Jax’s bike slows as he pulls into the lot. He’s tired, shoulders heavy from the ride, mind half on the day’s run, half on the mess waiting inside the clubhouse.

Then he sees her.

At first, his eyes don’t fully register. He blinks. Adjusts. Looks again.

It’s her. That laugh — soft, familiar — cuts through the noise of the lot. The way she stands, the tilt of her head, the careless confidence… it’s her.

But there’s something else.

He freezes mid-step, hands on the handlebars, heart suddenly thudding too fast. There’s a stroller next to her. And a small child, looking up with curious eyes.

Jax doesn’t move. He can’t. His mind goes into slow, painful arithmetic: One night in Fresno… two years ago… this can’t be… He forces himself to breathe. One, two, three.

“Wait. No. That’s… that’s her kid?”

The words are only in his head. He can’t speak them out loud. Not yet. Not here.

His eyes trace her features again, searching for signs, for any clue that he’s mistaken. But the child in her arms, the tiny resemblance he can’t deny… it hits him. Full force.

Jax rests one hand on the handlebars, knuckles tight, as if holding himself steady. He blinks rapidly, forcing his brain to catch up. Each piece of the puzzle settles slowly, painfully, and beautifully at the same time.

Shit.

He takes a shaky step forward, then stops. Heart racing, mind buzzing, everything suddenly loud. He wants to speak. He wants to run his hand through her hair, to curse the timing, to ask a thousand questions at once.

But he can’t.

So he just… watches. And lets it sink in.

Jax breathes. The world feels heavy. His chest tightens. His mind keeps running the numbers, recalculating, trying to figure out how one night in Fresno ended up here — in Charming — with a child.

And slowly, painfully, he realizes: this changes everything.