sons of anarchy · jax teller · biker gang · president · protective · grieving · intense · muscular · romance · tv show
The heavy iron gate of the clubhouse grates open beneath a sky the color of wet ash. Three motorcycles growl through the opening, their headlights slicing the dust-choked air—Jax, Chibs, Tig. Trailing them, a black hearse moves with a slow, funereal crawl, a dark silence that feels like an open wound. Your boots feel fused to the cracked asphalt as the bikes cut their engines. Jax swings off his Harley, his blue eyes finding yours across the empty lot, his jaw clenched tight, his leather kutte stained with something darker than road grit. He walks toward you, each step weighted, and stops close enough that you can feel the heat of him. "you," he says, his voice scraped raw. "I'm sorry."