Okay, so question for all my followers and those that read my fics. I am kind of edging my way back into the JCB fandom again and I want to start my Fire Away (Caius) fic back up again. The last time I posted for it, there was barely an audience for JCB anymore but that seems to have changed recently. If you would like for me to continue with the story just give me a yes or no vote. I did post a new chapter for my Caleb Sykes fic and I plan to post the first real chapter for Take Me Away soon. And if you are a fan of my Tim Riggins fic or the Tyler Ownes, those are still in play as well 😊
⚠️ Warning ⚠️ Story will contain moments of physical, sexual, emotional, and verbal abuse, cursing, murder, suicidal ideations, childbirth, scalping, death, etc. Please do not read if you are triggered by any of these warnings. If you've seen the film or just read about it online, you already know that Caleb is a bad guy. He will remain a bad guy throughout this story as well. He will not be liked and will be vile in every way. Just a heads up if you were looking for a happy Jamie story.
● If you would like to be tagged, please comment below ●
..... Sorry it's been such a long time.... I've missed you guys ❤️
TW: This chapter will be kind of heavy so please read with caution.
The fire burned itself down to nothing sometime around two in the morning, and I didn't get up to tend it.
I sat in the rocking chair with my knees drawn to my chest and my arms folded around my own middle and I let the cold come in the way it wanted to, pressing through the gaps in the log walls and settling along the floor like something that lived there. It was the kind of cold that made you feel the smallness of the shack — the way it was just boards and mud chinking and a little heat against an enormous indifferent winter, and how little it would take for the winter to win.
Caleb was asleep.
He'd been asleep inside of an hour after coming home, which I had long since stopped being shocked by. He had the gift of it — that deep, boneless sleep of men who have never once lain awake accounting for themselves. His hat was pulled down over his face. One boot was on and one was off and flung halfway across the room, left wherever it had landed when he pulled it free, because picking it up and setting it down in a reasonable place was somebody else's job, had always been somebody else's job, would always be somebody else's job until the day he died.
I looked at that boot for a long time in the dark.
The cut on my cheek had crusted over. I could feel it every time I moved my jaw — a thin tight line of heat running from just below my eye toward the corner of my mouth, where his ring had caught me on the drag. I kept touching it without meaning to, my fingers going there on their own in the dark, and every time they did I made myself put my hand back down. It wasn't useful, touching it. It didn't change what it was.
Emily made a sound in her crib. Not a cry — just the small unconscious language of a sleeping baby, the clicks and murmurs that meant she was somewhere deep in whatever world infants inhabit when their eyes close. I was out of the chair before the sound had fully registered, moving to the crib the way I always did, pulled there by something more animal than thought. I rested two fingers against her back and felt the rise and fall of her breathing and I stood there in the dark of the ruined fire and I let myself, for the first time since the burial, cry.
Not loudly. I had learned a long time ago how to cry without making noise. It was a skill like any other, developed out of necessity, and I had become very good at it — the kind of crying that is entirely internal, that happens somewhere behind the sternum and comes out only in the shaking of the shoulders and the water on the face that you wipe away as fast as it falls so there's no evidence of it in the morning. I cried for Rory. For the pine box and the cold dirt and the absence of a preacher because this family didn't think my son's soul was worth a prayer. I cried for the look on the faces of those men at the burial, the careful way they'd kept their eyes on the ground, how not one of them had looked at me directly because looking at me would have required them to see me, and seeing me would have required them to feel something.
And then I stopped. Wiped my face. Put my hand back on Emily's back and felt her breathe.
Alright, I said to the dark. Not out loud — barely even a breath. Just the shape of the word in my mouth.
Alright.
Caleb was up before the light had decided what it wanted to do.
He had the kind of relationship with mornings that most men out here had — late and badly and with a grievance already formed — and so the sound of him moving around the shack before dawn pulled me out of the doze I'd finally fallen into with a specific kind of alert that was less like waking and more like a body recognizing a threat.
I kept still in the chair. Watched him from under my lashes.
He stood at the small cracked mirror above the washbasin and looked at himself in the weak gray light coming under the door. His lip was split at the corner — from last night, from wherever the night had taken him before he came home and found a reason to use his hands. There was bruising along his jaw that hadn't been there before. He touched it the same way I'd been touching my cheek all night — absently, with the tips of his fingers, as if he was still getting acquainted with its edges.
Then he looked up and saw me watching him in the mirror.
Neither of us said anything for a moment.
He turned from the mirror and went to his boot on the floor and pulled it on without sitting down, balancing on one foot with a physical confidence that had never failed to irritate me. He settled his hat on his head. He looked at me sitting in the chair in my day clothes from the night before with Emily asleep in the crib beside me and the dead fire gray in the grate, and I looked back at him, and the silence between us was so full it was practically a third person in the room.
"You sleep at all?" he asked.
"Some," I said.
He looked at my face. At the cut specifically — I saw his eyes go to it the way a man's eyes go to something he'd rather not have to account for, a quick glance that was trying to be casual and wasn't managing it.
"You need to put something on that," he said.
I said nothing.
"Elizabeth. I'm talking to you."
"I know you are," I said.
He let out a slow breath through his nose. He went to the fireplace and crouched in front of it and began rebuilding the fire with the particular focused efficiency he had for physical tasks — hands moving quickly, no wasted motion, the same hands that had put the mark on my face now carefully stacking kindling like that was all they'd ever been for. I watched him do it and felt something so cold move through me that it barely registered as emotion anymore. It was more like a clarification. Like the moment when fog burns off and what's underneath is simply the landscape, plain and irrefutable.
The fire caught. He stood.
"My mother's going to want to see you this morning," he said. "You and Emily both."
"I'd rather she came here," I said.
He turned and looked at me. "That's not how it works."
"I know how it works," I said. "I'm telling you I'd rather she came here."
"What you'd rather doesn't enter into it." His voice was patient in the way that things are patient before they stop being patient. "You're going to go up to the house this morning and you're going to apologize to Hannah for what you did at that table, and then you're going to sit down and eat whatever my mother puts in front of you and you're going to be grateful for it. That's what's going to happen today."
I looked at him. "Caleb."
"Don't."
"I haven't said anything yet."
"You don't need to. I already know what's coming out of your mouth and I'm telling you right now—" He pointed at me, a short flat gesture that was the physical equivalent of a door slamming. "Today is not the day. Whatever you are planning to say, today is not the day for it."
"I'm not apologizing to Hannah," I said.
The finger dropped. Something shifted in his jaw. "The hell you're not."
"The hell I am." I stood up from the rocking chair and moved to the fireplace — not toward him, just needing to be on my feet, needing to not be sitting while he stood over me. The fire he'd built was throwing warmth and orange light into the room and I held my hands out to it and kept my voice level. "That woman sat at her own dinner table the night of my son's burial and told me that Rory would still be alive if I had never been his mother. She told me you should have left me in the whorehouse you found me in." I turned my head and looked at him over my shoulder. "You were there. You heard every word of it. And then you came home and you put your ring through my face." I turned back to the fire. "So when you ask me to apologize to Hannah, what you're asking me to do is confirm for every person in that house that everything she said was acceptable and everything I did was not. And I will not do that. Not today and not ever."
The silence that followed had a particular texture. The kind that comes right before something — you could feel it pressing outward, looking for a shape.
"You think any of this has anything to do with what you deserve?" His voice had gone quiet. The shouting I could track. The quiet had always been harder to predict. "None of it is fair. None of it has ever been fair. But that doesn't change what it is."
"And what is it?" I asked.
"Survival." He said it flatly, without drama. "Getting through each day without giving Jr a reason to look at you sideways. That is what it is. The whole of it."
I turned away from the fire and faced him fully. "And how long does a person survive like that, Caleb? How long before there's nothing left of them worth surviving for?"
He stared at me.
"Rory survived like that," I said. My voice broke on his name and I let it. "Rory kept his head down and did everything he was told and tried as hard as any child has ever tried to be what this family wanted him to be, and he is in the ground fifty yards from this door." My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against my skirt. "So don't talk to me about survival."
