She/her, 47 eclectic. Immensely thankful for all fiction writers who keep her sane. You write it.. I want to read it.. thank you for sharing your brilliance with us! 🥰🖤
Happy genuinely thinks you're a couple.
You genuinely think Happy hates you.
The club thinks it's the best entertainment they've ever had. Then you cry. Suddenly it's not funny anymore.
Happy Lowman had killed people with less confusion than this.
It wasn't even close.
He understood guns, knives, explosives, leverage, intimidation, blood debt, club politics, cartel negotiations, federal agents, prison rules, and the exact amount of pressure required to snap a man's wrist without breaking the skin; he understood every ugly, practical, brutal thing life had ever thrown at him because those things had rules, and Happy liked rules, because rules were predictable, and predictable things didn't disappoint you.
But women? Relationships? Feelings? Apparently those came with invisible instructions everyone else had been issued except him.
Because from where he was sitting, with one boot hooked over the opposite knee in the SAMCRO clubhouse while you laughed across the room at something Gemma had said, there wasn't a single doubt in his mind that you were his girlfriend, had been for the better part of eight months, and that everyone else knew it too.
Mostly because... well.
You acted like his girlfriend.
You wore his hoodies. You sat beside him at every meal. You reached for his hand without thinking. You stole food off his plate. You kissed his cheek before leaving. You slept against him during movie nights. You had a toothbrush in his bathroom. Half your clothes lived in his dresser. You called him when you couldn't sleep. You texted him good morning. You texted him good night. You'd patched him up after fights. He'd carried you to bed after you fell asleep reading. You'd celebrated his birthday. He'd celebrated yours. You'd met his mother. He'd met your parents. You'd cried in his arms exactly twice. He'd told you things he had never told another living soul.
...
People who weren't dating didn't usually do all that.
Right?
He'd never actually asked.
Mostly because somewhere around month three it had simply... felt unnecessary.
He wasn't a man for labels.
You were his.
He was yours.
Done.
Simple.
Except—
Across town, you were having an entirely different crisis.
"...I just don't understand why he keeps doing this."
Tara blinked.
"...Doing what?"
"He..." You gestured helplessly with both hands. "He's always around."
"...Okay."
"He drives me home."
"Mhm."
"He brings me coffee."
"Yep."
"He remembers literally everything I tell him."
"...Yes."
"He gets mad if another guy flirts with me."
"Mm."
"He sits beside me."
"Right."
"He fixed my sink."
"Okay."
"He punched a guy because he grabbed my arm."
"...That happened."
"And he looks at me."
"...Happy does have eyes."
You groaned dramatically, dropping your forehead onto Tara's kitchen table.
"Not like that."
"Like what?"
"Like..." You sighed into the wood. "...Like he's trying really hard not to."
There was a very long pause.
"...Have you considered," Tara said carefully, "that Happy likes you?"
You lifted your head slowly.
"...No."
"...Why not?"
"Because he hates me."
Silence.
Complete.
Utter.
Silence.
Tara stared.
"...Excuse me?"
"He hates me."
"What?"
"He absolutely hates me."
"You've lost your mind."
"No, listen."
"I don't think I want to."
"Every time I compliment him he changes the subject."
"Tara—"
"Every time I get too close he gets all awkward."
"Tara..."
"He barely says anything."
"...Because he's Happy."
"He stares."
"Yes."
"He's always frowning."
"That's his face."
"He sighs whenever I walk into a room."
"Because he forgets to breathe around you."
"What?"
"What?"
"...What?"
"...Nothing."
Because Tara had just realized something horrifying.
You genuinely believed Happy Lowman hated you.
Meanwhile Happy apparently believed the two of you had somehow skipped every important relationship conversation and simply... become married in spirit.
She needed alcohol.
The club found out three days later.
Entirely by accident.
It started with Juice.
Which meant it ended in disaster.
Juice was helping you carry boxes into storage when you smiled apologetically.
"I know Happy doesn't like me much, but could you ask if I can borrow his truck tomorrow?"
Juice froze.
"...What."
"I'll understand if he says no."
"...Happy doesn't..."
"He tolerates me."
"...Tolerates."
"Yeah."
Juice looked at you.
Looked toward the clubhouse.
Looked back.
"...You think Happy Lowman tolerates you."
You nodded sadly.
