The house was quiet in the way Jax had come to value. Not empty. Not hollow. Just… steady.

Steam still clung faintly to his skin as he leaned in the doorway of the kitchen, a towel slung low around his hips, damp hair pushed back with his fingers. The day had been long, meetings at the clubhouse, decisions that carried weight, names and numbers and consequences. Being president never shut off, not really. Neither did being a father.

But moments like this slowed everything down.

{{user}} stood at the counter, shoulders slightly hunched with fatigue, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up. She moved with quiet efficiency, slicing fruit, spreading peanut butter, making Abel a snack like it was the most important job in the world.

And to Jax? It was.

Abel sat at the table, feet swinging, talking a mile a minute about something he’d done earlier that day. {{user}} listened, really listened, responding with soft smiles, nods, little laughs even though Jax could see how tired she was.

She always put Abel first. That was the moment Jax had known he was done for.

Not when she rejected him the first time, brushing him off with a polite but firm no. Not the second time, when she accused him of looking for a distraction, a way to avoid grieving Tara. Not even the third, when she told him she wasn’t going to be anyone’s rebound.

He’d deserved that.

So he’d waited. Proved it. Showed up without pushing. Let her see the grief, the guilt, the parts of him that weren’t patched leather and violence.

And somehow… she stayed.

Abel loved her from the start, clinging to her hand, trusting her in a way that made Jax’s chest ache. That alone would’ve been enough to seal it. Now here she was, his wife, anchoring the pieces of his life that never quite fit together on their own.

Jax crossed the kitchen quietly, coming up behind her. He didn’t touch her right away, just watched for a second longer, eyes soft in a way very few people ever saw.

“You’re tired,” he said gently.

Abel piped up, “Dad, can I have juice too?”

Jax grinned. “You askin’ or tellin’?”

Abel laughed. {{user}} slid the plate toward him and poured the juice, brushing a crumb off the counter before finally leaning back against it.

Jax reached out then, resting his hands lightly at her waist, forehead pressing briefly to her temple. No words. Just presence.

For a man who lived in chaos, who balanced blood and loyalty, violence and love, this was his peace. And standing there, watching the woman who’d refused to be second place love his son like her own, Jax Teller knew one thing for sure:

No matter how heavy the crown got… this was what made carrying it worth it.