Something moved across his face — complicated and painful, that thing I had seen in him before that never, not once, had managed to stick. His eyes went to Emily in her crib and stayed there a moment. Then they came back to me and whatever had been briefly open in him closed again, the way a door closes when the wind stops pushing it.
"Go up to the house this morning," he said. "Apologize to Hannah. Make it right."
I looked at him for a long moment. Then I turned back to the fire.
"Get out," I said quietly. "Go wherever you're going and get out."
His boots crossed the floor. The door opened. The cold came in sharp and brief. The door closed behind him.
I put my forehead against the stones of the fireplace and I breathed.
Mama Sykes came before I'd finished nursing Emily.
She never knocked. She had not knocked once in all the years I had lived on this property, because knocking implied that the person on the other side of the door had some ownership of the space they occupied, and Mama Sykes had been clear from my first week of arrival that nothing on this land was mine in any way she was prepared to recognize. She came through the door and brought the cold with her and stood in the center of the shack and looked around it the way she always did — a slow proprietary sweep that took in the fire, the table, the crib, the dishes from last night still in the basin, and finally me, sitting in the rocking chair with Emily at my breast and a crusted cut on my face that her son had put there.
She looked at all of it and her expression did not change.
"You look a mess," she said.
"Good morning, Mama," I said.
"Don't give me that." She moved to my table and sat down without being invited, settling into the chair with the ease of a woman who had never once sat somewhere she wasn't welcome because she had never in her life considered herself unwelcome anywhere. She folded her thick hands on the tabletop. "I'm going to say something to you and you're going to listen without that mouth of yours getting involved until I'm done. Can you do that?"
"I can listen," I said.
"See that you do." She settled back in the chair. "Jr and James spoke last night. About you. About the situation as it stands." She paused. "I want to be straight with you because I think you're owed that much. The feeling in this family is that you have become a problem."
"I see," I said.
"I told you to keep that mouth closed."
I pressed my lips together.
"A problem," she repeated, as if testing the weight of the word. "Not for the first time. But after last night — after the way you conducted yourself at my table, the way you laid hands on Hannah in front of the children—" She shook her head slowly. "You've made it very difficult for the people in this family who might have been willing to extend you some grace."
"Hannah told me my son would be alive if I'd never been his mother," I said.
"Hannah said what she said because she was grieving." The flatness of it — the complete absence of acknowledgment that what Hannah had said was anything beyond grief — landed in my chest like a stone. "She raised that boy. She did for him what you didn't have the capacity to do."
"She took him," I said. "There is a difference between raising a child and taking him from his mother's arms while he screams."
"You weren't equipped—"
"I was his mother." My voice was shaking and I didn't care anymore. "I carried him. I birthed him. I was his mother and you took him from my hands because the idea of a saloon girl raising a Sykes boy offended your sensibilities, and then he died, and now Hannah sits at your table and calls me a whorehouse girl and says my son is better off dead—" I stopped. Emily had pulled away from me at the tension in my body and was looking up at my face with wide uncertain eyes. I made myself slow down. I adjusted her and looked at Mama Sykes and said clearly: "I will not apologize to Hannah. I will not sit at that table and pretend that what she said was something I should have swallowed. And I will not teach my daughter that the way this family speaks to women is something she ought to accommodate."
Mama Sykes looked at me for a long unreadable moment. Then she unfolded her hands and placed them flat on the table and leaned forward slightly.
"Your daughter," she said, "is a Sykes."
The fire popped. Outside a crow called once from the pines and fell silent.
"She is my daughter," I said.
"She is both," Mama said. "But when those two things come into conflict — and they will, girl, they already are — it is the Sykes that will determine what happens to her. Not you. Not what you want or what you think you owe her." She tilted her head. "Now. Jr has said you have some time to make a decision. Either you come back into this family properly — eat at that table, show respect to Hannah, raise that baby the way a Sykes child ought to be raised — or he and James will make other arrangements."
"What arrangements," I said. My voice was someone else's voice. Coming from far away.
"The kind that are best for the family," she said simply. And her eyes went to Emily with that look — that measuring, proprietary look — that I had been seeing since the moment my daughter drew her first breath. The same look that had preceded everything that had been done to Rory.
"And Caleb?" I asked.
Mama Sykes rose from the table and smoothed her skirt with both hands, unhurried. "Caleb does what's best for this family," she said. "He always has."
She walked to the door. Stood a moment in the frame with the pale winter light behind her.
"Clean yourself up," she said, without turning back. "You look like something dragged in from the road. And feed that baby more. She's thin."
The door swung shut behind her.
I sat for a long time.
Jr came to the shack in the afternoon.
Caleb was still gone — wherever Caleb went when the property became too much for even him, some place between here and town where a man could drink without his wife watching him do it. The yard was quiet. It was just me and Emily in the shack when I heard his boots on the porch steps — that particular heavy, deliberate tread I would have known anywhere by now — and then the door opened.
He didn't knock - just like his mother.
He came in and stood in the center of the room and looked around it the same way his mother had, the same proprietary sweep of a person who has never once entered a space and wondered whether they belonged in it. He looked at Emily in her crib. Then at me standing at the basin.
"Sit down, Elizabeth," he said.
"I'm fine standing."
He looked at me for a moment. Then, quietly: "Sit down."
I sat.
He came to the table and sat in Caleb's chair — the one at the head of it, naturally, always the head of it — and he put both hands flat on the wood and looked at me with those small dark eyes and he was quiet for a moment in the way of a man who has already decided everything and is simply ordering the sequence in which he intends to deliver it.
"You know what your problem is?" he began, in the conversational tone of a man asking a question he already knows the answer to. "Your problem is you came into this family thinking it was going to be a negotiation. Thinking if you pushed back hard enough, eventually somebody would come around to your way of seeing things." He settled back in the chair. "That's not how this family works. There is not a single person on this property or in this county who is going to take your word over mine. Not a judge, not a lawman, not a preacher." He let that word sit a moment — knowing full well what it meant in the context of a burial without one. "Not one person who is going to look at a woman with your history and see something worth protecting."
"I'm aware of how I'm seen," I said.
"I don't think you fully are," he said. "Because you keep behaving like a woman with options. So let me be very plain with you, because I think you deserve plain." He leaned forward. "You have no money. You have no family. You have no name worth anything outside of the one Caleb gave you. You've got a baby that belongs to this family by blood. And you've got a past that means any person you ran to for help would send you right back here before you finished your first sentence." He paused to let all of that land. "So when my mother tells you that you have some time to make a decision, what that actually means is that we are being more generous than you have earned."
The fire popped. I kept my eyes level.
"What is it you want from me, Jr," I said. Not a question. More like a woman pulling back a curtain she already knows is hiding something ugly, because it had become necessary to see it directly.
He was quiet for a moment. The wind pressed at the walls. The logs creaked.
"What I want," he said slowly, "is for you to remember what you are. What you were when Caleb found you and what you'd be again if he put you out." He let that settle. "A woman with your history ought to be grateful for what she has. Ought to be willing to show that gratitude in the ways a wife is meant to."
I looked at him directly. "A wife to whom, Jr."
The corner of his mouth moved. "To this family," he said. "That is what a Sykes wife is. Not just a wife to one man. A woman who understands her place in the full order of things." He held my eyes without blinking. "Caleb's coming home tonight. And when he does, you're going to welcome him back the way a proper wife does — in front of me and my father. So that Caleb remembers what he's got and you remember what you're for." He paused. Let the silence do its particular work. "And then you're going to show this family that same gratitude. Personally. Starting with me."
I sat very still.
The room was absolutely silent except for the fire and the wind and the small peaceful sounds of Emily in her crib, utterly unaware of the temperature of what was happening two feet from her.
"You're telling me," I said. My voice was flat and far away and coming from somewhere outside my own body. "That tonight—"
"I'm telling you that tonight you're going to do what women in your position do," he said. "What you've done before, and more than once, and don't pretend otherwise. The difference is there won't be any money on the table. This time it's the roof over your head. That baby in her crib." He rose from the chair, unhurried, the way he did everything. "And if you're thinking about making a problem out of it—" His eyes went to Emily. The look was brief and entirely deliberate. "Think about her instead."