"...More than most people, probably."
Juice disappeared without another word.
Five minutes later the entire clubhouse knew.
Bobby laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair. Tig actually wheezed. Chibs had to remove his glasses because tears were running down his face. Even Clay snorted into his beer.
Happy looked around the room suspiciously.
"...What."
Nobody answered.
Juice couldn't.
He was literally lying on the pool table.
Naturally.
Nobody corrected either of you.
Because watching this unfold was infinitely more entertaining.
Happy would casually mention, "She's staying over tonight."
You'd hear it and think: He's being polite.
Happy would say, "Need to pick her up after work."
You'd think: He's doing me a favour because he's nice underneath all the murder.
Happy would tell Tig: "Don't smoke around her."
You'd think: He probably doesn't want me getting sick because then he'd have to help.
Happy would growl at some prospect who looked at you too long.
You'd think: He's protecting the club's reputation.
Every single interaction somehow managed to reinforce the exact opposite conclusion for each of you.
The club began taking bets.
Not on whether you'd end up together.
On how spectacular the misunderstanding would be when it finally exploded.
It exploded on a Thursday.
Because of Tig.
Obviously.
Tig had lost twenty dollars to Chibs because he'd bet Happy would figure it out first.
So, naturally, he decided to speed things along.
You were helping clean the clubhouse after dinner when Tig wandered over with all the innocent subtlety of a lit stick of dynamite.
"So."
You smiled.
"So?"
"You ever gonna tell Happy you love him?"
The rag in your hand stopped moving.
"...Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"I..."
You laughed.
Just once.
Short.
Broken.
"...That's funny."
"...Kid."
"Really funny."
"...Sweetheart."
"I mean..." You forced another laugh that sounded worse than the first. "...Can you imagine?"
Nobody was laughing anymore.
"He barely likes me."
Across the room, Happy stopped mid-conversation.
"I don't know why everyone keeps making jokes like that." Your smile was getting thinner now, trembling around the edges. "It's... it's embarrassing."
Happy slowly turned.
You hadn't noticed him.
"You all keep acting like..." You swallowed. "...Like maybe there's something there and..."
Another shaky laugh. "...There isn't."
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
You kept talking because when people were uncomfortable you always filled the silence.
"It's okay, really."
Your voice cracked.
"I know I'm..." You rubbed your face quickly. "...I'm probably annoying."
Happy had never heard your voice sound like that.
"I know he just puts up with me because of the club." Another crack. "He doesn't have to."
Your eyes had gone suspiciously bright.
"I can stop coming around so much."
The room went ice cold.
"If he hates me that much—"
"I whaT."
It wasn't loud.
Happy never needed loud.
The room parted automatically as he crossed it.
You looked up.
Saw him.
Immediately smiled.
Too quickly.
"I'm sorry."
"...For what."
"I didn't mean to cause trouble."
"...What."
"I know you don't really like me."
The entire clubhouse watched Happy Lowman's brain physically stop functioning.
"...What."
"I get it."
"No."
"You don't have to pretend anymore."
"No."
"I'll leave—"
"You are not leaving."
"You don't have to be nice."
"I'm not being nice."
"I know everyone keeps teasing you about me and—"
"They're teasing me because they think we're dating."
You blinked. "...What?"
Happy blinked back.
"...What?"
Silence.
"...We're not dating?" he asked carefully.
You stared at him. "...I didn't think we were."
"...You've lived at my house for six months."
"You told me to."
"...You're wearing my hoodie."
"You gave it to me."
"...You sleep in my bed."
"...Because you said your couch hurt my back."
"...You kiss me."
"...On the cheek."
"...Every morning."
"You seemed to like it."
"I do."
"...Oh."
"..."
"..."
Tig whispered to Chibs, "Holy shit."
Happy ignored him.
He was looking only at you.
"...You thought I hated you."
You looked down.
"...Yeah."
"...Why."
"You never say anything."
"I say things."
"You grunt."
"...That's communication."
"You glare."
"I look."
"You sigh."
"I forget how lungs work."
"...What?"
"You make me nervous."
Your head snapped up so fast your neck cracked.
"...I make you nervous."
"...Yeah."
"You."
"...Yeah."
"The man with seventeen smiley face tattoos."
"...Nineteen."
"You get nervous."
"...Around you."
"...Why?"
Happy looked genuinely confused.
