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Jameson followed Opie home that night, both of their motorcycles roaring on the quiet roads.
When they pulled into his driveway in the quiet neighborhood he lived in, she got off her bike and lay flat on her back on the cool pavement. He watched her, smirking, and then lay beside her.
"You remember when we used to do this on the roof of the clubhouse and watch the stars?" she asked, and he nodded.
"I remember," he said quietly.
"Do you ever wish I hadn't been patched into the club?" she asked, shooting a sideways glance at him. He thought for a moment and then shook his head.
"No, I'm glad you were," he said, and she sighed.
"Sometimes I think it would've been better if I hadn't," she admitted. She'd never uttered those words to anyone before, not even her brother, even though the thought had been in her mind to quite a while.
Ever since Jax had found a manuscript their father had written before he'd died about his wishes for the club and all the things he'd done wrong a few years earlier, she hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. He'd wanted to change things, and it weighed heavy on her conscience that he'd not been able to before he died. Part of her wondered if he'd been able to do what he'd wanted to, maybe she and Opie could've been together, had a real life together.
Opie was quiet. He didn't respond to her statement, but she wasn't surprised. He was quiet by nature and usually if he didn't have something he dubbed as meaningful to say, he didn't say anything at all. His quietness had always annoyed her when they were younger, but the older they got the more she understood it. You couldn't say the wrong thing or something that could be held against you later if you didn't say anything at all.
In lieu of words, he reached for her hand. The metal of his rings was cold against her skin and she stood, heaving herself off of the ground and then reaching for him. She helped him up and he pulled her into a tight hug.
He led her inside and helped her settle into his spare bedroom. He kissed the top of her head and then disappeared down the hall. She heard his bedroom door slam and then listened as the shower in his en-suite bathroom roared to life.
She took a shower in the other bathroom and when she came back, she sat quietly in the spare room for a while, trying to resist the urge to go to him. She knew she probably shouldn't, especially after she'd made a big deal about it earlier, but she eventually decided she couldn't help it.
She knocked quietly on his bedroom door and when he didn't answer, she cracked it open and peeked in at him. His tall frame was sprawled across the bed and he was sleeping.
He'd very obviously just passed out after showering; his chest was bare and a pair of sweatpants hung low on his hips. His long hair hung in clumps fanned out around him and covering his face and she had to smile at the state of him. He'd always been one of those people who just looked like there was absolutely no way he was comfortable while he slept, but somehow he was the most sound sleeper she knew.
She stepped into the room as quietly as she could, brushing pieces of hair out of his face as she sat on the edge of his bed. He reached for her sleepily, his eyes fluttering open.
"Hey," he whispered, and she smiled and interlaced their fingers.
"Hi."
"Remember a few hours ago when you accused me of not being able to resist you?" he asked her, and she smirked and nodded. "You were right," he told her, sitting up and pulling her closer to him.
"Ope..." she said his name, trailing off when he made a sound of disapproval in the back of his throat.
"Just... let's just be us for a little while, okay? Let's just be two regular people with absolutely nothing to worry about, just for tonight. Please?" he asked her, and she looked up into his eyes, knowing she was going to give in to him at once.
"Okay," she whispered, and he smiled, pulling her even closer until she was basically nestled in his lap. He studied her and she raised a hand up to his cheek, tracing the line of his beard with a fingertip.
"This is my favorite version of you, you know," he told her quietly a while later. They'd been sitting in silence, his hands roaming and gently touching her all over as she nestled her head into his neck and took in the scent of his shampoo on his still-wet hair.
"'Version of me'?" she asked, amused.
"Yeah. There are so many. There's this version of you, the soft sweet girl you are with me in private, when there's no one else around and everything fades away. I feel like it's the only time I ever really see the real you. Then there's also the club version of you, where you're the super sexy badass biker chick with the hair-trigger temper, and there's the version of you that you are around Jax, when you act like you're always trying to prove yourself somehow," he explained, and although she wanted to argue the details on the last one, she couldn't. Jax was only two years older than her, but her biggest goal had always been to make him proud of her. She had, and she knew that, but she'd never stop trying either.
"'Super sexy badass biker chick'?" she asked, snorting out a laugh. Opie laughed with her, shaking his head.
"Shut up and take my fucking compliment, will you?" he asked, and she laughed again.
"What exactly was the compliment, again?" she asked, genuinely a little unclear on it.
"That I like you the most when we're alone together, when you let me love you, and when you let yourself love me."
"I don't love you, Opie Winston," she said, doing her best to keep a straight face.
"You're a bad goddamn liar," he said, squeezing her tighter and resting his head on top of hers.