He walked to the door.
"Caleb'll be home before dark," he said, with his hand on the latch. "Make yourself presentable."
He left.
I sat at the table for a long time after the door closed.
I don't know exactly how long. Long enough for the fire to drop. Long enough for Emily to wake and need feeding and for me to go to her and give her what she needed from somewhere very far behind my own eyes, moving through the mechanics of it from a place entirely removed from the room I was standing in.
He had said it plainly. He had sat at my table in the middle of the afternoon and said it plainly, without lowering his voice, without a trace of shame, with the same businesslike tone he might have used to discuss a fence repair or the price of grain. As if my body were a matter of household management. As if the fact that I had once been a saloon girl had removed, permanently and completely, any floor below which I could not be further pushed.
I thought about Rory.
I thought about the pine box and the cold dirt and the men with their eyes cast down and Caleb's voice saying he's better off buried in that ground and Hannah's face when her cheek split open under my knuckles and the look on Mama Sykes's face when she said she is a Sykes while looking at my daughter like she was already something that belonged to her.
And then I stopped thinking entirely, because thinking was not what the next several hours required.
What the next several hours required was endurance. And then, after that, action.
Caleb came home before dark, as Jr had said he would.
He came through the door smelling of whiskey and cold air and the particular exhaustion of a man who has spent the day avoiding something that has caught up with him anyway. He looked at me standing at the fireplace and something in his expression shifted in a way that told me he knew. That Jr had spoken to him. That the shape of the evening had already been decided before he walked through the door.
He didn't say anything.
Jr came perhaps twenty minutes after. Then old man Sykes, who said nothing and sat in the corner chair like a piece of furniture with eyes. The shack that had always been too small became smaller still, the air in it changing quality, thickening with something I had no name for that lived between threat and ceremony and the specific ugliness of men who have decided that what they are about to do is their right.
I had moved Emily's crib to the far corner of the room, turned toward the wall. I had done that while Caleb was still outside, before any of them arrived, with the cold deliberate care of a woman protecting the one thing she had left to protect. Whatever happened in this room tonight, she would not see it. She would not know it. That was the only thing I had any power over and I had exercised it.
The rest I endured.
I will not give it more words than it requires. I will say only that I lay on my back on the bed that Caleb and I had shared for years and I looked at the ceiling and I went somewhere inside myself that was very far from that room — somewhere quiet, somewhere that had nothing to do with the weight of men or the sounds they made or the things they told themselves they were entitled to. I had learned that place in the saloon, long before Caleb, long before any of this. That small interior room with no windows and a lock on the inside that no one else had a key to. I went there and I stayed there and I breathed, and when it was over I lay still and I felt the particular quality of silence that follows something that should never have happened.
Then I sat up.
My hands were on the quilt on either side of me, steady, not shaking. I looked at them and I noted that they were steady and I was grateful for it.
Jr was pulling on his coat near the door. His father had already gone. Caleb sat on the edge of the bed with his back to me, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands in the posture of a man who has just participated in something he cannot look directly at and has already begun the work of not thinking about it.
"That's how it's going to be from now on," Jr said. He wasn't looking at me when he said it. He said it to the room, to the air, with the offhand authority of a man issuing an instruction he expects followed without discussion. "You remember that." Then he opened the door and went out into the dark and the cold came in and the door swung shut behind him.
I sat on the edge of the bed and I breathed. In and out. In and out. I looked at the back of my husband's head — the tangled dirty blond of his hair, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he was holding himself like a man braced against something — and I felt nothing at all. Not rage, not grief, not the complicated painful thing I sometimes still felt in weak moments when I made the mistake of remembering who he had seemed to be before I understood who he was. Nothing. A clean, complete, finished nothing, like the inside of an empty room after all the furniture has been carried out.
I was done.
Emily made a sound in her crib. Small, inquiring, the sound of a baby waking into hunger.
I stood up.
I went to her and I lifted her and I held her against my chest and I stood with my back to Caleb and my face in my daughter's hair and I felt her warm weight and her grip on my dress and I breathed her in, and something that had been held very tightly inside me for a very long time released all at once — quietly, without drama — like a fist finally opening after years of being clenched.
Tonight.
Not tomorrow. Not when I had more prepared. Tonight.
I moved slowly at first. Deliberately ordinary. The performance of a woman doing what she always does after dark — feeding the baby, banking the fire, moving through the small rituals of a life that appeared to continue on its usual course.
Caleb hadn't moved from the edge of the bed. He'd lain back eventually, one arm over his face, the posture of a man trying to get somewhere unconscious as fast as possible. I watched him from the corner of my eye while I nursed Emily and noted the loosening of his body as the whiskey and the evening pulled him under, the way his breathing deepened and slowed into that deep, boneless sleep of his that I had once lain beside and found almost peaceful and now understood as simply the sleep of a man without a conscience.
I waited until I was certain.
Then I got up.
I moved through the shack without a candle, bare feet on the cold floorboards, knowing every board that would cry under my weight and stepping over them from memory. I went to the small shelf near the door where the household tools were kept — the things that accumulated in a working home, the things nobody thought twice about because they were ordinary. Caleb's skinning knife was there. He'd used it two days before the burial and left it on the shelf the way he left everything, expecting it to put itself away. It was a good knife. Heavy handled, well kept, the blade long and serious. The kind of knife built for real work.
I picked it up. Held it for a moment, feeling the weight of it.
I went to the loose board at the base of the back wall and pressed it. It gave. I reached into the hollow and took out what I had stored there over the past day — dried salt pork wrapped in cloth, a heel of cornbread, the small bottle of laudanum kept from after Emily's birth, a strip of good oilcloth to keep the wet out. Not much. Enough.
I bundled it all into the center of my winter cloak and tied the corners tight. I put the bundle by the back window. I checked the window latch — it moved, stiffly but without sound, the way I had worked it a dozen times in my mind.
I went back to Emily.
I dressed her in every layer she had — undershirt, wool gown, quilted jacket, the small knitted cap that came down over her ears and tied under her chin. She looked up at me the whole time with those dark serious eyes, patient and watchful, as if she understood more than a six-month-old had any business understanding.
"Good girl," I breathed to her. "Such a good girl."
I tied her against my chest with the wool length, settling her weight, making sure she was secure. She grabbed the front of my dress and held on.
I stood for a moment and looked at Caleb on the bed.
He was deeply asleep. One arm over his face, his chest rising and falling with the slow even rhythm of a man with nothing on his conscience. I thought about Jr's voice that afternoon — that's how it's going to be from now on — and I thought about Rory's pine box, and I thought about Mama Sykes's eyes on my daughter, and I thought about every morning I had woken up in this shack and told myself that things could still change, that there was still something worth waiting for.
I was done waiting.
I took Caleb's skinning knife from where I'd set it within reach.
And I leaned down, very steady, very deliberate, and I drove it into the meat of his thigh — deep enough to matter, not deep enough to kill — and then I stepped back before his hand could find me.
What happened next happened very fast.
He came awake not with a scream but with a sound so raw and sudden it didn't seem like it could have come from a human body — a bellowing shout of pure shock and pain that filled the shack and bounced off the walls and was absolutely, catastrophically loud in the cold night air. His hand went to his leg and came away dark and wet and he looked at it and then looked at me and his face went through shock and pain and then something that came out pure fury so fast the other two barely had time to register.
"You—" He couldn't get the rest of it out. He tried to sit up and his leg buckled under him and he fell back against the bed and the shout he let out then was less pain and more rage, a sound that shook the window glass.
"Caleb—" I started.
"You crazy bitch!" The words tore out of him at full volume, any pretense of control completely gone. He got himself upright through what appeared to be sheer fury, one hand gripping the bedpost, his face white around the eyes and red everywhere else. "You stabbed me — you actually—" He looked at the blood on his hand and at me standing across the room with Emily against my chest and something in his expression shifted from rage into something more dangerous — cold and focused and absolutely intent. "Put that baby down."
"I'm leaving," I said. My voice was steady. I was proud of it for that.
