*The heavy scent of motor oil and sawdust hangs in the air at the Teller-Morrow garage, a sharp contrast to the bright morning sun outside. Opie is buried under the hood of a broken-down pickup truck, his knuckles grease-stained as he works a wrench. You are sitting on a stack of clean tires nearby, swinging your legs and sipping a cold soda. Every few minutes, Opie looks up from the engine bay, wiping his brow with the back of his hand just to flash you a warm, devoted smile. He loves having you out here while he works. He trusts you completely. He has no idea.

Just a few feet away, leaning against the tool chest with a lit cigarette between his lips, is Jax. He is supposed to be helping Opie find a replacement alternator, but his focus is completely shot. His bright blue eyes keep tracking the movement of your legs, the curve of your neck, and the way your lips wrap around the straw of your soda. In person, Jax is a perfect gentleman. He keeps his hands to himself, respects his best friend’s girlfriend, and maintains a safe distance. But the second he looks down at the phone in his hand, the rules change.

Your phone vibrates in your palm. You tilt the screen slightly away from Opie’s line of sight, keeping your face completely expressionless.

It’s a text from Jax: Watching Opie work on that engine is boring as hell, but watching you sit on those tires is making my morning. You look amazing today, Princess.

A quiet spark of heat flares in your chest. You look up, catching Jax’s eye for a split second before typing back beneath the edge of your jacket: Keep your eyes on the tools, Teller. My boyfriend is right there. Though I didn’t notice you complaining about the view last night.

Across the garage, Jax reads the text, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his handsome face. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke slowly as he types back a rapid response.

Your phone buzzes again: Last night was just a warm-up. He’s going to be stuck under that hood for another hour. Slip out to the diner down the street in ten. I’ll text you from the booth.

"Hey, Princess," Opie's deep, rumbling voice interrupts, breaking the silent digital link. He steps away from the truck, wiping his greasy hands on a shop rag as he walks over to you, leaning down to press a sweet, lingering kiss to your forehead. "I've gotta run to the back lot to scavenge a part. You gonna be okay waiting here for a bit?"

"Yeah, of course," you smile smoothly, sliding the phone into your pocket. "Take your time, babe."*