breath catches slightly.
“I’ll be doing normal shit and suddenly I’m wondering if you ate lunch.”
A tiny smile appears on your mouth.
Dangerous.
Devastating.
“I hate it.”
“You definitely sound like a man in love.”
Happy glares.
You grin.
Then your expression gentles completely.
“You know what the really funny part is?”
“What?”
“I thought I was the pathetic one.”
That stops him cold.
“You…”
“I’m crazy about you, Happy.”
His entire brain stalls.
You step closer slowly.
“I have been for months.”
The hallway suddenly feels very small.
Very quiet.
Happy stares at you like he’s genuinely struggling to process the information.
“You love me back?”
You smile softly. “Obviously.”
That word nearly knocks the air from his lungs.
Obviously.
Like loving him is easy.
Natural.
Expected.
He reaches for you before he even consciously decides to move.
His hands settle on your waist carefully.
Reverently.
Like he still can’t quite believe this is real.
“You should have said something,” you murmur.
Happy snorts softly. “Would rather get shot.”
“I know.”
That makes him blink.
“You know?”
“Tig talks.”
“Traitor.”
You laugh quietly.
And Christ.
There’s that sound again.
The one that ruins him completely.
Happy cups your face suddenly and kisses you like he’s been trying not to for months.
Because he has.
The kiss is rough at first.
Overwhelming.
Everything he’s been holding back crashing into you all at once.
Then it softens unexpectedly.
His thumb brushes your cheek gently while he kisses you slower.
Like he’s savoring it.
Like he can’t believe he gets to have this.
When he finally pulls back, both of you breathing unevenly, your forehead rests against his.
“You still hate it?” you whisper.
Happy looks at you for a long moment.
At your smile.
Your soft eyes.
The woman who somehow turned his terrifying life upside down just by existing in it.
A croweater makes the mistake of flirting with Happy.
He puts her in her place before you do.
The bass from the clubhouse speakers rattled through the floorboards hard enough to shake beer bottles against scarred wood tables. Cigarette smoke curled thick beneath low yellow lights, wrapping the room in that familiar haze of sweat, leather, whiskey, and danger.
Friday nights at the SAMCRO clubhouse were always loud.
Too loud for most people.
But not for you.
You sat sideways in the battered chair beside Happy Lowman, one boot hooked against the rung while your fingers lazily traced circles over the tattoos climbing his forearm. The ink disappeared beneath the sleeve of his black shirt, his skin warm beneath your touch.
Happy didn’t talk much.
Everyone knew that.
But he let you touch him whenever you wanted, and that alone said more than entire conversations from other men.
Across the room, bikers laughed over a game of pool. Tig was losing badly and blaming the cue stick. Chibs was half-drunk already, leaning against the bar while arguing with Juice about music. Gemma moved through the chaos like she owned the oxygen in the building.
Happy barely acknowledged any of it.
His dark eyes stayed on you.
Not soft.
Never soft.
But quieter than they were with everyone else.
You leaned closer. “You’re staring again.”
“I know.”
“You gonna keep doing it?”
“Yeah.”
The corner of your mouth twitched.
That was another thing about Happy. No games. No pretending. If he wanted something, he said it. If he didn’t, you knew immediately.
Your relationship with him had started the same way.
No dramatic confession.
No romantic speech.
Just Happy showing up at your apartment one night after a run, bloody knuckles and exhausted eyes, asking if he could stay.
And then never really leaving.
You’d learned quickly that beneath the violence, beneath the terrifying reputation and emotionless stare, Happy was deeply possessive in the quietest ways imaginable.
Always checking locks before bed.
Always walking closest to the road.
Always touching you somehow — fingers against your spine, hand on your thigh, knuckles brushing yours.
Grounding himself.
Grounding you.
He tilted his beer toward your untouched drink. “You nursing that all night?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
“Because unlike you, I enjoy remembering my evenings.”
A low sound left his throat. Not quite a laugh.
For Happy, it might as well have been hysterics.
Then the clubhouse door opened.
A woman walked in with two other croweaters hanging off her shoulders, all heavy makeup and tight clothes, looking around the room like they were shopping.
You barely paid attention at first.
Croweaters came and went constantly around SAMCRO.
Most knew the rules.
Most knew exactly which men were unavailable.
Apparently this one didn’t.
Her eyes landed on Happy.
And stayed there.
You felt the shift in him before he even moved.
Subtle.
Tiny.
But you knew him better than anyone.
Happy leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze flattening into something cold and unreadable.
The woman smiled anyway.
Bad choice.
“She’s looking at you,” you murmured.
“I know.”
“You scared?”
“No.”
“You should be,” Tig called from across the room after overhearing. “That one looks like she bites.”
Happy ignored him.