"You are not going anywhere." He took a step toward me and his leg gave and he grabbed the bedpost again, swearing through his teeth with a fluency that would have impressed me under other circumstances. "You are not — Emily is a Sykes, she is not leaving this property—"
"She is my daughter—"
"She is staying HERE—" He lunged for me.
He was bigger than me. He had always been bigger than me, and stronger, and faster on any normal day, and even hurt and bleeding he covered half the distance between us before I got out of the way, his hand catching the edge of my cloak and pulling hard enough that I stumbled and nearly went down. Emily let out a startled cry against my chest. I got my footing back and spun away from him and put the table between us, both hands on the edge of it, breathing hard.
"Caleb, stop—"
"Give me that baby." His voice was something I had never heard from him before — stripped entirely of everything else, not even anger anymore, just the stripped-down absolute demand of a man who had never in his life been told no by someone he considered beneath him and could not, fundamentally, process that it was happening now. "Give her to me right now, Elizabeth, and I will not—"
The door of the main house slammed open.
We both heard it. The distinctive bang of it, and then boots on the porch steps, fast and heavy — more than one pair. Jr's voice carrying across the yard, sharp and urgent: "What in the hell—"
Caleb's eyes went to the door and then back to me and in the half second that his attention divided I moved. I went for the back window — not carefully, not quietly, not with any of the slow deliberateness I had planned. I went for it at a run and I hit it with both hands and it flew open and I shoved the bundle through and went through after it, one arm curled around Emily, coming down hard on the other side in the snow and landing on my hands and knees with a jolt that rattled my teeth.
I heard Caleb hit the wall behind me.
"She's running!" His voice was enormous in the night air, tearing out of him with a volume that came from something beyond his lungs. "Jr — she's going out the back — she's got Emily—"
I was already up. I grabbed the bundle from the snow and I ran.
I ran across the narrow strip of yard behind the shack toward the tree line and behind me I could hear everything — Caleb's voice still shouting, the main house door, Jr's voice now distinct and furious cutting through the dark, boots on frozen ground moving fast. A lamp swung somewhere behind me, throwing wild orange light across the snow that threw my shadow ahead of me like something running to meet me.
"There!" Jr's voice, close enough that my stomach dropped. "There she is — go around—"
I hit the tree line.
The dark under the pines was total and absolute and I crashed through the outer brush and branches raked my face and arms and I didn't slow down, couldn't slow down, Emily crying fully now against my chest with the shock of the cold and the running and the noise, and I pressed my hand over her and kept moving because stopping was not something that was available to me.
Behind me, through the trees: crashing. Voices. A lamp throwing jagged shadows between the trunks.
"Elizabeth!" Caleb's voice — hoarse, ragged, shot through with pain and fury in equal measure. "Elizabeth, you bring her back — you bring my daughter back right NOW—"
I ran harder.
The ground under the pines was uneven, frozen solid in some places and treacherous in others where the snow had crusted and then given way beneath, and I stumbled twice in quick succession and caught myself both times through something more instinct than conscious effort. A branch caught my cap and tore it half off. I didn't stop for it. The bundle on my shoulder kept shifting and I kept adjusting it and kept moving and the voices behind me were loud and then a little less loud and then a little less again and I focused on that — on the diminishing of them — because it was the only measure of progress I had.
The hill began beneath my feet. The ground tilting upward, the trees thickening, the air colder and denser the higher I went. My lungs were burning. Emily had gone quiet against my chest — not the quiet of sleep but the bundled, wide-eyed quiet of a baby who has decided the situation is beyond her ability to narrate and has gone still to wait it out — and her silence was a mercy I was grateful for.
Below me, down the hill, I could still hear them.
"She's gone into the north woods—" James's voice, lower than Jr's, more deliberate. "She won't last a night up in those hills, it's January—"
"I don't care—" Jr's voice, tight with fury. "Get the horses—"
"The ground's frozen, Jr, you can't track her in the dark—"
"I said get the HORSES—"
Their voices dropped below the ridge. I stopped behind a wide pine trunk and pressed my back against it and breathed — great ragged lungfuls of frozen air that burned all the way down — and I listened. The lamp light was gone. The voices were distant enough now that they were sound without words, rising and falling in the dark far below.
I looked up.
The hill continued above me, dark and steep and thick with timber, climbing toward a sky that was beginning to lighten almost imperceptibly at its edges — not dawn yet, nowhere near dawn, but the very first intimation of it, that slight shift from absolute black to something that is simply very dark. Hours still. Hours to cover ground before the light came and the horses could be put to proper use and the full weight of the Sykes family's reach could be turned in my direction.
I adjusted Emily against my chest. She made a small sound — not a cry, something quieter, the sound of a baby settling into a situation and finding her position within it. Her fist found my dress. She held on.
"I know," I told her. My voice was barely air. "I know, sweetheart. I know it's cold." I pressed my lips to the top of her blanketed head and held them there for a moment. "But we're not going back. Do you hear me? We are not going back."
Below me the voices rose briefly — Jr, sharp and commanding — and then fell again.
I turned to the hill. I looked at what was above me: dark trees, frozen ground, unknown terrain, January cold, and not a single thing waiting for me on the other side that I could name with any certainty.
None of it mattered.
I started to climb.
My legs were shaking with cold and exertion and the aftermath of everything the evening had held, and I climbed anyway. The hill was steep enough that I needed my free hand sometimes, grabbing roots and branches to pull myself upward, the bundle swinging from my shoulder and the weight of Emily on my chest making every step twice the work it would otherwise have been. I fell once — a full stumble that put me down on one knee in the frozen snow with a jolt that made my eyes water — and I got up and kept going.
I thought about what lay behind me. The shack. The bed. The look on Jr's face when he'd sat at my table that afternoon and said starting with me. The look on Caleb's face in the moment after I drove the knife into his leg — that cold, stripped-down, absolute fury of a man confronting the fact that something he considered his property had acted against him. I thought about Mama Sykes and the way she'd looked at Emily. I thought about Rory's pine box.
And then I stopped thinking about any of it, because the hill demanded everything I had and I had nothing left to spare.
One step. Then another. The trees moving past me in the dark, the cold on my face, the sound of my own breathing and Emily's and the creak and shift of frozen timber around me. Below, the voices faded entirely. Whether they had gone for horses or given up on the dark or were doing something I couldn't predict from up here, I didn't know.
I climbed.
The ridge came under my feet sometime later — I couldn't have said how much later — and I stood at the top of it breathing hard and looked back down through the trees at the property below. The main house was a small orange square of lamplight in the dark. The shack was dark. The yard between them was empty and still and from up here it all looked so small, so contained, so entirely bounded — the fences and the outbuildings and the rutted paths worn between them, the whole geography of a life I had been trapped inside for years — and I understood, standing on the ridge above it, that what had felt like the whole world from inside it was actually very small indeed.
I looked at it for a long moment.
Then I turned away from it and looked at what was ahead.
Hills. Dark timber. The suggestion of a valley somewhere far below, black against blacker. Unknown ground in every direction, and January, and no road, and nothing waiting for me that I could name.
I looked down at Emily against my chest. She was looking up at me with those dark eyes, steady and serious, with the fist of her small hand twisted in my dress.
"I don't know what's out there," I told her honestly. "I won't lie to you about that." I felt the cold on my face, felt my heart still pounding from the climb, felt the weight of the bundle on my shoulder and the ache in my legs and the complete and total absence of any plan beyond away. "But it's ours," I said. "Whatever it is. It's ours."
I pulled the blanket tighter around her. Shifted the bundle on my shoulder. Looked one more time at the small orange light of the main house far below.
Then I stepped over the ridge and started down the other side, into the dark, into the cold, into whatever came next.
Hello everyone! So I’ve noticed I have quit a bit new followers as of recently and a big love for my JCB fics - especially Take Me Away. I had put that story in the back burner because the love for Jamie seemed to have fizzled out a little bit after the release of season 4 of ST. Well, I’m very pleased to see the love for him has picked up once again! With that being said, I’m gonna dip into my archives and start writing around on Take Me Away! This will be the only JCB story I look at right now and I may reconsider the others in the future. As for my other fics, I’m having some writers block with them at the moment so they will be paused.
