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TW: Cussing, Canon Typical Violence, fluff, so much flufffffffffff.
Part 13 | Part 15 - Coming Soon
Sugarland - P.14
The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains of Happy’s bedroom, casting golden stripes across the tangled sheets. You'd been awake for a while now, not wanting to move, not wanting to break whatever spell had been cast on the room, watching the dust motes dancing in the warm glow of light that peaked between his curtains.
The party at the clubhouse had gone late into the night—loud music, louder brothers, and Happy's hand at the small of your back whenever he checked in on you.
Now, in the quiet lull of morning, Happy lay on his stomach, one tattooed arm looped possessively across your waist, his face turned toward you on the pillow. His breathing was deep and even, but you could tell by the slight tension in his fingers that he wasn't quite asleep anymore. He never fully slept, you'd learned. Always half-aware, always ready. It was one of the things that made him who he was—dangerous, brutal and yet when it came to you attentive.
You studied his face in the morning light, taking advantage of this rare moment when his guard was down. The harshness of his face was softer in sleep, though no less intense. His scalp was smooth under the dim amount of sunlight creasting through the curatins, the tattoo on his head stark and bold. You'd wanted to trace it with your fingers but hadn't quite found the courage yet.
He scared most people. You'd seen it at the clubhouse—the way even his brothers gave him space, respected his silence, read his moods in the set of his shoulders or the tilt of his head. But with you, in these quiet moments, he was different. Not soft, exactly. Happy would never be soft. But present. Focused. Like you were a problem he was solving, or maybe something he was guarding.
His eyes opened without warning, those dark eyes finding yours immediately. No grogginess, no slow wake-up. Just instant awareness and that hint of something that might have been a smile, or whatever qualified as a smile on Happy’s face.
"Mornin', Girl," he rumbled, voice rough with sleep.
Your heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did when he called you that. Girl. Like it was your name. Like it meant something more than just a word.
"Morning Hap," you whispered back, suddenly shy despite the fact that you'd shared his bed, both of you fully clothed, just seeking the comfort of each other's presence.
His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you closer across the sheets until your frame was pressed against his solid warmth. He didn't say anything else—Happy rarely did—but his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, possessive and claiming. You could feel his breath against your forehead, could feel the steady thump of his heart under your palm where it rested on his chest.
This was intimacy in Happy's language. Not flowery words or grand declarations. Just presence. Just touch. Just the weight of his attention focused entirely on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered in this moment.
"You sleep okay?" you asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear his voice again.
"Mmm," he responded, which you'd learned could mean anything from yes to no to I'm thinking about something else entirely. His hand moved from your back to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as he studied your face with that intense focus that made you feel seen in a way you'd never experienced before.
You felt small against him—compared to his solid, muscular frame. He could break you without trying, but his touch was so careful, so controlled, like he was constantly aware of what his hands were capable of and yet entirely determined not to let the world, his world touch you.
"Hungry?" you asked after a few more moments of comfortable silence.
His eyes crinkled slightly—the closest thing to a laugh you got from him. "Yeah."
That single word held more meaning than most people's entire conversations. You could hear the affection in it, the amusement at your need to fill the silence, the agreement that yeah, it was probably time to face the day even though neither of you really wanted to leave this bed.
You started to pull away, intending to get up and start breakfast, but his arm locked around you, keeping you in place. You looked up at him questioningly.
"Few more minutes," he said, and it wasn't a request so much as a statement of fact. You weren't going anywhere until he was ready to let you go.
So you settled back against him, your head tucked under his chin, his heartbeat steady against your ear. Outside, you could hear Charming starting to wake up—distant traffic, a dog barking somewhere, the world moving. But here, in this bed, wrapped in Happy's arms and his silence, time felt suspended.
His fingers continued their lazy exploration—tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip. Not sexual, just... learning you. Memorizing you. Choosing you in that quiet, thorough way he had.
Parts of the club still confused you—the hierarchy, the rules, the casual ominous energy that seemed to lurk just beneath the surface of every interaction. You probably seemed hopelessly naive to SAMCRO a baker who smelled like vanilla and cinnamon, whose biggest concerns were perfecting her bear claws and getting the right rise on her croissants.
"Got plans today," he said eventually, his voice rumbling through his chest and into your ear.
You pulled back enough to look at him. "Oh yeah?"
His eyes held that glint again, the one that meant he was calculating something. "Yeah. With you."
"What kind of plans?" you asked, unable to keep the smile from your voice.
"Surprise," he said, and there was definitely amusement there now, subtle but real. He was enjoying keeping you in suspense.
"Happy—"
"You'll like it," he interrupted, his hand moving to the back of your neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. "Trust me, Girl."
And you did. That was the crazy thing. This man who scared everyone else, this man who wore violence like a second skin, this man who could kill without hesitation and had more times than you wanted to know about—you trusted him.