"...Because you're my girl."
You made the smallest sound anyone in the room had ever heard.
"...Your what."
"...My girl."
"...Happy..."
"...I thought that was established."
"...You.. didn't ask."
"...Didn't seem necessary."
"...Happy."
"...Yeah."
"...You have to actually ask."
"...Why."
"...Because that's how people know."
He considered that.
"...That seems inefficient."
Half the room snorted despite themselves.
Happy never looked away from you.
"...So."
"So?"
"...Will you?"
"...Will I what?"
"...Be my girlfriend."
Your face crumpled.
Not because you were sad.
Because every miserable, lonely, aching assumption you'd carried around for months suddenly collapsed under their own weight, leaving behind nothing but relief so overwhelming it hurt, and before you could stop yourself tears spilled down your cheeks in heavy, silent streams as you covered your face with both hands, mortified beyond belief because of course the first time the man you loved actually asked you to be his girlfriend you started crying in front of the entire damn motorcycle club.
Nobody laughed.
Not one person.
Happy's expression changed so fast it frightened everyone watching.
Pure panic.
Absolute, undisguised panic.
"Oh, sweetheart."
He reached you in two strides, carefully wrapping both hands around your wrists and gently pulling them away from your face as though you might break if he moved too quickly, his own breathing suddenly uneven as he searched your tear-stained expression with frantic eyes, every terrifying instinct he possessed screaming that something had hurt you and somehow it had been him, which was unacceptable because the entire point of existing, as far as he had quietly decided months ago, was making sure nothing ever hurt you again.
"...Did I screw it up?"
You laughed through another sob.
"No."
"...Are those bad tears?"
"No."
"...You sure?"
You nodded furiously.
"I just..." You sniffled, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "...I spent months thinking you couldn't stand me."
Happy closed his eyes.
"...Christ."
"I'm sorry."
"No."
"I should've known."
"No."
"I misread everything."
"I should've asked."
"You should've asked."
"...Yeah."
"...I was gonna."
"When?"
"...Eventually."
You laughed again.
"When eventually?"
"...Before we got old."
"You are old."
"I know."
You reached up and cupped his face.
"So yes."
"...Yeah?"
"Yes."
"You'll be my girlfriend."
"I thought that was established."
For the first time in living memory, Happy Lowman laughed.
Not a chuckle.
Not a breath.
A real laugh.
Low, rough, astonished.
Then he leaned down and kissed you, slow enough to ask, gentle enough to reassure, lingering long enough that every ridiculous misunderstanding between the two of you simply dissolved into nothing, and when he finally rested his forehead against yours, one arm around your waist while your fingers remained curled in the front of his cut as though you had no intention of ever letting go again, the clubhouse remained strangely, respectfully quiet.
Finally, Tig cleared his throat.
"...So."
Happy didn't even look at him.
"...Run."
Tig ran.
The entire club scattered behind him.
Their laughter echoed all the way into the parking lot while Happy simply held you a little closer, pressing one last kiss to your forehead with a contentment so complete it settled deep into his bones, because after months of accidentally believing he already had you, he finally knew the truth—and somehow, impossibly, the real thing was even better.
One day you feel unsafe in a public area, and instead of walking over to the group of men in business suits to ask for help, you go to the tattoo covered, kutte wearing bikers.
Tig is immediately interested. And unhinged.
unfortunately for everyone, i would walk over to the bikers over the suits any day
Tig Trager had a face that made mothers pull their children a little closer, old men look away first, and cocky young idiots suddenly remember somewhere else they needed to be, because there was something deeply unsettling about a man who smiled while looking like he'd happily bury someone in the desert before lunch, and you knew all of that before you ever crossed the crowded outdoor market and deliberately walked toward the cluster of leather-clad bikers instead of the polished businessmen standing twenty feet away.
Because businessmen could pretend they hadn't seen.
Bikers never did.
You'd noticed the man following you almost fifteen minutes ago.
Not close enough to grab you.
Not stupid enough to make a scene.
Just...there.
Every time you ducked into another aisle, he appeared again. Every time you slowed down, so did he. When you stopped to pretend to look at handmade soaps, he stood across the path pretending to answer a text.
Your stomach had sunk lower with every passing minute.
You'd done everything people always told women to do. Stay where other people are. Don't isolate yourself. Keep moving. Be aware.