The woman approached anyway, hips swaying with deliberate confidence. One of the croweaters whispered something to her that made them both giggle.
You sat back silently.
Watching.
Happy’s fingers tapped once against his beer bottle.
A warning sign.
Not that she noticed.
She stopped directly beside him.
“You’re Happy, right?”
He looked up slowly.
“Who’s asking?”
She smiled wider, clearly mistaking his indifference for interest. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Bad things, hopefully.”
That should’ve ended it.
For anyone with survival instincts, it would have.
Instead, she laughed and leaned closer, placing a hand on the back of his chair.
“I like bad men.”
Across the room, Chibs physically winced.
Juice muttered, “Oh no.”
You remained quiet.
Happy still hadn’t touched her.
Hadn’t looked at her body.
Hadn’t acknowledged her flirting.
Which somehow made the whole thing worse.
Because everyone in the clubhouse knew what it looked like when Happy was interested in someone.
And it looked nothing like this.
The woman tilted her head toward you dismissively. “Didn’t realize you were busy.”
Three things happened at once.
Tig stopped talking.
The room quieted slightly.
And Happy smiled.
Not a warm smile.
Not even close.
The terrifying one.
Small.
Sharp.
Predatory.
You almost felt bad for her.
Almost.
“She’s not me being busy,” Happy said calmly.
The woman blinked.
Happy set his beer down carefully before standing to his full height.
He wasn’t the biggest man in the club.
But he was easily the scariest.
Tattoos crawled over his skin beneath the dim lights, black ink against hard muscle and old scars. His expression stayed eerily relaxed while hers slowly faltered.
“She’s my old lady.”
Every word landed like a blade against the table.
Possessive.
Final.
The woman laughed nervously. “Okay, I didn’t know—”
“You should’ve.”
Silence spread outward.
Happy stepped closer.
Not aggressive.
That was the unsettling part.
He didn’t need aggression to intimidate people.
“You walked in here,” he continued evenly, “looked at me while my girl’s sitting right beside me, and decided you were still gonna try something.”
Her face reddened.
“I was just flirting.”
“No,” Happy said. “You were disrespectful.”
Your chest tightened slightly.
Not because he was angry.
Because he was defending you before you’d even had the chance to speak.
The woman glanced toward you as if expecting backup.
You simply held her stare.
Happy noticed.
Of course he did.
His hand found your shoulder automatically, fingers spreading possessively across your skin without him even looking.
“She doesn’t gotta put you in your place,” he said quietly. “I’ll do it for her.”
The room went dead silent.
Even the music suddenly seemed quieter.
The croweater swallowed hard. “I wasn’t trying to start anything.”
“But you did.”
Happy’s voice never rose.
That was what scared people most.
“You think because club girls throw themselves at patched members that means you can disrespect my woman in front of me?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No… I don’t.”
“Good.”
He stared at her another long second.
Then dismissed her completely.
Just like that.
Like she wasn’t worth another thought.
He sat back down beside you, arm sliding around your waist naturally, pulling you against his side while the woman awkwardly retreated toward the bar with burning cheeks.
The room slowly resumed breathing.
Tig burst out laughing first.
“Oh, she almost died.”
Chibs shook his head into his beer. “Jesus Christ, Hap.”
Juice looked genuinely stressed. “I thought he was gonna stab her.”
Happy took another drink calmly. “Wasn’t gonna stab her.”
“You looked like you were gonna stab her,” Juice argued.
“That’s just his face,” you said.
Happy looked at you then.
Really looked at you.
Checking.
Making sure you were okay.
You smiled faintly. “You handled that before I could.”
“She disrespected you.”
“I could’ve handled it.”
“I know.”
Simple.
Certain.
He wasn’t saying you needed him to protect you.
He was saying he wanted to.
There was a difference.
You rested your hand against his chest.
“You got jealous?”
You laughed softly.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
That finally earned another one of those tiny almost-smiles from him.
Across the room, the croweater kept stealing embarrassed glances toward your table while her friends whispered furiously beside her.
Happy noticed every single one.
His arm tightened around you instinctively.
Mine.
The word practically radiated off him.
You leaned against his shoulder comfortably. “You scared her.”
“She’ll live.”
“Maybe.”
He looked down at you, dark eyes softer now than they’d been all night.
“You mad?”
“At her?” You shrugged. “Not really.”
“At me.”
Your brows furrowed. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“Got intense.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“Happy, baby, you have smiley-face tattoos for kills. Your version of intense is different from everyone else’s.”
Tig nearly choked hearing you call him baby.
Happy ignored him completely.
“You didn’t answer me.”
Your expression softened.
That was another thing people misunderstood about Happy Lowman.