Eventually, Happy did let you up, though his hand lingered on your arm as you rose, like he was reluctant to lose contact. When you finally stood, there was something in his eyes—like watching you move through his space, so naturally, so at ease pleased him on some fundamental level.
You padded to the bathroom, hyperaware of his eyes tracking your movement across the room. By the time you'd showered and thrown on one of his old t-shirts along with your jeans—you could just hear him moving around in the kitchen.
The smell of coffee greeted you as you walked down the hallway of his house. Your heart clenched a little at the sight that met you—Happy, shirtless and tattooed, his jeans riding low on his hips, moving around the kitchen with silent precision.
He glanced up when you entered, eyes tracking over you in his shirt, and something primal flashed across his face, too quick for you to notice before he turned back to his mug.
You moved to the cabinet to get the tea—you'd never been much of a coffee drinker, preferring the gentle ritual of steeping tea leaves, the delicate flavors that Happy seemed to find both amusing and oddly endearing. It was probably the baker in you, that appreciation for subtle flavors and careful preparation. You were reaching for your usual mug when you felt him behind you, solid and warm, his arms caging you in against the counter.
"Hap—" you started, but the word died in your throat as he pressed against your back, his chin resting on top of your head. This was as close to cuddling as Happy got when vertical—this silent, possessive closeness that made you feel both protected and adored.
"Got your day cleared?" he asked, his voice rumbling through where his chest pressed against your back.
"I—yeah, I'm off today," you managed, hyperaware of every point of contact between you. The bakery was closed for your one guaranteed day away from flour and ovens. His hands rested on the counter on either side of you, not touching but present, a cage you had no desire to escape.
"Good," he said, satisfied. His hands moved then, one splaying across your stomach, holding you against him, while the other moved your hair aside. You felt his breath on the back of your neck, warm and steady. Not a kiss—just the rest of his jaw at the junction between your neck and shoulder.
You shivered, and you felt rather than heard his pleased response—a slight change in his breathing, a subtle shift in how he held you.
"Takin' you somewhere," he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your neck with each word. "Just us."
Your heart was hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it. "Where?"
"You're always asking questions, Girl." he said with definite amusement in his voice now. His hand on your stomach tightened slightly, possessive.
"Because you never give me answers, Hap" you shot back.
His low chuckle vibrated through you. "Don't need answers. Just need to trust me."
He was right, of course. It should have terrified you, how completely you'd fallen into his orbit. But standing here in his kitchen, wrapped in his presence and his heat, you couldn't find it in yourself to care.
He stayed there for a long moment, just holding you. Then, with reluctance, he released you and stepped back, giving you space to breathe and move again.
You busied yourself with making tea, trying to calm your racing heart, while Happy poured his coffee—black, no sugar, strong enough to strip paint. You'd tried it once at the garage and nearly choked, which had earned you one of his rare, genuine smiles.
When you turned around, mug of tea warming your hands, you found Happy sitting at the small kitchen table. He had a sketchbook in front of him—his sketchbook, you'd seen him drawing before, his head bent over the paper with the same intense focus he brought to everything. But you'd never seen what he drew. He always closed the book before anyone could look, keeping that part of himself just as private as the rest of him.
You approached slowly, not wanting to disturb him, but curious despite yourself. He glanced up briefly, acknowledged your presence with a slight nod, then returned to his work. It wasn't a dismissal—more like permission to be near, to exist in his space while he worked.
You sat down across from him, sipping your tea, content to watch him in silence. This felt important somehow, this quiet domestic moment. Happy in his kitchen, drinking coffee, creating something. It felt like a piece of him was settling you into his life, making space, carving a place for you to exist beside him.
His hand moved with confidence across the paper—strong, bold lines, occasional subtle shading. You tried to peek at what he was drawing, but the angle was wrong, and every time you shifted to see better, he'd move the sketchbook slightly, keeping his work hidden. There was a hint of amusement in the set of his shoulders, like he knew exactly what you were doing and was deliberately keeping you in suspense.
"Hap," you said, exasperated and fond.
"Girl," he responded, not looking up, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitch.
"What are you drawing?"
"Something."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting." His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and there was warmth there, hidden deep but real. "Soft-brain."
You huffed, which made him almost smile, as you settled back with your tea. If Happy wanted to keep secrets, you'd let him.
The comfortable silence stretched between you, broken only by the scratch of his pencil on paper and the quiet sounds of the neighborhood waking up outside. This was nice, you realized. Just existing together, no pressure to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. Happy had taught you the value of quiet, of just being present with someone without needing to perform or explain. It was so different from the constant bustle of the bakery, the early morning rush, the endless chatter of customers, you loved it but still the break was both wanted and needed. With Happy, you could just be still.