None of it stopped him.
Then you'd spotted them.
Six enormous men gathered beside a line of motorcycles parked outside the café.
Leather kuttes.
Tattoo sleeves.
Heavy boots.
Chains.
Enough weapons hidden beneath denim and leather that you could practically feel them.
Every survival instinct your mother had ever tried to instill should have screamed don't go near them.
Instead...
"...Excuse me?"
Six heads turned.
You looked directly at the—unfortunately attractive—one with wild curls, an impressive moustache, and enough rings to sink a fishing boat.
"Can I...stand here for a minute?"
Silence.
The man blinked.
Then looked over your shoulder.
Then back at you.
"...You askin' permission?"
"I think someone's following me."
The entire atmosphere changed.
It was almost impossible to explain.
One second they were laughing over coffee.
The next...
Predators.
Every single one.
Nobody even asked who. Nobody questioned whether you were overreacting. Nobody rolled their eyes.
The man with the grey curls tilted his head slightly.
"Which one?"
You gestured without turning around.
"The blue hoodie."
None of them looked.
Not obviously.
Yet somehow every single biker suddenly knew exactly who you meant.
One of them—a Scottish man with scars running across his face—quietly muttered, "Aye."
Another snorted.
"That's him."
Tig stared at you for another few seconds.
Then smiled.
It wasn't comforting.
It wasn't reassuring.
It was...
...
"Oh."
You suddenly felt bad for the man following you.
Tig looked almost delighted.
"Sweetheart."
"...Yes?"
"You came to us."
"...I did."
"You skipped all them pretty office boys." He jerked a thumb toward the businessmen standing outside the bank. "Walked right past suits worth more'n my bike."
"...Yeah."
"And picked us."
"I figured..." You hesitated. "...if somebody was actually dangerous..."
His grin somehow became wider.
"...you'd probably scare them more."
The other bikers burst into laughter.
One actually slapped his knee.
The Scot barked a laugh into his coffee.
Another muttered, "She's got common sense."
Tig looked at you like you'd just handed him the greatest compliment he'd received in years.
"Oh, sweetheart..." He actually looked touched. "...that's the nicest damn thing anybody's said to me this month."
You blinked.
"...Really?"
"'Course."
"..."
"..."
"You've got terrible standards."
He laughed loud enough to startle pigeons.
"I like her."
One of the others groaned.
"Jesus Christ."
"No."
Another sighed dramatically.
"He said it."
The Scot pinched the bridge of his nose.
"We've lost him."
"What?"
"He likes her."
"I do."
"Ye've known her thirty seconds."
"I've known enough."
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Then looked between them.
"...Does he always decide things this quickly?"
Five voices answered at once.
"Yep."
"Absolutely."
"Every damn time."
"Worse usually."
"You're doomed."
Tig ignored every one of them.
Instead he focused on you.
"So. Name's Tig. What's yours?"
You told him.
He repeated it slowly, rolling it around like he intended to remember every syllable forever.
"...Pretty."
You laughed awkwardly.
"Thanks."
"No, I mean it."
"I gathered."
"You hungry?"
"..."
"...Didn't we just meet?"
"Mhm."
"And you're asking me to lunch?"
"Mhm."
"..."
"..."
"That's insane."
"I know."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough."
"Tig."
"You walked toward six outlaw bikers instead of six businessmen because you figured we'd protect you."
"..."
"Means your instincts work."
"..."
"I like people with good instincts."
The Scot muttered, "She's thinkin'."
Another biker leaned toward him.
"She's deciding whether she's calling the cops."
"Nah."
Tig smiled at you again.
That terrifyingly soft smile that somehow looked even more dangerous than the manic one.
"She ain't scared."
You realized...
He was right.
Oddly enough...
You weren't.
Not anymore.
The anxiety that had sat like a stone in your stomach for the last twenty minutes had simply...
Disappeared.
Because whether these men were intimidating or not, nobody was getting anywhere near you now.
Especially not the man in the blue hoodie.
Who had made the catastrophic mistake of lingering.
You noticed Tig notice him.
Then Tig's entire posture shifted.
"Oh."
It was one tiny word.
Soft.
Almost cheerful.
"Oh, sweetheart..." He sighed dramatically. "...he's still here."
You frowned.
"He is?"
"Mhm."
"I thought he'd leave."
