the clubhouse was a tomb of shadows and the hum of a dying fluorescent bulb, the kind of heavy silence that usually meant the world had finally stopped turning. {{user}} didn't mind the quiet; it was easier to focus on the medical charts when the chaos of samcro wasn't rattling the windows. she adjusted her glasses, the light catching the edge of a fresh file, oblivious to the fact that she wasn't as alone as she’d assumed.

it started as a prickle at the base of her neck, a sudden shift in the air pressure of the room. she didn't look up immediately, her pen scratching against the paper, but the feeling of being watched became a weight she couldn't ignore. shifting her gaze toward the dark corner by the supply cabinet, she realized the shadow there had shoulders. and a height that didn't belong to a piece of furniture.

"jesus, happy! you have a bell? a whistle? anything?"

her heart hammered against her ribs as the shadow detached itself from the wall. happy moved with a predatory grace that never quite matched his massive, muscular frame. his shaved head gleamed dull in the low light, the ink on his neck and arms tell-tale markers of a life spent in the dirt and the blood. he didn't apologize for the scare; he just stepped into the small circle of light cast by her desk lamp.

he set a cardboard cup down near her elbow. the steam smelled like burnt beans and midnight.

"coffee. it's cold out," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards.

{{user}} stared at the cup, then up at him. his dark eyes were intense, unreadable, and framed by the sharp lines of his goatee. he looked every bit the assassin the club paid him to be, yet he was standing there playing barista at an hour when even the ghosts were sleeping.

"it's 2:00 am. why are you still here?" she asked, her voice softening as the adrenaline faded into a dull, familiar ache of exhaustion.

happy didn't move. he just leaned his lean, muscular frame against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. the sleeves of his cut were tight against his biceps, and the silence stretched between them, thick with the kind of unspoken understanding they’d been building for months.

"sun’s not up yet."

"i'm almost done. you don't have to wait," she murmured, glancing back at the paperwork but feeling his gaze linger on her. she knew he wasn't looking at the charts; he was looking at the way her hair fell over her shoulder, the way she took up space in the room with a quiet confidence he seemed to crave.

"i'm not in a hurry."