After a while, he closed the sketchbook with a decisive snap and stood, draining the last of his coffee in one swallow. His eyes found yours, intense and purposeful.
"Get changed," he said. "Something comfortable. Boots if you got 'em. Gonna be on the bike."
You loved riding with Happy—the freedom of it, the trust required to wrap yourself around him and let him control everything, the way the world fell away until it was just the two of you and the road. Plus, there was something undeniably intimate about it, your body pressed against his back, your arms wrapped around his waist, moving as one unit.
"Where are we going?" you tried one more time.
He crossed to you, cupped your face in one large hand, his thumb brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness. "Told you, Girl. It's a surprise. Now go." His eyes held yours, and despite the command in his words, there was softness there too.
The touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his calloused thumb tracing your cheekbone with the same careful attention he'd use handling something fragile. Then he released you, stepping back.
"Okay," you whispered, still feeling the ghost of his touch.
An hour later, you were climbing onto the back of Happy's bike, your arms wrapping around his solid waist, your chest pressed against his back. He'd changed into his kutte.
He glanced back at you over his shoulder, checking that you were settled and secure. His hand came back to squeeze your thigh, reassurance and possession in one gesture.
"Hold on, Girl," he rumbled, and then the engine roared to life beneath you.
Charming fell away as Happy guided the bike through town and out onto the open road. The morning was beautiful—clear and warm with just enough breeze to be perfect for riding. You tightened your arms around Happy's waist, your cheek resting against his back, and let yourself sink into the moment.
This was freedom. This was trust. This was begining to feel like home, wrapped in leather and ink and the steady thunder of a Harley engine.
Happy's hand dropped to your knee again at a stoplight, that casual touch that said you're mine, I've got you, we're good. You squeezed him tighter in response, felt the subtle shift in his posture.
The road climbed into the hills surrounding Charming, twisting and turning through scenery that took your breath away. Green hills rolled away on either side, dotted with old oaks and wildflowers. Happy took the curves with practiced ease, the bike leaning into each turn, and you leaned with him, trusting his skill completely.
After about forty-five minutes of riding, Happy turned off onto a smaller road, then onto what was barely more than a dirt path. The bike rumbled over the uneven ground, and you held on tighter, trusting him to keep you safe. Finally, he brought the bike to a stop in a clearing overlooking a valley, the view stretching for miles.
He killed the engine, and suddenly the world was quiet except for the wind through the trees and the distant call of birds. Happy dismounted first, then turned to help you off, his hands on your waist lifting you like you weighed nothing.
Your legs were shaky from the ride, and you stumbled slightly. Happy steadied you, his hands lingering on your hips, his eyes searching your face.
"You good?" he asked.
"Yeah," you breathed, looking around at the stunning view. "Happy, this is beautiful."
Something shifted in his expression—satisfaction, pride, pleasure that he'd done something to make you happy. He pulled you against his chest for a moment, just holding you, before releasing you and moving to the saddlebags on his bike.
You watched as he pulled out a blanket—thick and warm, clearly brought specifically for this—and a small cooler. Your heart squeezed. Thought about, how to make it special.
"Come on," he said, jerking his head toward a spot under a large oak tree.
You followed, watching as he spread the blanket with the same military grade care, making sure it was smooth, that you'd have a comfortable spot. The cooler came next, and when he opened it, you saw he'd packed a proper picnic—sandwiches from the deli you liked, fruit, water, even some fancy cookies from your bakery.
"Happy," you said, emotion thick in your throat. "You did all this?"
He shrugged. "Wanted to do something. For you."
You wanted to throw your arms around him, but something held you back—you just looked up at him with everything you felt plain on your face.
He saw it. Of course he saw it. Happy saw everything. His hand came up to cup the back of your head, pulling you against his chest in a brief, fierce embrace. His heartbeat was steady against your ear, strong and sure.
"Ain't nothing, Girl," he murmured into your hair.
But to you it felt like everything.
You settled on the blanket together, Happy's back against the tree trunk, you tucked into his side with his arm around your shoulders. The view stretched before you—rolling hills and valleys, Charming just visible in the distance, the whole world spread out like a promise.
You ate in comfortable silence, Happy occasionally feeding you bites, you stealing sips of his water. It was peaceful. Perfect. The kind of moment you wanted to hold onto forever, to preserve exactly as it was.
When the food was packed away, Happy shifted, pulling you more fully into his lap. You went willingly, your legs draped over his thigh, your head resting on his shoulder. His hand traced lazy patterns on your hip—possessive, affectionate in his wordless way.
"Known you a while now," he said eventually, his voice low and thoughtful.
Your heart stuttered.
"Yeah," you said softly, not wanting to break whatever spell was forming.
His hand tightened on your hip. "Knew after two weeks—"
"Happy—" you whispered.