I just want to thank all of those followers that have been with me from the beginning and also a thank you to all the new ones who’ve found me through my JCB fics! You guys are amazing and I love you all 🖤🖤
Summary: In which Riley Owens, the ex-wife of the infamous Tornado Wrangler, has 36 hours to come to terms if moving to a whole new country with their small daughter is something she truly wants to do.
Warnings: Cursing, angst, suggested smut, fluff. ✶ Chapter One ✶ ✶ Chapter Two ✶ ✶ Chapter Three ✶ Chapter Four ✶ Chapter Five (I)
■ A/N: You guys are amazing! I just want to say thank you so much for loving this story and following the tale of Riley and Tyler ❤️ ■ Taglist is available - just drop a comment! Would love to hear your thoughts, questions, or maybe just drop by to say hello! Can't wait to hear from y'all
A/N: I am so sorry for the delay! I hope you guys like the new update -i've literally been writing different parts so I hope they gel well together!
That was the first thing that always hit me when Tyler was gone. Not the emptiness, not the half of the bed that stayed perpetually cold, but the oppressive silence. Our home in Arkansas, nestled in the green hills, was supposed to be a sanctuary. But without the low hum of his voice on the phone, the clatter of him tinkering with some new piece of gear in the garage, or the endless loop of weather documentaries he’d leave playing on the TV, it was just… a building. A very quiet, very lonely building that currently held one very pregnant, very hormonal, and very, very angry woman.
My hand rested on the high, tight drum of my belly, where our daughter was currently practicing what felt like a full-scale gymnastics routine. Thirty-six weeks. Officially in the “any day now, but probably not for a few more weeks” zone. My doctor, a kind woman with a no-nonsense attitude, had patted my hand at my last appointment and said, “Everything looks perfect, Riley. She’s head down and ready, but I’d bet my medical license she’s staying put until her due date.”
Apparently, my daughter had a gambling problem and was willing to take that bet.
I glared at my phone, sitting dark and silent on the coffee table. Two hours. It had been two hours since I’d hung up on Tyler, my thumb jabbing the red ‘end call’ icon with a fury that should have cracked the screen.
“It’s the perfect setup, Ry,” he’d said, his voice crackling with a mixture of static and that infuriatingly infectious excitement he only got when he was talking about a storm. “The dryline is sharp, the CAP is breaking, we’ve got a PDS TOR watch for half of Oklahoma. This could be the one. The big one.”
“The big one was three weeks ago, Tyler,” I’d replied, my voice dangerously calm. I’d been wedged into the corner of the sofa, a mountain of pillows propping me up like a fragile, beached whale. “And the ‘one of a lifetime’ was last May. I’m running out of ways to differentiate between all these ‘big ones’.”
A heavy sigh on his end. “You know what I mean. Kate’s models are screaming. We’re in the perfect position. I can’t leave now.”
“I’m not asking you to leave now,” I’d negotiated, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “I’m asking you to consider that your wife is nine months pregnant and you’re a six-hour drive away. Maybe wrap it up a day or two early? For me? For the tiny human you helped create?”
“Riley, baby, I promise. I swear on my life, I will not miss it. The second you feel a real contraction, I’m in the truck. I’ll break every speed limit between here and there. But this system… it’s a monster. I have to see it through.”
That’s when the anger, hot and sharp, had sliced through the anxiety. He wasn’t just a storm chaser; he was the Tornado Whisperer. It wasn’t a job, it was a calling, a gravitational pull I’d never be able to compete with. I knew that when I married him. But I thought, naively, that a child—his child—might just shift his center of gravity.
“Fine,” I’d snapped. “Go see your monster. Chase your precious supercell. But don't you dare act surprised if your daughter decides she’s more interested in meeting me than in waiting for you to get your fill of hail and high winds.”
Before he could respond, I’d ended the call. And in that moment, I’d made a stubborn, foolish, hormonal promise to myself: he would not get a call. Not a single one. If this baby decided to come, he could find out when he finally bothered to check his messages after his grand adventure was over. It was petty. It was childish. And it felt immensely satisfying.
My back ached. Not the usual, dull ache of carrying a bowling ball in my abdomen, but a new, rhythmic clenching. I dismissed it. Braxton Hicks. My body’s way of being a dramatic liar. I heaved myself off the couch, waddling to the kitchen for my third glass of water in an hour. As I stood at the sink, another wave of tightness wrapped around my middle, stealing my breath for a moment.
“You are not in labor,” I told my reflection in the dark window. “You are simply full of baby and righteous indignation. It’s a common condition.”
I spent the next hour trying to distract myself. I folded the same tiny onesies for the fourth time, reorganizing them by color, then by sleeve length, then by my arbitrary 'cuteness' scale. I scrolled through my phone, pointedly ignoring the picture of me and Tyler I used as a background. I tried to watch a movie, but every line of dialogue was drowned out by the internal monologue of my fury.
He promised. He swore.
Around 1 a.m., I finally gave up and decided to attempt the Herculean task of getting comfortable in bed. It was a fifteen-minute process involving three pillows, a pregnancy wedge, and a series of grunts and groans that would make a weightlifter proud. Just as I found a position that was merely uncomfortable instead of agonizing, another cramp seized me, stronger this time. It started low in my back and wrapped around to the front, a viselike grip that made me gasp.
Okay, that one felt… different.
I lay perfectly still, waiting. Five minutes later, it happened again. Just as strong. Just as breathtaking.
This was the point where a normal, rational person would call their husband. Or their doctor. Or their mother. I, however, was still operating on a potent cocktail of spite and pregnancy hormones. My hand hovered over the phone on the nightstand, my thumb tracing the outline of Tyler’s contact photo.
No. He doesn't get to have his cake and eat it, too. He doesn't get the chase of a lifetime AND the dramatic, movie-style race to the hospital. He made his choice.
Then, I felt a strange, subtle pop.
It wasn’t loud. It was more of a feeling, a deep internal shift. For a second, nothing happened. I held my breath, thinking I’d imagined it. And then, a warm gush. Not a trickle. A full-on, undeniable, movie-cliché flood.
My eyes went wide in the darkness. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
The mattress, my favorite pajamas, everything was soaked. Panic, cold and immediate, finally sliced through my anger. This wasn't a drill. This wasn't Braxton Hicks. This was happening. Caroline was coming.
My first thought, clear as a bell, was, I can do this myself.
It was a ridiculous notion. The hospital was a thirty-minute drive on a good day. But my stubbornness was now welded to a primal, terrifying fear. Calling Tyler would be admitting defeat. It would be letting him be the hero. And I was not about to give him the satisfaction.
I swung my legs out of bed, the fluid still trickling down my legs. The contractions were coming faster now, harder. A low moan escaped my lips as another one crested. I grabbed the pre-packed hospital bag from the corner of the room, my knuckles white. I threw on a pair of Tyler’s sweatpants and a random t-shirt, not caring how I looked.
Each step was a monumental effort. I paused in the hallway, leaning against the wall as a contraction doubled me over. I breathed through it, panting, just like in the birthing classes Tyler had missed because of a "minor squall line."
Breathe in the calm, breathe out the… oh, who am I kidding… breathe out the fury!
I made it to the kitchen, grabbed my keys and my purse, and fumbled with the lock on the back door. The cool night air was a shock to my system. The world was asleep, peaceful, completely unaware of the one-woman drama unfolding in this quiet suburban street.
Getting into my SUV was the most undignified thing I had ever done. I had to hoist my leg in, then kind of fall sideways into the driver’s seat, my giant belly pressing hard against the steering wheel. I jammed the key in the ignition, my hands shaking. The engine roared to life, and for a second, a wave of triumphant adrenaline surged through me.
I’m doing it. I’m actually doing it.
I backed out of the driveway, my movements jerky. Another contraction hit as I shifted into drive, and I cried out, my head falling forward against the wheel. The pain was a living thing, white-hot and all-consuming.
I made it halfway down my street. Maybe a quarter of a mile.