They thought because he was violent, because he killed without hesitation, because he moved through life like a ghost wrapped in tattoos and brutality, that he didn’t care deeply.
Truth was—
Happy cared too deeply.
Especially about the few people he let close.
And when he loved someone, it became bone-deep possessiveness mixed with terrifying loyalty.
You touched the side of his face gently.
“I’m not mad,” you said quietly. “I liked that you stood up for me.”
His eyes stayed locked on yours.
“You shouldn’t ever have to wonder if I will.”
The sincerity in his voice hit harder than shouting ever could.
You swallowed slightly.
“C’mere,” you murmured.
Happy immediately leaned down when you tugged his cut.
The kiss started soft.
Slow.
But the second your fingers slid over the nape of his neck, something in him snapped tighter.
His hand gripped your waist hard enough to pull you straight into his lap.
Someone across the room wolf-whistled.
“Get a room!” Tig shouted.
Happy flipped him off without breaking the kiss.
You smiled against his mouth.
Possessive bastard.
Not that you minded.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
Always checking.
Always making sure.
You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “I’m good.”
He nodded once like that settled something inside him.
Then his eyes flicked past you toward the bar where the croweater still lingered.
His expression immediately darkened again.
You grabbed his chin lightly and turned him back toward you.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“She got the message.”
“She better have.”
You smiled knowingly. “You know what the funniest part is?”
“What?”
“I was about two seconds away from handling it myself.”
That earned a genuine amused exhale from him.
“I know.”
“You gonna let me next time?”
“No.”
You laughed again.
“Control freak.”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t pretend otherwise.
Because with Happy, what you saw was exactly what you got.
Violence.
Loyalty.
Devotion.
And love so fierce it bordered on dangerous.
The night rolled on around you after that.
Music.
Laughter.
Engines outside.
Club business drifting through conversations.
But Happy barely paid attention to any of it anymore.
One hand stayed on your thigh the entire night.
Grounding.
Claiming.
Protecting.
Every so often his thumb would brush absentmindedly against your skin like he needed the reminder that you were still there.
And every single time, you leaned closer.
By midnight, half the club had cleared out.
Tig disappeared with a croweater.
Juice was passed out on a couch.
Chibs had gone outside to smoke.
The clubhouse quieted into something more intimate.
You sat at the bar sipping water while Happy talked low with Jax near the office door. Whatever conversation they were having looked serious.
Happy caught you watching him halfway through.
Instantly, his attention shifted.
That was the thing.
No matter who he was talking to.
No matter what was happening.
Part of him was always aware of you.
His gaze softened slightly before he finished with Jax and walked back over.
“You ready to go home?”
Home.
Not your apartment.
Not his place.
Home.
The small house outside Charming where his boots sat beside yours near the front door and your shampoo somehow ended up mixed between gun oil and whiskey bottles in the bathroom.
You smiled.
“Yeah.”
Happy took your hand immediately.
No hesitation.
No embarrassment.
Just rough tattooed fingers intertwining with yours like it was instinct.
As you both headed toward the exit, the same croweater from earlier accidentally crossed paths with you near the door.
She froze visibly.
You almost laughed.
Happy’s stare alone made her step aside immediately.
But before you passed, she looked at you sheepishly.
“Sorry,” she muttered.
You studied her for a second.
Then shrugged lightly.
“It’s fine.”
Happy looked less convinced.
You squeezed his hand before he could say anything else.
Outside, cool night air replaced the suffocating heat of the clubhouse. Motorcycles lined the lot beneath dim lights, chrome gleaming silver under the moon.
Happy pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it before holding the pack toward you automatically.
You took one.
“You know,” you said casually, “that might’ve been the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He glanced sideways at you while smoke curled from his mouth. “What?”
“The smile.”
“That smile means somebody’s fucked.”
You grinned. “I know.”
He handed you the helmet he kept for you on his bike.
The ride home was quiet.
Comfortably quiet.
Your arms around his waist while one of Happy’s hands stayed on your thigh the entire drive.
Streetlights flashed across his tattoos in brief golden streaks.
You watched him for a while.
The hard line of his jaw.
The scars on his knuckles.
The absolute calm in him now that you were alone together.
“You really hate when people disrespect me, huh?”
Happy’s grip tightened slightly.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re mine.”
The words should’ve sounded controlling.
Instead they sounded reverent.
Protective.
Like something precious he intended to guard with his bare hands if necessary.
Your chest ached.
“You’re mine too,” you said softly.
Happy went still for half a second.
Tiny reaction.
Most people wouldn’t notice it.
You did.
Always.
His thumb brushed slowly against your knee.
When you got home, he waited for you to unlock the front door before following close behind. Habit. Always making sure you got inside safely first.
The second the door shut, his hands found your waist.
No patience.
No hesitation.