"Not done," he interrupted gently. "Lemme me say this."
You fell silent, your hand resting over his heart, feeling it beat steady and strong under your palm. He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb stroking your hip through your jeans. When he spoke, his voice was rough with something that might have been emotion.
"People make me crazy with their constant fuckin' noise. But you..." His hand moved from your hip to your face, tilting it up so he could look into your eyes. "You listen. You see shit other people miss."
Happy didn't do declarations. This was as close as he'd probably ever come to poetry.
"You know what I do," he went on, his thumb brushing your cheekbone with that same careful gentleness.
"You're not a bad person," you said fiercely, needing him to know you believed that.
His expression was set in that same gaze. "I'm a killer, Girl. Done things that'd give you nightmares. Will do it again. That's who I am."
"I know," you said, and you did. You weren't stupid. You saw the darkness in him, the violence he was capable of. But you also saw the man who made sure you got home safe every night. Who stood outside your bakery at closing time without being asked, just to drive you home.
Something fierce and possessive flashed across his face. His hand tightened on your jaw, but he caught himself almost instantly, his thumb brushing your skin in a slow, grounding stroke.
"You're my Old Lady," he said, voice low and rough—like gravel dragged over heat. It came out as a question, a statement, and a command all at once.
Your smile spread across your face by its own volition. "Hap..."
He cut you off, eyes pinning you in place. "You’re gonna have my crow one day, Girl."
You blinked, not sure what he meant. He must’ve seen the confusion, because his jaw shifted before, he elaborated.
"A Crow," he said quietly, fingers tracing the back of your neck where a tattoo might sit. "When an Old Lady has one. Means the club knows she belongs… and who she’s protected by."
Something in his eyes softened then, the violence in them tempered by something gentler, deeper.
"It’s me sayin’ you’re mine," he murmured, voice almost reverent. "And I’m yours."
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then his hand slid from your jaw to cradle the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around your waist. He drew you closer with infinite care—the same man who could break bones without blinking holding you like you were something holy.
The kiss, when it came, was nothing like you'd imagined. You'd expected claiming, possessive, rough. But Happy's lips met yours with a gentleness that made your breath catch. His mouth moved against yours slowly, carefully, reverently. Like he was savoring something precious. Like he was afraid of breaking you.
His hand twitched slightly where it cupped your head, his thumb stroking softly behind your ear. The kiss deepened but never lost that careful quality, that sense of him holding himself back, of him treating you like spun glass. You could feel the restraint in him, the leashed power, the way he was deliberately gentle when his instinct was the opposite with everyone else.
When he finally pulled back, both your breathing was slightly uneven. His eyes were dark and intense, searching your face for any sign of hesitation.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice rough.
"Yeah," you whispered, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palm. "More than okay."
His smile was small but real, and he pressed another soft kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then just held you close. Like he was trying to memorize the feel of you in his arms.
"My girl," he murmured against your hair.
"Your Old Lady," you confirmed, testing out the words, feeling how they sounded.
His arms tightened around you, but still careful, still controlled. "Gonna take care of you," he promised, his voice rough with emotions he rarely expressed. "Anyone tries to hurt you, they're dead. Understand?"
You shivered at the casual violence in his tone, the absolute certainty. "I understand."
"Good." He pressed another gentle kiss to your hair.
You spent the rest of the afternoon there in that clearing, wrapped in Happy's arms, talking in fragments and comfortable silences about everything and nothing. He told you stories about the club—carefully edited ones that kept the worst of the darkness hidden but gave you glimpses of his world. You told him about the bakery, about the satisfaction of pulling a perfect loaf from the oven, about the regular customers who'd become like family. About your dreams, your fears. And he listened, really listened, in that intense way he had that made you feel like the only person in existence.
As the sun started to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Happy finally stirred, clearly reluctant to end the day.
"Should head back," he said, though he made no move to actually get up.
"Few more minutes," you bargained, echoing his words from this morning.
His low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Yeah. Few more."
Those minutes stretched into ten, then fifteen. Neither of you wanted to leave this perfect bubble, this moment where it was just the two of you and nothing else mattered. But eventually, the encroaching darkness made the decision for you.
Happy packed up the picnic supplies with the same care he'd used to set them out, making sure everything was secure in the saddlebags. Then he helped you onto the bike, his hands lingering on your waist, his eyes holding yours.
"Thank you," you said again. "For today. For everything."
He cupped your face in his hands, studying you with that intense focus that made you feel seen straight through to your soul. Then he leaned in and pressed another one of those surprisingly gentle kisses to your lips—soft, careful, reverent.
"You're my Old Lady," he said when he pulled back. "Gonna have a lot more days like this."
The ride back to Charming was slower, more leisurely, like neither of you wanted the day to truly end. You held Happy tight, your cheek against his back, and watched the landscape roll by in the fading light.