"So did I."
His smile returned.
Except...
Wrong.
Very wrong.
This one had entirely too many teeth.
The other bikers immediately recognized it.
"Oh no."
"Tig."
"Don't."
The Scot sighed.
"Behave."
"I am behavin'."
"Ye've got the smile."
"What smile?"
"The murder smile."
"I don't have a murder smile."
"Ye have a murder smile."
"I got lots of smiles."
"One of them gets paperwork."
Tig waved dismissively.
"Ain't gonna kill him."
"..."
"...Probably."
"Tig."
"Kidding."
"...Mostly."
You stared.
"...Mostly?"
He looked back at you.
"What?"
"You can't say 'mostly.'"
"Sure I can."
"No, you really can't."
He shrugged.
"I just did."
Before you could respond, Tig casually stepped away from the group and started walking toward the man.
Not quickly.
Not aggressively.
Almost lazily.
The follower saw him coming.
Looked confused.
Then nervous.
Then visibly panicked as he realized five more bikers had also drifted into motion without appearing to coordinate it at all.
They didn't surround him.
Didn't touch him.
Didn't threaten him.
They simply...
Occupied every direction he might reasonably choose to run.
Tig stopped directly in front of him.
You couldn't hear the conversation.
Couldn't make out a single word.
You only saw the man's face lose every remaining ounce of confidence.
Then color.
Then dignity.
He nodded so hard you thought his neck might snap.
Turned.
Walked away at a pace just shy of sprinting.
Never once looking back.
Tig watched until he disappeared around the corner.
Then casually wandered back over like he'd just finished discussing the weather.
"Problem solved."
You stared.
"...What did you say?"
He looked genuinely puzzled.
"I talked to him."
"What did you say?"
"I was polite."
The other bikers erupted into simultaneous protests.
"Bullshit."
"No you weren't."
"I saw your face."
"Ye were grinning."
"You scared the soul outta that guy."
Tig looked offended.
"I merely explained."
"...Explained what?"
"That if he ever followed you again..." He paused thoughtfully. "...I'd become an inconvenience."
The Scot snorted into his coffee.
"'Inconvenience'.. Tig."
"What?"
"Ye told him you'd identify him by dental records."
"..."
"...Maybe."
"You WHAT?"
"He seemed to understand."
"You are completely unhinged."
He looked at you hopefully.
"...Little bit."
You laughed.
Really laughed.
The kind that escaped before you could stop it.
Tig froze.
Actually froze.
His eyes stayed on your face as your laughter continued.
"Oh."
You blinked.
"What?"
"Pretty laugh."
Heat rushed into your cheeks.
"Oh."
"Thought it'd sound nice."
"..."
"...It does."
The other bikers collectively groaned so loudly nearby shoppers actually turned to stare.
"Jesus."
"He's flirting."
"This is painful."
"Tig."
"You've known her five minutes."
"I know."
"And?"
"I'm thinkin' forever."
"Tig!"
"What?"
"You cannot decide forever in five minutes."
"I decided in three."
You buried your face in your hands, laughing again.
"You are absolutely ridiculous."
He stepped just a little closer.
"So I've been told."
"You threatened a stranger."
"He threatened you first."
"You don't even know me."
"I'd like to fix that."
"..."
"..."
"...Lunch?"
You looked into those ridiculous, surprisingly soft, blue eyes sitting inside the face of a man who looked like he should terrify you, at the tattoos, the weathered leather, the smile that danced somewhere between affectionate and completely feral, and then you glanced toward the street where the man who had followed you had vanished without so much as daring another glance back.
Most people would have thought choosing the bikers was the reckless decision.
Instead, it had turned out to be the safest one you'd made all day.
You smiled.
"...Lunch."
Tig's answering grin lit up his entire face.
Behind him, five exhausted bikers exchanged knowing looks.
"Well." The Scot sighed. "Guess she's family now."
Another rubbed his forehead.
"Took him less than ten minutes."
"Nah." A third chuckled. "Took him thirty seconds."