He kissed you hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
All the restraint he’d shown at the clubhouse disappeared instantly.
You laughed breathlessly against his mouth. “Thought you weren’t jealous.”
“I’m not.”
“You practically threatened murder.”
“She disrespected you.”
“There it is again.”
His forehead pressed against yours.
“She looked at you like you didn’t matter.”
The quiet anger in his voice surprised you more than the earlier intimidation ever had.
Because this—
This was real.
Not performance.
Not possessiveness for show.
Happy genuinely could not tolerate someone diminishing you.
You touched his face carefully.
“Hey,” you whispered. “I matter to you.”
“More than anybody.”
Your heart nearly stopped.
Happy didn’t say things like that lightly.
In fact, he barely said things like that at all.
You smiled slowly. “C’mere.”
This kiss felt different.
Slower.
Full of everything he struggled to verbalize.
His hands softened against your back while yours slid beneath his shirt, fingertips tracing scars earned from years of violence and survival.
Happy kissed like he fought.
Intense.
Focused.
Like he was trying to make sure you understood something without words.
When he finally pulled away, both of you breathing unevenly, he rested his head briefly against yours.
“Love you,” he muttered quietly.
There it was.
Rare.
Precious.
You smiled instantly.
“I love you too.”
Something settled inside him at those words.
Visible relief.
Tiny.
But there.
He kissed your forehead once before guiding you toward the couch, pulling you down against his chest while the house settled into silence around you.
Outside, motorcycles roared faintly somewhere far down the road.
Inside, Happy’s arms stayed wrapped around you like armor.
Like home.
And somewhere back at the clubhouse, one very embarrassed croweater was probably still learning the same lesson everyone else eventually did:
A croweater makes the mistake of flirting with Happy.
He puts her in her place before you do.
The bass from the clubhouse speakers rattled through the floorboards hard enough to shake beer bottles against scarred wood tables. Cigarette smoke curled thick beneath low yellow lights, wrapping the room in that familiar haze of sweat, leather, whiskey, and danger.
Friday nights at the SAMCRO clubhouse were always loud.
Too loud for most people.
But not for you.
You sat sideways in the battered chair beside Happy Lowman, one boot hooked against the rung while your fingers lazily traced circles over the tattoos climbing his forearm. The ink disappeared beneath the sleeve of his black shirt, his skin warm beneath your touch.
Happy didn’t talk much.
Everyone knew that.
But he let you touch him whenever you wanted, and that alone said more than entire conversations from other men.
Across the room, bikers laughed over a game of pool. Tig was losing badly and blaming the cue stick. Chibs was half-drunk already, leaning against the bar while arguing with Juice about music. Gemma moved through the chaos like she owned the oxygen in the building.
Happy barely acknowledged any of it.
His dark eyes stayed on you.
Not soft.
Never soft.
But quieter than they were with everyone else.
You leaned closer. “You’re staring again.”
“I know.”
“You gonna keep doing it?”
“Yeah.”
The corner of your mouth twitched.
That was another thing about Happy. No games. No pretending. If he wanted something, he said it. If he didn’t, you knew immediately.
Your relationship with him had started the same way.
No dramatic confession.
No romantic speech.
Just Happy showing up at your apartment one night after a run, bloody knuckles and exhausted eyes, asking if he could stay.
And then never really leaving.
You’d learned quickly that beneath the violence, beneath the terrifying reputation and emotionless stare, Happy was deeply possessive in the quietest ways imaginable.
Always checking locks before bed.
Always walking closest to the road.
Always touching you somehow — fingers against your spine, hand on your thigh, knuckles brushing yours.
Grounding himself.
Grounding you.
He tilted his beer toward your untouched drink. “You nursing that all night?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
“Because unlike you, I enjoy remembering my evenings.”
A low sound left his throat. Not quite a laugh.
For Happy, it might as well have been hysterics.
Then the clubhouse door opened.
A woman walked in with two other croweaters hanging off her shoulders, all heavy makeup and tight clothes, looking around the room like they were shopping.
You barely paid attention at first.
Croweaters came and went constantly around SAMCRO.
Most knew the rules.
Most knew exactly which men were unavailable.
Apparently this one didn’t.
Her eyes landed on Happy.
And stayed there.
You felt the shift in him before he even moved.
Subtle.
Tiny.
But you knew him better than anyone.
Happy leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze flattening into something cold and unreadable.
The woman smiled anyway.
Bad choice.
“She’s looking at you,” you murmured.
“I know.”
“You scared?”
“No.”
“You should be,” Tig called from across the room after overhearing. “That one looks like she bites.”
Happy ignored him.
The woman approached anyway, hips swaying with deliberate confidence. One of the croweaters whispered something to her that made them both giggle.
You sat back silently.
