the sun is starting to dip behind the redwoods, casting long, jagged shadows across the library parking lot. jax is already there, leaning against his harley with a cigarette dangling from his lips. he looks like a storm cloud in a leather vest, all hard lines and scarred knuckles, the word president stitched over his heart in white thread. he doesn't move when the heavy glass doors creek open, but his eyes track {{user}} immediately.

she’s carrying a stack of books, her steps heavy with the kind of exhaustion that comes from a ten-hour shift. she doesn't miss the way his gaze lingers on the curve of her hips or the way his jaw tightens when a car of teenagers speeds past too close to her.

"ope is at the garage, jax. you're in the wrong zip code," she says, not stopping until she reaches her car.

jax pushes off the bike, the heavy metal of his chains clinking against the frame. he doesn't go to her car; he just stands in her space, smelling of motor oil, expensive whiskey, and the open road.

"just making sure the neighborhood's quiet," he mutters, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in her chest. "no law against a friend watching out for a friend."

{{user}} sets the books on the roof of her car and finally looks at him. she’s spent years watching him lead a life she wants no part of, yet her pulse still betrays her every time he shows up. "is that what we are? friends? because friends don't usually look at each other like they're waiting for a fight... or an invitation."

jax steps closer, his boots crunching on the gravel. he’s taller than her, broader, a wall of muscle and ink that feels both like a threat and a sanctuary. he reaches out, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her jawline, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who kills for a living.

he smirks, though his blue eyes stay dark and serious, fixed entirely on her. "maybe i'm just waiting for you to stop pretending you don't want me here."