Happy knew that night.
Knew before you even said it.
Knew even though he couldn't say it back.
You'd answered the door at two in the morning when the jarring sound of his motorcycle woke you up. Probably woke half the damn block. There was blood on his kutte, but you didn't ask questions as he slinked out of the leather and started undressing right there in the living room. He left a trail of clothes all the way to your shower and you quietly picked them up to toss them in a heap on the chair in your room.
He'd showered and found you waiting at the foot of the bed with a folded towel in one hand and the remote in the other as you flipped aimlessly through the trash they only showed in the middle of the night. That's how you always seemed to be whenever he'd walk into a room to find you in it. Like you'd been waiting just for him.
Ignoring the towel, he walked over to you and placed his hands on your neck before pulling you in for a kiss. Water soaked through the t-shirt you'd been wearing as he pressed his body closer.
There were many visits during the night where he'd played the game. He knew nothing of romance, but he tried. Brought dying gas station flowers or asked how your day was and patiently listened. Held back when he fucked you, knowing that Croweaters and women he bought dying gas station flowers for just because he remembered the way they sneezed when they put too much pepper in the spaghetti were different.
They fucked differently.
Wanted to be fucked differently.
Happy was too impatient tonight. He'd pulled at your damp shirt, growing frustrated at every moment he wasn't closer to you. On top of you. Inside of you. He'd found his way soon enough, and he was greedy in the way hips kept crashing to meet yours. You'd held his hands where they gripped your waist, feeling the way your skin subtly dipped under his fingertips like a potter's hand on ruined clay.
You'd felt no discomfort, though. Only wrapped your arms around the nape of his neck and whispered his name and God's as you took all of him.
After, he'd laid beside you in bed as you sat up, looking down at him begin to drift. Both naked and too content to find shelter under the covers. You placed a hand over his chest, bringing him back. Examined how the snake on his chest grow each time he breathed in. Your hand traced the underbelly of the serpent until your thumb met the slightly raised ink of a smiley face tattoo. They were all in a cluster, some with ink darker than others as time faded the rest. He watched as you mentally counted each one.
"Everyone says that you get one when you kill someone," you finally said, your voice even and strong.
"And if it is?" he asked in a gruff voice.
You ignored him, still looking down at his body. All muscle and tattoos. Only hard lines and firmness and a harsh, gravely voice. Nothing soft except the unsure way he'd asked you that question.
"Which one's Derrick?" you questioned, finally meeting his eyes for the first time since you watched him come. He stared at you for a long time before slightly moving your thumb to a smiley face tattoo closer to his hip bone. He'd never confirmed anything until then. Not outright.
"That bother you?" Happy asked, seeing you trace the scar on your forearm from where the doctors had to piece your broken bones back together.
The night Derrick threw you down a flight of concrete stairs at your Aunt Neeta's house and the last night Derrick came around.
Happy searched for any sign of fear on your face. He'd been this close before. Had tried to explain to other women that his day job consisted of more than just auto repair, but it never went well. He'd never expected it to.
"I'm not stupid, Hap," You told him. "I know what you and the Sons do. I know that you've done things to protect your brothers. To protect me. If…if these men were as bad or worse than Derrick…then no. It doesn't bother me." You settled next to him in bed and lay your head on his shoulder as you traced ink on his collarbone.
That's when Happy knew for sure.
Your hand slid up to his face like another serpent where you gently turned his head towards yours to kiss him.
"I love you," you'd said when you fell away from him before smiling lazily and closing your eyes.
Happy understood that you loved him despite his inability to say it back. Didn't care if he ever did. You weren't waiting for reciprocation. It was a simple fact, not a question. Unconditional.
He'd known then that he'd unintentionally found what everyone else around him seemed to have.
He'd had what Clay found in Gemma. What Jax had with Tara. What Chibs lost in Belfast.
He'd found you.