Watching.
Happy’s fingers tapped once against his beer bottle.
A warning sign.
Not that she noticed.
She stopped directly beside him.
“You’re Happy, right?”
He looked up slowly.
“Who’s asking?”
She smiled wider, clearly mistaking his indifference for interest. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Bad things, hopefully.”
That should’ve ended it.
For anyone with survival instincts, it would have.
Instead, she laughed and leaned closer, placing a hand on the back of his chair.
“I like bad men.”
Across the room, Chibs physically winced.
Juice muttered, “Oh no.”
You remained quiet.
Happy still hadn’t touched her.
Hadn’t looked at her body.
Hadn’t acknowledged her flirting.
Which somehow made the whole thing worse.
Because everyone in the clubhouse knew what it looked like when Happy was interested in someone.
And it looked nothing like this.
The woman tilted her head toward you dismissively. “Didn’t realize you were busy.”
Three things happened at once.
Tig stopped talking.
The room quieted slightly.
And Happy smiled.
Not a warm smile.
Not even close.
The terrifying one.
Small.
Sharp.
Predatory.
You almost felt bad for her.
Almost.
“She’s not me being busy,” Happy said calmly.
The woman blinked.
Happy set his beer down carefully before standing to his full height.
He wasn’t the biggest man in the club.
But he was easily the scariest.
Tattoos crawled over his skin beneath the dim lights, black ink against hard muscle and old scars. His expression stayed eerily relaxed while hers slowly faltered.
“She’s my old lady.”
Every word landed like a blade against the table.
Possessive.
Final.
The woman laughed nervously. “Okay, I didn’t know—”
“You should’ve.”
Silence spread outward.
Happy stepped closer.
Not aggressive.
That was the unsettling part.
He didn’t need aggression to intimidate people.
“You walked in here,” he continued evenly, “looked at me while my girl’s sitting right beside me, and decided you were still gonna try something.”
Her face reddened.
“I was just flirting.”
“No,” Happy said. “You were disrespectful.”
Your chest tightened slightly.
Not because he was angry.
Because he was defending you before you’d even had the chance to speak.
The woman glanced toward you as if expecting backup.
You simply held her stare.
Happy noticed.
Of course he did.
His hand found your shoulder automatically, fingers spreading possessively across your skin without him even looking.
“She doesn’t gotta put you in your place,” he said quietly. “I’ll do it for her.”
The room went dead silent.
Even the music suddenly seemed quieter.
The croweater swallowed hard. “I wasn’t trying to start anything.”
“But you did.”
Happy’s voice never rose.
That was what scared people most.
“You think because club girls throw themselves at patched members that means you can disrespect my woman in front of me?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No… I don’t.”
“Good.”
He stared at her another long second.
Then dismissed her completely.
Just like that.
Like she wasn’t worth another thought.
He sat back down beside you, arm sliding around your waist naturally, pulling you against his side while the woman awkwardly retreated toward the bar with burning cheeks.
The room slowly resumed breathing.
Tig burst out laughing first.
“Oh, she almost died.”
Chibs shook his head into his beer. “Jesus Christ, Hap.”
Juice looked genuinely stressed. “I thought he was gonna stab her.”
Happy took another drink calmly. “Wasn’t gonna stab her.”
“You looked like you were gonna stab her,” Juice argued.
“That’s just his face,” you said.
Happy looked at you then.
Really looked at you.
Checking.
Making sure you were okay.
You smiled faintly. “You handled that before I could.”
“She disrespected you.”
“I could’ve handled it.”
“I know.”
Simple.
Certain.
He wasn’t saying you needed him to protect you.
He was saying he wanted to.
There was a difference.
You rested your hand against his chest.
“You got jealous?”
You laughed softly.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
That finally earned another one of those tiny almost-smiles from him.
Across the room, the croweater kept stealing embarrassed glances toward your table while her friends whispered furiously beside her.
Happy noticed every single one.
His arm tightened around you instinctively.
Mine.
The word practically radiated off him.
You leaned against his shoulder comfortably. “You scared her.”
“She’ll live.”
“Maybe.”
He looked down at you, dark eyes softer now than they’d been all night.
“You mad?”
“At her?” You shrugged. “Not really.”
“At me.”
Your brows furrowed. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“Got intense.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“Happy, baby, you have smiley-face tattoos for kills. Your version of intense is different from everyone else’s.”
Tig nearly choked hearing you call him baby.
Happy ignored him completely.
“You didn’t answer me.”
Your expression softened.
That was another thing people misunderstood about Happy Lowman.
They thought because he was violent, because he killed without hesitation, because he moved through life like a ghost wrapped in tattoos and brutality, that he didn’t care deeply.
Truth was—
Happy cared too deeply.
