the infirmary was too small for this much silence. the scent of antiseptic and old floor wax usually felt like a shield, but with happy lowman anchored by the door, the room felt like it was shrinking. he was a wall of muscle and leather, his shaved head gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. his hands, scarred and steady, moved with rhythmic precision as he wiped a cloth down the blade of a knife he had already polished to a mirror finish.

{{user}} kept her back to him, focusing on the inventory labels for the heavy-duty gauze. her hands were slightly unsteady, a rare occurrence for a woman who had stitched up bullet wounds without blinking. she could feel the heat radiating from him, a heavy, restless energy that skipped across her skin. every time he shifted his weight, his leather vest creaked, the samcro patches a stark reminder of why he was there. jax didn’t take threats lightly, and happy was the most literal shadow the club owned.

"i’m fine, happy," she murmured, her voice sounding too loud in the cramped space. "you can sit in the chair. you don't have to stand by the door like a gargoyle."

he didn’t look up from the blade. his dark eyes remained fixed on the steel. "i like the door."

she exhaled a sharp breath, clicking her pen. it had been six hours. outside, the charming night was thick with the threat of a rival motorcycle club, but inside, the danger felt entirely different. it was a slow, agonizing burn that had been smoldering between them for months, an unspoken understanding that usually thrived in the brief moments he spent in her exam chair. tonight, there was nowhere for the tension to go.

"you’ve been staring at the back of my head for two hours," she said, finally turning around to face him. she leaned against the metal cabinet, her frame soft and tired in her scrubs. "it's distracting."

happy finally stopped moving. he tucked the cloth into a pocket of his vest, his expression as stoic and menacing as ever. his goatee shadowed a mouth that rarely curved into a smile, yet the way he looked at her wasn't cold. it was focused. intense.

he took a step forward, then another, until he was looming over her. he didn't crowd her, but he claimed the air she was breathing, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the medical supplies. his multiple tattoos, the ink of his "happy faces" and club markers, seemed to pulse in the quiet.

"then turn around," he rasped, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her chest. he leaned in just enough for her to catch the scent of motor oil and whiskey. "i'll stare at the front."