The next contraction was a tsunami. It didn't just grip me; it submerged me. My vision swam with black spots, and I slammed on the brakes, the car lurching to a stop in the middle of the empty road. I was panting, tears of pain and frustration streaming down my face. I couldn't drive. I couldn't even see straight.
Defeat was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth.
My phone was in my purse on the passenger seat. I sobbed, fumbling for it, my fingers clumsy and useless. I couldn't call Tyler. I just couldn't. My pride, as stupid as it was, wouldn't let me. My mom was four hours away. My best friend was on vacation.
And then I remembered. Boone.
Zany, ridiculous, probably-slept-in-his-truck Boone. He hadn't gone with them. Tyler had benched him for accidentally wiping the data from one of Kate's hard drives with a giant magnet he’d bought at a scrapyard because he thought it would be "cool to have." He was my only option.
My fingers, shaking uncontrollably, found his contact. It rang once. Twice.
“H’lo?” His voice was a gravelly, sleep-filled mess. “This better be a booty call, Owens, ’cause it’s two in the—”
“Boone,” I gasped, my voice breaking as another wave of pain began to build.
The change in his tone was instantaneous. The sleepiness vanished, replaced by sharp concern. “Riley? What’s wrong? You okay? Is it Tyler? Did something happen?”
“No,” I grunted, trying to breathe. “It’s… it’s the baby.”
Silence. Just for a second.
“The baby?” he repeated, his voice suddenly an octave higher. “Like… the baby? The one that’s in you? It’s… babying?”
“My water broke, Boone!” I yelled, the words torn from me on a wave of agony and desperation. “I’m in labor! I tried to drive, and I’m in my car, and I’m in the middle of the road, and it hurts so much!”
The sound that came through the phone was one of pure, unadulterated panic. A series of sputtered noises, a thud, and then a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.
“Oh, God. Oh, holy hell. Don’t move! No, wait, you gotta move! Get to the hospital! No, wait, I’m coming! Where are you?! Don’t have the baby in the car, Riley! Tyler will literally kill me! He will use my intestines as a tow rope! STAY CALM! WHY AREN’T YOU CALM?! I’M NOT CALM!”
“Boone!” I screamed, gripping the phone. “Shut up and listen! I’m on my street. Elm Drive. Just… get here. Please.”
“I’m on my way!” he shrieked, his voice laced with a terror I’d only ever heard from him when he was describing the sound a tornado makes right before it eats a barn. “Don’t push! Or do you push? I don’t know! Just… hold on! Boone is coming!”
The line went dead.
I dropped the phone and let my head fall back against the headrest, a hysterical laugh bubbling up through my tears. Of course. Of course, this was how it would happen. Not with my stoic, capable husband holding my hand, but in the middle of the night, in a car I couldn’t drive, waiting for my rescue by a man who probably just put his pants on backward in a blind panic.
Caroline chose that moment to kick me directly in the bladder, and the contraction that followed ripped a raw scream from my throat.
This was going to be a long night…
The stillness of the world after Boone hung up was somehow more deafening than the quiet of the house had been. It was a void filled only by the ragged sound of my own breathing and the low, ominous hum of the car’s engine. I was a ship, stranded and taking on water, and my only rescue was a certifiable lunatic who probably thought "crowning" was a dental procedure.
Another contraction began its merciless ascent. It started as a low thrumming in my spine and radiated outwards, a blooming flower of pure agony. I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles were bone-white, my teeth clenched so hard I was surprised they didn’t shatter. The world narrowed to a pinprick of searing pain. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember the breathing techniques from the class. In for four, out for eight. Like blowing out a candle. It was useless. This wasn't a candle; it was a forest fire, and I was right in the middle of it.
Just as the wave began to recede, leaving me trembling and slick with sweat, headlights washed over my car, blinding me. A moment later, a vehicle that could only be described as Boone’s monster truck—a ridiculously oversized, mud-caked Ford F-250—screeched to a halt, parked haphazardly at an angle that blocked the entire road.
The driver's side door flew open, and Boone tumbled out. He was a glorious disaster. He was wearing mismatched socks, no shoes, a pair of plaid pajama pants, and a t-shirt that read “I’m with the Storm Chaser ->”. He had the arrow shirt. Of course, he did. His hair stood up in a dozen different directions, and his eyes were wide with a terror so profound it was almost comical.
He sprinted towards my car, his bare feet slapping against the cool asphalt. He yanked on the passenger door handle, which I had thankfully unlocked.
“Riley!” he gasped, his chest heaving. “Okay. Okay. We’re good. I’m here. The cavalry has arrived. Albeit a very sleepy and under-dressed cavalry.”
He leaned into the car, his face pale in the glow of the dome light. “How… how far apart are they?”
I took a shaky breath. “I don’t know, Boone. I’m not exactly sitting here with a stopwatch. Close!”
“Right. Close. Okay.” He looked from my face to my giant belly, then back to my face, as if trying to solve a complex physics equation. “We gotta get you into my truck. It’s… bigger.”
“Astute observation,” I bit out, as the familiar tightening began in my back again. “Oh god, here we go again.”
“No, no, not again! We don’t have time for again!” he panicked. “Can you walk?”
“Can I walk?” I repeated, my voice rising into a hysterical shriek. “I am currently smuggling a watermelon that is trying to exit my body through a keyhole, Boone! No, I can’t exactly take a leisurely stroll!”
“Okay! Okay! Plan B!” He disappeared for a second and then reappeared, his expression one of grim determination. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna carry you.”
I stared at him. Boone was strong, but I was, to put it mildly, at my maximum density. “You are absolutely not going to carry me.”
“It’s either that or you have this baby in a Kia Sportage, and Caroline’s first story can’t be that she was born in a sensible mid-size SUV. It’s bad for her brand.” He took a breath, puffing out his chest. “On three. One… two…”
He didn’t wait for three. He hooked one arm under my knees and the other behind my back, hoisting me with a grunt that sounded like he was trying to deadlift a small car. I yelped, clutching his shoulders as he half-carried, half-dragged me out of the seat. The world tilted sideways.
“Boone, put me down! You’re going to drop me!”
“Not dropping you! Just… adjusting my grip!” he grunted, stumbling towards his truck. He managed to get the passenger door open and more or less shoved me inside. I landed on the seat in a heap, my legs still dangling out of the truck.
“Graceful,” I muttered, trying to haul myself fully inside.
“No time for grace!” he yelled, already sprinting back to my car to grab my hospital bag and purse before slamming the door shut and leaving it abandoned in the street. He vaulted back into the driver’s side of his truck, the engine roaring. “Okay. Hospital. Seatbelt!”
He fumbled with his own seatbelt, then looked at me. The standard belt was nowhere near long enough to go over my stomach. “Uh… just hold on to something.”
He threw the truck into drive, and we peeled out, the tires squealing in protest. Every bump and jostle of the road sent a fresh jolt of pain through me. Boone was driving like a madman, his eyes darting between the road and my face.
“Okay, breathe, Riley! Remember the breathing! Hooo-hooo-heee-heee!” he panted, demonstrating with wild exaggeration.
“You sound like an asthmatic owl,” I gasped, clutching the dashboard as another contraction seized me. “Just drive!”
“Driving! I’m driving!” He swerved to avoid a raccoon, sending my hospital bag flying into the back. “Okay. Okay. I gotta ask. Did you call Tyler?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and sharp. My anger, which had been temporarily overshadowed by blinding pain, came roaring back.
“No,” I said through gritted teeth.
Boone shot me a look of disbelief. “No? What do you mean no? Riley, you’re having his baby! This feels like a pertinent piece of information he should have!”
“He’s busy,” I snapped. “He’s chasing a ‘monster.’ He made it very clear what his priority was.”
“Riley, he’ll kill me!”
“He’ll have to get in line,” I groaned, curling into myself as much as I could.
“This is not the time for stubbornness! Give me the phone!” He gestured wildly with one hand. “I’ll call him! I’ll tell him the baby’s coming and that I’m the hero of this story!”
“Don’t you dare, Boone,” I warned, my voice low and dangerous. “This is my decision. He made his choice to be six hours away chasing a storm when his wife is thirty-six weeks pregnant. He can live with the consequences.”
