Jax’s boy. His son had been the one thing that made him think cold and clear, that made him feel like some ground was beneath his feet before he pulled the black on someone. Before he got on his motorcycle and everytime he stood before a decision for the club, he thought of you.

He didn't have it in him to pull you out of it, and he hadn’t thought that sometimes he wasn't the best example — yet he tried. He walked in the clubhouse and saw you in the stools before the counter.

He put a heavy palm on your jaw and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Hey, little man. How you doin’ — Jesus Christ, kid. What happened to you?” He noticed the patched up mess over your face, from a street brawl or some teenager angsty thing like that. He knew that well enough.

Your face in his hands as he lifted your chin and checked the bruises a tad bit roughly, but just as a concerned father knew how to.