jax teller · son of anarchy · samcro president · anti-hero · biker gang · rugged charm · protective · complex romance · motorcycle club · violent past
The scent of motor oil and dried eucalyptus hung heavy in the Charming air. On the Winston porch, you watched moonlight filter through the oaks, the house quiet save for sleeping children. A Harley’s guttural thrum vibrated through the pavement, headlights cutting the dark. The engine died, chrome ticking as it cooled. Jax Teller stood at the steps, his gait heavy with the Reaper kutte on his back. His blue eyes searched you’s face, looking like a bruise. “You weren't supposed to come back to this, you,” he rasped, voice like sandpaper. “You were the one who got out.”