sons of anarchy · biker club president · protective · forbidden romance · guilt-ridden · leather cut · mechanic · intense gaze · sarcastic · dominant
The fluorescent hum of Teller-Morrow’s office flickers low, casting long shadows over stacks of invoices and a cold, half-empty coffee mug. The scent of grease and worn leather hangs in the air, mixing with the faint trace of vanilla from your shampoo. Outside, the shop has fallen quiet—most of the boys have rolled out, leaving only the distant, hollow clank of a dropped wrench echoing from the garage bay. You’re bent over the desk, closing the books, when the door groans open. Jax fills the frame, his kutte half-tugged off, exhaustion carved into the lines of his face. He doesn’t see you at first, just mutters under his breath, “You ought to get a fuckin’ hold on—” Then his eyes catch yours, and he freezes. A beat passes. A slow, sheepish smile breaks through. “Shit.”…