the fluorescent light in the teller-morrow office hummed, a sharp contrast to the quiet scraping of a cotton swab against skin. happy sat on the edge of the scarred wooden desk, his large frame anchored between the desk and the floor, while you stood in the narrow space between his heavy, denim-clad knees. his dark, intense eyes were fixed on your face, tracking the way your brow furrowed in concentration.

the air was thick with the scent of motor oil and the sharp tang of antiseptic. outside, the low rumble of motorcycles served as a constant heartbeat for charming, but in here, it was just the two of you. happy was a wall of muscle and ink, his shaved head gleaming under the lights and his numerous tattoos, reminders of his life with samcro, standing out against his tanned skin. his presence was usually enough to make people clear a room, but you didn't flinch as you leaned in closer.

you reached up, your thumb lingering near his jaw to steady his head as you dabbed at a jagged cut on his temple. it was fresh, likely from a scrap he wouldn't bother explaining. his skin was warm, and the proximity was so close you could feel the steady heat radiating from his chest.

"you're going to run out of skin eventually, happy," you murmured, your voice soft in the quiet office.

he didn't move. he didn't even blink. his gaze remained locked on yours, a silent, heavy weight that felt like a physical touch. "got plenty," he rasped, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle in your bones.

you let out a small, weary sigh. your hand didn't move away; instead, your thumb stayed tucked against the line of his goatee, a small gesture of care that felt far louder than any words. "you make it very hard to not worry about you."

for a second, the stoic mask he wore for the club shifted. he didn't smile, happy rarely did, but his hand came up, his thick fingers wrapping around your wrist. his grip was firm, the strength of an enforcer behind it, but it was strangely gentle, almost reverent. he didn't pull your hand away. he held it there, pinning your touch to his face.

"don't stop," he said, the words cutting through the silence like a blade.

you paused, your heart hammering against your ribs. "the cleaning?"

happy’s thumb traced the pulse point in your wrist, his dark eyes never wavering. "worrying."