“Consequences? The consequence is him missing the birth of his kid because you’re mad at him!” Boone’s voice was cracking with stress. He ran a red light at a deserted intersection. “That’s not a consequence, that’s a catastrophe! That’s a future-divorce-level event!”
“Then maybe he should have thought of that!” I cried out, the pain and anger and fear finally boiling over. Tears streamed down my face again, hot and furious. “He promised, Boone. He looked me in the eye and he promised he would be here. He said he’d put me and this baby first. And the first time he had to choose between a storm and his family, he chose the storm. Again.”
Boone fell silent, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He glanced at me, his frantic energy softening into something like understanding. “Ry… I know. He gets… tunnel vision.”
“It’s not tunnel vision, it’s a black hole,” I sobbed. “And it’s sucking everything in. I just… I can’t reward him for this. I can’t let him just fly in at the last second and act like the hero after I’ve been here alone, terrified, for weeks.”
We drove in silence for another minute, the only sounds my ragged breaths and the rumble of the truck’s engine. The hospital lights were visible now, a beacon in the distance.
The relative peace was shattered when a contraction, more powerful than any before it, slammed into me. It was a brutal, overwhelming force that stole the air from my lungs and replaced it with fire. I let out a guttural scream that was pure instinct, my body arching off the seat.
“Riley?!” Boone shouted, his panic returning full force. “What was that?! That sounded different! That sounded like a ‘baby is in the driveway’ scream!”
“It feels different!” I choked out. “Boone, I feel… pressure!”
“PRESSURE?! WHAT KIND OF PRESSURE?!”
“THE PUSHING KIND OF PRESSURE, YOU IDIOT!”
Boone’s face went completely white. He floored the accelerator. The world outside became a blur of streetlights and dark houses. We screeched into the emergency room driveway, pulling up directly under the awning with a jolt that made my teeth rattle.
He didn’t even bother to put the truck in park. He threw his door open and screamed at the top of his lungs towards the automatic doors, “HELP! WE’VE GOT A BABY! THE BABY IS COMING RIGHT NOW! AND SHE’S REALLY MAD AT HER HUSBAND!”
Before I could even process the absurdity of his announcement, the doors slid open and two nurses came running out with a wheelchair. One of them, a calm-looking woman with kind eyes, opened my door.
“Okay, honey, let’s get you out,” she said in a soothing voice that was the complete opposite of Boone’s frantic shrieking.
As they helped me into the chair, Boone was still rambling, grabbing my bag, and gesturing wildly. “Her water broke, she’s been having contractions, they’re really close, and she just said she felt ‘the pushing kind of pressure’! I drove. I didn’t hit anything. Well, maybe a curb. Her car is still on Elm Drive, if someone can… and her husband, Tyler, he doesn’t know! She won’t let me call him! Can you make her call him?!”
The nurse just smiled, patting my arm as she started pushing me rapidly through the doors. “Don’t you worry about all that now. Let’s just have a baby, shall we?”
As they wheeled me down the brightly lit corridor, I looked back over my shoulder. Boone stood under the fluorescent lights of the entrance, looking small and lost, my purse in one hand and the hospital bag in the other, a deer caught in the headlights of impending fatherhood-by-proxy. Our eyes met, and in that moment, all I could feel was a strange, overwhelming wave of gratitude.
He might be a ridiculous mess. But he was here.
And Tyler wasn’t…
Fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway blurred into white streaks above me as the nurse, whose name tag read ‘Deb,’ pushed my wheelchair at a speed that felt just shy of the sound barrier. Boone was a thudding, panting presence behind us, his bare feet making frantic slapping sounds on the polished linoleum.
“She hasn’t had any classes!” Boone announced to Deb’s back. “Well, she did, but Tyler—that’s the husband, the one who is currently AWOL in Oklahoma—he missed most of them for a hailstorm! A hailstorm, can you believe it? So she’s flying blind! We’re all flying blind here!”
Deb, a saint in comfortable-looking scrubs, didn’t miss a beat. “That’s alright. We’ve delivered a few babies before. We’ll talk her through it.”
We burst through a set of double doors into a private room. It happened in a flash. Within sixty seconds, I was surrounded by a whirlwind of calm, competent activity. One nurse helped me onto the bed while another checked my blood pressure. The scratchy hospital gown was on, an IV was being prepped for my hand, and monitors were being strapped to my belly. It was a terrifyingly efficient pit stop.
Boone stood awkwardly by the door, clutching my belongings like a lost child on the first day of school. He looked wildly out of place amidst the sterile blue and white of the room.
“Sir, are you Dad?” the younger nurse asked, glancing at Boone.
Boone and I answered at the same time. “God, no!” I gasped. “I’m the sidekick!” Boone declared, as if it were an official title.
The nurse just blinked. “Okay… Sidekick. You can put her bag over there. Are you staying?”
Before I could answer, Boone puffed out his chest. “You bet your ass I’m staying. I drove her here. I’m her… emotional support lunatic.”
Deb returned to my side as another contraction began to build. It felt like my entire skeleton was being crushed. I cried out, arching my back.
“Okay, Riley, I’m just going to do a quick check, alright?” Deb said, her voice a steady anchor in my sea of pain. Her expression shifted as she finished. She looked up at the other nurse. “Page Dr. Matthews. Tell her the patient is complete and ready to push.”
My blood ran cold. “Complete? What do you mean, complete? Like, no epidural complete?”
Deb gave me a sympathetic smile. “Honey, this baby is coming. The anesthesiologist wouldn't even make it down the hall in time. You can do this.”
The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. I was doing this. Here. Now. With no pain relief. And my only support system was a man wearing pajama pants and a novelty t-shirt.
Boone, having overheard, made a sound like a deflating balloon. “Complete? Like… the oven is preheated and the turkey is done? We’re at the finish line? Already?”
“That’s right,” Deb said cheerfully. “Now, Sidekick, your job is to be encouraging. Hold a leg, get her some ice chips, whatever she needs. Just try not to pass out.”
“Pass out? I don’t pass out,” Boone scoffed, though his face was the color of chalk. He scurried to my side, looking terrified. “You hear that, Ry? You’re complete! You’re crushing this! It’s like a tornado… you’re the tornado, and the baby is… the town?”
“That’s a terrible analogy, Boone,” I groaned, grabbing his hand in a death grip as the urge to push became an undeniable, primal command from my own body.
“Right, bad analogy. You’re the hero! You’re Wonder Woman!”
A woman with silver hair and a calm demeanor swept into the room. “I’m Dr. Matthews. I hear someone’s in a hurry to make an appearance.” Her voice was soothing, but her eyes were all business. “Alright, Riley. On the next contraction, I want you to take a deep breath and push like you are trying to push that man right through the wall.” She gestured her head towards Boone.
“With pleasure,” I grunted.
What followed was a blur of agony, effort, and the most bizarre coaching in the history of childbirth. The doctor and nurses were a chorus of professional encouragement: “Good, Riley, that’s it!” “Give me another one just like that!” “You’re so strong!”
And then there was Boone.
“COME ON, RILEY, YOU GOT THIS! PUSH! PUSH LIKE YOU’RE TRYING TO WIN A TRUCK PULL!” he yelled, his voice cracking.
“Boone, shut up!” I screamed, my face buried in a pillow.
“Okay, okay, quiet encouragement!” he whispered loudly. “You’re a majestic eagle, laying a majestic egg! Be the eagle, Riley!”
During a brief respite between pushes, he wiped my forehead with a cool cloth. His hand was trembling. “Seriously, Ry,” he said, his voice dropping to a sincere whisper. “You’re the toughest person I know. Tyler’s gonna be so pissed he missed this. He’s gonna be so proud.”
His words, meant to be comforting, just twisted the knife. “I don’t care,” I sobbed, exhaustion and pain making me feel raw and exposed. “He’s not here.”
“I know,” Boone said softly. “But I am.”
The doctor’s voice cut through my haze. “I can see the head, Riley! A few more good pushes and you’re going to meet your daughter!”
A new wave of energy, born of desperation and adrenaline, surged through me. This was it. The final stretch.