Tig slipped his hand into yours as naturally as if it had always belonged there, his thumb brushing softly across your knuckles with surprising gentleness, the complete opposite of the gloriously unhinged man who had just frightened a stalker into what was probably a lifelong fear of motorcycles, and as he led you toward the café while happily ignoring every sarcastic comment thrown his way, you found yourself laughing more than you had in weeks, already understanding that loving Alexander "Tig" Trager would probably mean living in a permanent state somewhere between adored and utterly bewildered—but when his fingers tightened around yours with quiet certainty and he looked at you as though the entire crowded world had narrowed to one woman who'd trusted him without hesitation, you realized that, somehow, impossibly, you were looking forward to every wonderfully insane second of it.
You absentmindedly braid his hair while talking. He forgets what the conversation was about.
The conversation had started out as nothing more than another lazy evening spent hiding from the California heat, the kind that settled over Santo Padre like a heavy blanket and made everyone slow down whether they wanted to or not, the clubhouse unusually quiet after a long run, most of the guys scattered between the bar, the yard, and whatever corners they could find to nurse beers and bruises alike.
You and Coco Cruz had somehow ended up sharing the battered old couch tucked against the far wall, talking about absolutely nothing important and yet somehow everything at once, your knees tucked beneath you, his arm stretched lazily across the back cushions behind you, his long dark hair hanging loose because he'd finally admitted his head was starting to hurt after wearing it tied back all day, and despite the fact that neither of you had ever actually put a label on whatever this strange, warm, increasingly obvious thing between you was, everyone in the room had quietly accepted that if one of you was somewhere, the other probably wasn't far away.
You were halfway through telling him about your disastrous attempt at baking cookies the night before—something involving too much cinnamon, a smoke alarm, and a neighbour who'd come over convinced your apartment was on fire—when your hands simply...wandered, almost without permission, because his hair was right there, impossibly soft despite everything he put it through riding, and before your brain ever caught up with what your fingers were doing, you'd separated a section, smoothed it between your palms, and started weaving it into a neat braid with the same absentminded concentration someone might have while doodling during a phone call, never pausing your story, never changing your tone, never even looking down as your hands worked from muscle memory, the gentle pull and weave so natural it almost felt automatic.
Coco had been listening.
He'd been.
Probably.
At least...he had been for the first few seconds.
"...and then my landlord asks if maybe cooking just isn't my thing," you said with exaggerated offense, "which is rude because I make a perfectly decent grilled cheese—"
"Mhm."
"And then I accidentally called him Dad."
"...Yeah."
"And then I dropped the pan."
"...Right."
"...Johnny?"
Silence.
You looked up.
His brown eyes weren't focused on your face anymore.
They were somewhere around your hands.
Specifically, your fingers sliding carefully through his hair.
His expression had become so completely blank that it took you a second to realize he wasn't annoyed.
He wasn't bored.
He wasn't even thinking.
He was simply...gone.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Like someone had unplugged every coherent thought he'd possessed.
"...Johnny?"
"Huh?"
"You okay?"
"What?"
"You've got that thousand-yard stare."
"I do?"
"You've blinked once in like...a minute."
"I have?"
You couldn't help smiling.
"...Were you listening to anything I just said?"
There was another long pause.
Then, with remarkable honesty, Coco admitted, "I don't even remember what we were talking about."
You laughed so suddenly your shoulders shook, nearly losing the braid entirely.
"I was telling you about almost burning my apartment down."
"Oh."
"You said 'mhm' four different times."
"I was trying."
"You weren't succeeding."
"I know."
His voice carried absolutely zero embarrassment.
Only confusion.
The kind of confusion that came from someone who genuinely couldn't figure out why their brain had stopped functioning.
You finished another crossover in the braid before finally asking, "What's going on in that head?"
He frowned slightly, like he was honestly investigating the problem.
"...You're playing with my hair."
"I know."
"It feels nice."
"I'm glad."
"I can't think."
That made you laugh even harder.
"You can't think?"
"Nah."
"At all?"
"Nope."
"Seriously?"
He nodded once.
"You started touching my hair..." He gestured vaguely toward his own head. "...Everything else just kinda left."
You bit your lip, trying—and failing—not to grin.
"So you're saying I've accidentally short-circuited your brain?"
"...Yeah."
"That easy?"
"I don't think you understand."
"No?"
"I would've confessed to literally any crime you asked about in the last thirty seconds."
Your eyebrows shot up.
"Johnny."
"I'm serious."
"You'd make a terrible hostage."
"I know."
