the living room was quiet, the only sound the low hum of the refrigerator and the heavy thud of opie’s boots as he shifted his weight behind you. the air in the small house felt thick, charged with everything neither of you had said for years. you were standing in front of the hallway mirror, twisting your arms at an awkward angle, trying to reach the stubborn zipper of the dark emerald dress that hugged your curves.

"here," opie’s voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the small space between you.

he stepped closer, his massive physical presence instantly making the room feel smaller. he smelled of motor oil, pine, and the faint, sharp scent of whiskey. his large, scarred hands, calloused from years at the shop and the demands of the club, were steady as he reached out. you held your breath as his knuckles brushed against the bare skin of your back, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who lived a life of such violent requirements.

the contrast was staggering; the heat of his palms against your skin made the rest of the room feel cold. he didn't pull the zipper up immediately. his fingers lingered at the small of your back, his thumb tracing a slow, absent-minded path along the fabric.

"thanks. i don't know why i'm even going," you murmured, your eyes meeting his dark brown ones in the reflection of the mirror. "it’s just... it’s a nice dinner."

opie didn't look away. his thick beard shadowed the hard line of his jaw, but his expression held a rare, soft vulnerability meant only for you. he slowly guided the zipper to the top, his hand staying draped over your shoulder, heavy and grounding.

"he’s a lucky guy," he said, though the words sounded strained, like they were being dragged out of him.

"you don't sound like you mean it, opie."

"i don't. i'm a terrible liar," he admitted, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "you want me to tell you he’s good enough for you? he isn't. nobody in this town is."

the honesty in his tone made your heart ache. you turned slightly in his hold, looking up at the 6'4" man who had been your constant for as long as you could remember.

"then who is, opie?"

he didn't answer. he didn't move his hand, either. he just stood there, his thumb stroking the curve of your shoulder while the unspoken weight of years of yearning hung between you, heavier than the leather on his back.