Especially about the few people he let close.
And when he loved someone, it became bone-deep possessiveness mixed with terrifying loyalty.
You touched the side of his face gently.
“I’m not mad,” you said quietly. “I liked that you stood up for me.”
His eyes stayed locked on yours.
“You shouldn’t ever have to wonder if I will.”
The sincerity in his voice hit harder than shouting ever could.
You swallowed slightly.
“C’mere,” you murmured.
Happy immediately leaned down when you tugged his cut.
The kiss started soft.
Slow.
But the second your fingers slid over the nape of his neck, something in him snapped tighter.
His hand gripped your waist hard enough to pull you straight into his lap.
Someone across the room wolf-whistled.
“Get a room!” Tig shouted.
Happy flipped him off without breaking the kiss.
You smiled against his mouth.
Possessive bastard.
Not that you minded.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
Always checking.
Always making sure.
You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “I’m good.”
He nodded once like that settled something inside him.
Then his eyes flicked past you toward the bar where the croweater still lingered.
His expression immediately darkened again.
You grabbed his chin lightly and turned him back toward you.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“She got the message.”
“She better have.”
You smiled knowingly. “You know what the funniest part is?”
“What?”
“I was about two seconds away from handling it myself.”
That earned a genuine amused exhale from him.
“I know.”
“You gonna let me next time?”
“No.”
You laughed again.
“Control freak.”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t pretend otherwise.
Because with Happy, what you saw was exactly what you got.
Violence.
Loyalty.
Devotion.
And love so fierce it bordered on dangerous.
The night rolled on around you after that.
Music.
Laughter.
Engines outside.
Club business drifting through conversations.
But Happy barely paid attention to any of it anymore.
One hand stayed on your thigh the entire night.
Grounding.
Claiming.
Protecting.
Every so often his thumb would brush absentmindedly against your skin like he needed the reminder that you were still there.
And every single time, you leaned closer.
By midnight, half the club had cleared out.
Tig disappeared with a croweater.
Juice was passed out on a couch.
Chibs had gone outside to smoke.
The clubhouse quieted into something more intimate.
You sat at the bar sipping water while Happy talked low with Jax near the office door. Whatever conversation they were having looked serious.
Happy caught you watching him halfway through.
Instantly, his attention shifted.
That was the thing.
No matter who he was talking to.
No matter what was happening.
Part of him was always aware of you.
His gaze softened slightly before he finished with Jax and walked back over.
“You ready to go home?”
Home.
Not your apartment.
Not his place.
Home.
The small house outside Charming where his boots sat beside yours near the front door and your shampoo somehow ended up mixed between gun oil and whiskey bottles in the bathroom.
You smiled.
“Yeah.”
Happy took your hand immediately.
No hesitation.
No embarrassment.
Just rough tattooed fingers intertwining with yours like it was instinct.
As you both headed toward the exit, the same croweater from earlier accidentally crossed paths with you near the door.
She froze visibly.
You almost laughed.
Happy’s stare alone made her step aside immediately.
But before you passed, she looked at you sheepishly.
“Sorry,” she muttered.
You studied her for a second.
Then shrugged lightly.
“It’s fine.”
Happy looked less convinced.
You squeezed his hand before he could say anything else.
Outside, cool night air replaced the suffocating heat of the clubhouse. Motorcycles lined the lot beneath dim lights, chrome gleaming silver under the moon.
Happy pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it before holding the pack toward you automatically.
You took one.
“You know,” you said casually, “that might’ve been the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He glanced sideways at you while smoke curled from his mouth. “What?”
“The smile.”
“That smile means somebody’s fucked.”
You grinned. “I know.”
He handed you the helmet he kept for you on his bike.
The ride home was quiet.
Comfortably quiet.
Your arms around his waist while one of Happy’s hands stayed on your thigh the entire drive.
Streetlights flashed across his tattoos in brief golden streaks.
You watched him for a while.
The hard line of his jaw.
The scars on his knuckles.
The absolute calm in him now that you were alone together.
“You really hate when people disrespect me, huh?”
Happy’s grip tightened slightly.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re mine.”
The words should’ve sounded controlling.
Instead they sounded reverent.
Protective.
Like something precious he intended to guard with his bare hands if necessary.
Your chest ached.
“You’re mine too,” you said softly.
Happy went still for half a second.
Tiny reaction.
Most people wouldn’t notice it.
You did.
Always.
His thumb brushed slowly against your knee.
When you got home, he waited for you to unlock the front door before following close behind. Habit. Always making sure you got inside safely first.
The second the door shut, his hands found your waist.
No patience.
No hesitation.
He kissed you hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
All the restraint he’d shown at the clubhouse disappeared instantly.
You laughed breathlessly against his mouth. “Thought you weren’t jealous.”