You reached the end of the braid, secured it temporarily with one of the spare hair ties you'd been wearing around your wrist, then leaned back to admire your work, only to discover he was still looking at you with that same impossibly soft expression, one that somehow made the normally rough, tattooed biker look years younger, like all the sharp edges he'd built around himself had quietly dissolved without either of you noticing. And there was something almost painfully vulnerable about the way he hadn't once tried to stop you, hadn't joked about it, hadn't moved away, as though your hands in his hair had become something precious he'd been afraid to interrupt.
"You like this," you observed gently.
He didn't even pretend otherwise.
"...Yeah."
"You could've asked."
"I didn't wanna."
"Why?"
"'Cause then you'd know."
"I think I already know."
He smiled sheepishly.
"...Yeah."
You reached up again almost instinctively, smoothing a loose strand back behind his ear before fixing another tiny section that had escaped the braid, your fingertips brushing lightly against his scalp, and once again watched every coherent thought disappear from his face as if someone had flipped a switch.
"...There it goes again," you murmured.
"What?"
"The thinking."
"Oh."
"Gone."
"...Yeah."
"You really are helpless."
"A little."
Across the room, Angel happened to glance over.
Then snorted.
Hard.
"Yo."
Neither of you answered.
"Yo!"
Still nothing.
Now Bishop looked over too.
"What?"
Angel pointed.
"Look at Coco."
Bishop blinked once before the corner of his mouth twitched.
"...He's died."
Gilly wandered over.
"...Why's he look like somebody just read him a bedtime story?"
You looked up, confused.
"What?"
Gilly pointed dramatically.
"Him."
You turned toward Coco.
He was still staring at you.
Still smiling.
Still looking so hopelessly lovestruck that it might as well have been written across his forehead in neon letters.
"...Oh," you said quietly.
"...Yeah," Angel agreed.
"He's got it bad."
Coco sighed.
"I know."
"No," Gilly corrected. "I don't think you do."
Bishop folded his arms.
"I've seen this man get shot, I've seen him patched up with no anaesthetic, I've seen him fight guys twice his size."
"But somebody braids his hair..." He nodded toward Coco. "...and he forgets his own damn name."
The entire room burst into laughter.
Normally Coco would've fired back immediately.
Instead, he looked at you.
Only you.
"...Can she keep doing it?"
The room went completely silent.
Angel blinked. "...Brother... You didn't even deny it."
"I don't want her to stop."
You felt your face warm.
"Coco..."
He shifted closer, completely ignoring every pair of eyes watching him.
"When you're touching me..." he admitted quietly, "...everything gets...quiet."
The teasing stopped.
Even Angel looked away for a second.
Because suddenly it wasn't funny anymore.
It was honest.
"You spend so much time taking care of everybody else," Coco continued, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it, "making sure everybody eats, checking on everyone after runs, remembering birthdays nobody else remembers...and nobody really takes care of you. But then you sit next to me and start doing something as simple as braiding my hair like it's the most natural thing in the world..."
He smiled faintly. "...Makes me feel like maybe somebody thinks I'm worth being gentle with."
Your heart clenched so tightly it almost hurt.
Without saying anything, you reached forward again, this time resting your hand against his cheek instead of his hair.
"I do."
He searched your face carefully.
"...Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
Instead of answering with words, you leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn't rushed.
It wasn't dramatic.
Just warm.
Patient.
Certain.
When you finally pulled back, the smile spreading across his face was so bright that it transformed him completely, every ounce of guardedness melting away as though it had never existed in the first place.
Around them, someone muttered, "About damn time."
Another voice started taking bets on how long everyone else had known.
Angel loudly declared he'd been waiting months.
Nobody disagreed.
Coco barely heard any of it.
His forehead rested lightly against yours as one hand found yours, his thumb absentmindedly tracing your knuckles while you reached up one last time to neaten the braid you'd started, smiling when he instinctively leaned into your touch again with the same blissfully distracted expression that had made him forget an entire conversation in the first place.
"So," you whispered with a grin, "do you remember what we were talking about before?"
He looked at you for exactly half a second before your fingers brushed his hair again.
His eyes softened.
His thoughts disappeared.
"...Nope."
You laughed.
"I figured."
"I don't care."
"You don't?"
He shook his head, smiling like the luckiest man in Santo Padre.
"I'd rather listen to your voice and forget every conversation we ever have...if it means I get to spend the rest of them with you."
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