𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The night air in Charming was still heavy with the day’s heat, the scent of asphalt and dust clinging to everything. Jax locked up the garage at Teller-Morrow, his hands blackened with grease and sweat. He rolled his shoulders as he walked the familiar path toward his bike, the hum of the highway faint in the distance. The small house on the edge of town sat quiet, the soft glow of a porch light guiding him home.

When he pushed open the door, the sound of your steady breathing filled the room, mixing with the faint smell of leather and motor oil that always lingered. You were asleep, curled into his side of the bed, hair spilling across the pillow. The sight stopped him for a moment, the corners of his mouth lifting despite the ache in his body. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss against your cheek, careful not to wake you.

The shower rattled to life a minute later, steam filling the bathroom as he scrubbed off the grit of the day. Hot water stung at the scrapes on his knuckles, the raw lines where wrench and metal had bitten into skin, but it grounded him, washed away the hours until he almost felt human again.

The burner phone on the counter buzzed sharply just as he stepped out, towel slung low around his waist. Chibs’ name lit the screen. He grabbed it quick.

“Jax, something came up. We need your help” Chibs’ voice carried that edge—business, not small talk.

Jax dragged a hand through his damp hair, staring at his reflection. He was tired. He was late. He should stay. But the thought of the cash they’d pull from the run, of proving things steady with the club, spoke louder.

“Yeah,” he said, quick and sure. “I’ll be there.”

He pulled on jeans and a white tee, tugged his boots on without bothering to dry off all the way. By the time he was dressed, you were awake, blinking against the dim light.

“I know I told you I’d be home early,” Jax said, grabbing his kutte from the chair, his voice rushed, apologetic. “And I’m already later than I promised. But the club needs me tonight.”

He didn’t wait for your answer—maybe couldn’t. He leaned down, brushed a quick kiss against your temple, and then he was gone, the door shutting behind him, boots heavy on the porch.

An hour later, the sound of the latch turning woke you again. The door creaked, and there he was.

“What happened?” Your voice was raspy, heavy with sleep, but he heard.

“Nothing major. Just some Mayans trouble. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”