“I’m not.”
“You practically threatened murder.”
“She disrespected you.”
“There it is again.”
His forehead pressed against yours.
“She looked at you like you didn’t matter.”
The quiet anger in his voice surprised you more than the earlier intimidation ever had.
Because this—
This was real.
Not performance.
Not possessiveness for show.
Happy genuinely could not tolerate someone diminishing you.
You touched his face carefully.
“Hey,” you whispered. “I matter to you.”
“More than anybody.”
Your heart nearly stopped.
Happy didn’t say things like that lightly.
In fact, he barely said things like that at all.
You smiled slowly. “C’mere.”
This kiss felt different.
Slower.
Full of everything he struggled to verbalize.
His hands softened against your back while yours slid beneath his shirt, fingertips tracing scars earned from years of violence and survival.
Happy kissed like he fought.
Intense.
Focused.
Like he was trying to make sure you understood something without words.
When he finally pulled away, both of you breathing unevenly, he rested his head briefly against yours.
“Love you,” he muttered quietly.
There it was.
Rare.
Precious.
You smiled instantly.
“I love you too.”
Something settled inside him at those words.
Visible relief.
Tiny.
But there.
He kissed your forehead once before guiding you toward the couch, pulling you down against his chest while the house settled into silence around you.
Outside, motorcycles roared faintly somewhere far down the road.
Inside, Happy’s arms stayed wrapped around you like armor.
Like home.
And somewhere back at the clubhouse, one very embarrassed croweater was probably still learning the same lesson everyone else eventually did:
Jack feels like a dirty old man.
He's 50. You're 25. He should not be thinking about you like this.
And yet.
Jack Abbott knew better.
That was the problem.
If he were a younger man, maybe he could blame it on stupidity. Maybe he could shrug it off as some immature fantasy and move on. But at fifty years old, with decades spent working emergency medicine, decades spent watching people make terrible decisions because they confused attraction with something deeper, he knew exactly what he was doing every time his gaze lingered on you for a second too long.
Which was why he hated himself for it.
The age difference alone should have been enough.
Twenty-five.
You were twenty-five years old.
A resident rotating through the ER, bright-eyed despite the brutal schedule, somehow managing to smile at three in the morning after six ambulance arrivals and two traumas.
If Jack had children, you would be closer to their age than his own.
The thought made his stomach twist.
And yet.
And yet he noticed when you walked into a room.
Not because you were beautiful.
Although you were.
Not because you laughed at his jokes.
Although you did.
No.
It was because you looked at him like he wasn't old.
Like he wasn't the exhausted attending with graying hair and permanent lines around his eyes.
You looked at him like he was still interesting.
Still worth listening to.
Still worth seeking out.
And that was dangerous.
"Jack."
Your voice pulled him from a chart.
He looked up.
Big mistake.
You were standing beside the desk, sleeves pushed up, hair escaping from a ponytail after fourteen straight hours.
Tired.
Beautiful.
Human.
His pulse betrayed him immediately.
"Yeah?"
You held out a tablet.
"I wanted you to double-check something before I put the orders in."
Professional.
Normal.
Easy.
Jack forced his attention onto the screen.
You stepped closer so both of you could see it.
Close enough that he caught your shampoo.
Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.
Close enough that every instinct screamed at him to move away.
Instead he stared at the chart.
"Looks good."
"That's it?"
A grin tugged at your lips.
"You don't have six additional teaching points?"
"I can get six additional teaching points."
"You always have six additional teaching points."
Jack snorted despite himself.
And there it was.
That smile.
The one that made him feel twenty years younger and infinitely more foolish.
The problem got worse during night shifts.
There was something intimate about surviving overnight emergencies together.
Not romantic.
Not really.
But close.
The world narrowed.
The fluorescent lights.
The constant beeping monitors.
The exhausted staff.
The moments between disasters.
The quiet conversations at four in the morning when everyone else was running on caffeine and stubbornness.
One night, after a particularly ugly trauma case, you both ended up in the staff lounge.
Neither of you spoke at first.
You sat on the couch.
Jack sat across from you.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable.
Just tired.
Eventually you sighed.
"Do you ever get used to it?"
He looked up.
"Used to what?"
"Losing people."
The question hung in the room.
Jack considered lying.
Instead he said the truth.
"No."
Your expression softened.
"No?"
"No."
He leaned back.
"You just learn how to keep going afterward."
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then you smiled sadly.
"I was hoping you'd have a better answer."
"So was I."
That earned a laugh.
A small one.
But genuine.
And suddenly Jack realized he was watching you instead of the television playing muted news in the corner.
Watching the curve of your smile.
The exhaustion in your eyes.
The warmth there.
Watching too closely.
Again.
Always again.
