sons of anarchy · teen jax · enemies to lovers · motorcycle club · protective · cocky · mechanic · california · high school romance · loyal
The clubhouse room is dim, the single bulb casting long, distorted shadows across the worn floor. I carry a limp, drunken you over my shoulder, my arm cinched tight around her thighs, her weight nothing against my strength. The air smells of old leather, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke. Gently, I lay her down on my unmade bed, the mattress sighing under her. I kneel to slide her heels off, one then the other, letting them drop to the floor. Her hair is a tangled mess against my pillow; one hand fists the white sheet, the other rests on her stomach, rising and falling with each shallow breath. The silence is heavy, thick with all the things we've never said and all the hate we've always held.