He looked away first.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
The attraction never disappeared.
If anything, it grew roots.
Which was worse.
Because attraction could be ignored.
Respect couldn't.
Admiration couldn't.
The way he genuinely looked forward to seeing you couldn't.
You challenged him.
Made him laugh.
Argued with him when you thought he was wrong.
Listened when he taught.
Called him out when he was being stubborn.
The worst part was that he wasn't sure when wanting you had become caring about you.
Somewhere along the way it happened.
And that terrified him.
It happened after a brutal overnight shift.
The rain was coming down hard outside.
The parking garage echoed with distant thunder.
Jack was halfway to his car when he heard footsteps behind him.
"Hey."
He turned.
You were jogging to catch up.
Holding your jacket over your head.
He frowned.
"What are you still doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing."
"I'm old."
You rolled your eyes.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The old joke."
"It's not a joke."
"It absolutely is."
Jack laughed despite himself.
Rain hammered against the concrete around you.
The garage was mostly empty.
Quiet.
For the first time all night, there was no emergency waiting.
No patient needing something.
Just the two of you.
The realization landed heavily.
You seemed to feel it too.
Because the conversation faded.
And suddenly you were looking at him.
Really looking at him.
Not at your attending.
Not at your mentor.
At him.
Jack's chest tightened.
Dangerous.
This was dangerous.
You took a step closer.
His heartbeat stumbled.
"Can I ask you something?"
His voice came out rough.
"Sure."
You hesitated.
Which immediately made him nervous.
Then—
"Why do you always pull away?"
Jack froze.
The question hit harder than any trauma pager.
"What?"
"You do it all the time."
Your gaze never left his.
"We'll be talking. Laughing. Having a good time."
You swallowed.
"And then suddenly it's like you remember something and you put a wall back up."
Jack couldn't breathe.
Because you had noticed.
Of course you had noticed.
You noticed everything.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You do."
The quiet certainty in your voice was devastating.
Rain echoed around you.
Jack looked away.
That was his mistake.
Because your voice softened.
"Jack."
God.
The way you said his name.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Then opened them again.
"You shouldn't ask questions you already know the answer to."
The words came out before he could stop them.
And your expression changed.
Not surprised.
Not shocked.
Something else.
Something warmer.
Something hopeful.
Which terrified him even more.
"Why not?"
Because you're twenty-five.
Because I'm fifty.
Because this is a terrible idea.
Because I think about you far too much.
Because I haven't felt like this in years.
All of those answers crowded his throat.
None emerged.
Instead he laughed once.
Humorless.
"You deserve someone your age."
Your eyes widened slightly.
And then—
"That's not your decision."
The words landed directly in his chest.
Neither of you moved.
The rain kept falling.
The garage remained empty.
Jack stared at you.
You stared back.
Every sensible thought he had was losing the fight.
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it."
"I am explaining it."
"No."
You stepped closer again.
"You keep telling me why you shouldn't want this."
Your voice dropped.
"But you never tell me whether you do."
Jack's pulse roared.
Because there it was.
The question he'd spent months avoiding.
The truth he'd buried beneath professionalism and distance and self-control.
You deserved honesty.
Even if it ruined everything.
So he gave it to you.
"I do."
The words barely escaped.
Yet they seemed to fill the entire garage.
Your breath caught.
Jack looked away immediately.
Ashamed.
Relieved.
Terrified.
"I do," he repeated quietly. "That's the problem."
For a moment there was only rain.
Then he felt your hand touch his.
Gentle.
Careful.
Like you were giving him the chance to pull away.
He didn't.
Couldn't.
Your fingers slid between his.
Warm.
Certain.
"Jack."
He met your eyes.
And found affection there.
Not pity.
Not curiosity.
Affection.
The real kind.
The kind he'd stopped expecting for himself years ago.
Something inside him cracked.
Not painfully.
Just enough to let hope inside.
You smiled.
Small.
Soft.
Beautiful.
And Jack found himself smiling back.
For once not worrying about tomorrow.
Or the age difference.
Or what anyone else might think.
Just this moment.
This impossible, wonderful moment.
Your forehead rested lightly against his shoulder.
His arm settled around you.
The gesture felt natural.
Easy.
Like something he'd been wanting to do for far too long.
The rain continued outside.
The hospital waited behind you.
Life would still be complicated.
There would be conversations.
Boundaries.
Questions.
A thousand practical things to figure out.
But not tonight.
Tonight was simple.
Tonight you stood together beneath the dim parking garage lights, exhaustion and affection tangled together after months of denial.
And for the first time, Jack allowed himself to believe that maybe wanting you wasn't the same thing as losing his mind.
Maybe it was just falling in love.
And judging by the way you smiled up at him, he wasn't falling alone.