“Okay, Riley, a big one now!” Dr. Matthews commanded.
I took a ragged breath and bore down with everything I had left. The pain was transcendent, unbelievable. I was vaguely aware of Boone on my left, his face a mask of horrified awe.
“Oh my god,” he breathed. “There’s… there’s hair. It has hair. It’s a real person. Oh my god.”
“Push, Riley!”
I pushed again, a scream tearing from my throat, raw and animalistic.
And then, suddenly, a release. A sudden, shocking emptiness.
The room, which had been filled with my screams and Boone’s frantic commentary, was suddenly filled with a new sound. A loud, indignant, beautiful wail.
“She’s here!” Dr. Matthews announced.
They laid her on my chest, impossibly small, impossibly perfect, slick and warm and screaming her little lungs out. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her tiny fists balled in protest at her rude eviction. She had a full head of dark, wet hair. Just like Tyler’s.
All the anger, all the pain, all the fury at my absent husband evaporated in an instant, replaced by a wave of love so powerful it left me breathless. I was sobbing, but these were not tears of pain or frustration. They were tears of pure, unadulterated awe.
“Hi,” I whispered, my voice choked. “Hi, Caroline. It’s me. It’s your mama.”
I looked up, my vision blurry. Boone was standing by my bedside, frozen. His mouth was hanging open, and tears were streaming freely down his face, carving paths through the grime and sweat. He looked utterly wrecked and completely thunderstruck.
He stared at the tiny, squirming baby on my chest. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s… she’s real.”
He reached out a hesitant, trembling finger and gently stroked Caroline’s tiny foot. She flexed her toes in response.
“Hey, Squirt,” he sniffled, a watery grin spreading across his face. “I’m your Uncle Boone. Sorry about all the yelling. You kinda scared the hell out of me.”
We stayed like that for a long moment, just staring at this new little person who had so violently and wonderfully crashed into our lives. The nurses were busy, the doctor was finishing up, but in our little bubble, there was only me, my daughter, and the zany, loyal, ridiculous man who had, against all odds, gotten us here.
After a few minutes, Boone cleared his throat, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his ridiculous t-shirt. He pulled his phone from his pajama pocket. His face was serious now.
“Riley,” he said softly. “It’s time. You have to call him.”
I looked from Caroline’s perfect face to Boone’s earnest one. The anger was gone, but a deep, profound ache remained. He had missed it. He had missed the most important moment of our lives. But Boone was right. He had to know.
I couldn't bring myself to do it. I just shook my head, clutching my daughter closer. “You do it,” I whispered. “I can’t.”
Boone nodded, his expression grim. He swiped open his phone and hit Tyler’s contact. He put it on speaker, holding it out so I could hear.
It rang once.
“Boone? What’s going on? I’ve been calling Riley for hours, she’s not answering. Is everything okay?” Tyler’s voice was tight with worry, the roar of wind and rain audible in the background.
Boone took a deep, shaky breath. He looked at me, then at the baby, and then back at the phone.
“Yeah, Tyler,” Boone said, his voice cracking. “Everything’s okay. You just… you missed it, man.”
A beat of confused silence on the other end. “Missed what? The rotation? We’re tracking it now, it’s about to—”
Suddenly, Caroline let out another loud, piercing cry, filling the quiet room.
The silence on Tyler’s end of the line was absolute. The sound of the wind and rain seemed to vanish. It was a silence so heavy, so full of dawning realization and utter devastation, that it felt like a physical weight in the room.
“Boone?” Tyler’s voice was a choked, broken whisper. “What was that?”
Boone just looked at me, his eyes full of sorrow for his friend.
“That,” Boone said softly, “was your daughter.
Heavy breathing stretched over the phone line -creating a living entity. It was heavier than the exhaustion settling into my bones, more profound than the love blooming in my chest. It was the sound of a man’s world grinding to a halt six hours away, in the middle of a swirling vortex of wind and rain. I could almost picture him: standing by his truck, the Doppler radar on his laptop forgotten, his face illuminated by a flash of distant lightning, his heart stopping in his chest.
When he finally spoke, his voice was unrecognizable. It was a shredded, hollowed-out whisper, scraped raw with disbelief and horror.
“No…”
Caroline, as if sensing the tension, let out another soft cry. The sound seemed to physically wound him.
“Boone… put Riley on the phone,” Tyler pleaded, his voice cracking on my name. “Please.”
Boone looked at me, his own eyes swimming with a mixture of pity and trepidation. He held the phone out. I hesitated, my hand trembling as I reached for it. My anger had been a shield, a fortress I’d built around my heart. But the sound of his brokenness shattered it into a million pieces. There was no victory here. No satisfaction. There was only shared loss. He had lost the moment, and I had lost him in it.
I pressed the cool glass of the phone to my ear. “Tyler?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“Ry…” He choked on a sob, a raw, ragged sound that I had never heard from him before. Not when he’d broken his arm during a chase, not when his grandfather passed away, not ever. “Oh, God, Riley. I’m so sorry. Is she… are you… are you both okay?”
“I’m coming,” he said, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “I’m leaving right now. The chase is over. It’s over. I’m in the truck. I’m so stupid. God, I’m so stupid and I’m so sorry.” I could hear the sounds of him scrambling, the truck door slamming shut, the engine roaring to life with a ferocity that matched the panic in his voice.
Tears I didn't know I had left began to fall again. “She has your hair, Tyler,” I whispered, and it felt both like a gift and a punishment. “It’s dark. A whole head full of it.”
Another sob tore from him. “Don’t… don’t say that. Please. I’m sorry. I promised. I promised you and I broke it. I’ll never forgive myself. Can you… can you forgive me?”
I didn’t have an answer. The question was too big, too heavy for this room, for this moment. All I had was the weight of my daughter on my chest and the bone-deep ache of his absence.
“Just… just get here,” I said, my voice flat with an exhaustion that went beyond physical. “Just drive safe.”
I couldn’t talk anymore. I handed the phone back to Boone, who immediately went into logistical mode, a stark contrast to the panicking mess he’d been an hour ago.
“Tyler, listen to me,” Boone said, his voice firm and clear. “St. Anne’s Hospital. In Fayetteville. You know the one. Maternity ward, third floor. I’ll text you the room number. Now, I need you to hear me. She’s okay. The baby is okay. Speeding like a maniac and getting yourself killed isn’t going to help anyone. Do you understand me? Eyes on the road. Just get here in one piece.”
There was a muffled, affirmative grunt from Tyler’s end, and then the line went dead.
The three of us—me, Boone, and the tiny, miraculous source of all this chaos—sat in the ensuing silence. It was broken by Deb, the nurse, who came back in with a warm blanket.
“Well, Mama, you did amazing,” she said softly, her smile genuine. “Are you ready for us to take her for a few minutes? We’ll get her weighed, measured, and all cleaned up for you.”
A primal, possessive instinct flared in me. Let her go? I had just gotten her. She was a part of me, and the thought of her leaving my arms, even for a moment, was physically painful. I clutched her tighter.
Deb seemed to understand. “We’ll be right in the nursery, just through that window. You can watch the whole time. We’ll bring her right back.”
I looked at Boone, who gave me a small, encouraging nod. Reluctantly, I let the nurse gently lift Caroline from my chest. The sudden coldness against my skin was startling. As they wheeled her away in a small bassinet, I felt an irrational pang of panic.
The adrenaline that had been fueling me for the last few hours finally crashed, and the reality of what I had just done hit me with the force of a physical blow. My body, which had performed a Herculean task, suddenly felt fragile and broken. I sagged back against the pillows, every muscle screaming in protest.
Boone pulled the visitor’s chair closer to the bed. He looked exhausted, his face smudged with dirt, his bare feet filthy. He ran a hand through his disastrous hair.
“He’ll be here in five hours,” Boone said quietly. “Maybe less, if he doesn’t get arrested.”
I just nodded, staring at the empty spot on my chest.
“For what it’s worth, Ry,” he continued, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “What you did tonight… that was some next-level, badass stuff. I’ve seen you handle some things, but that… that was legendary.”
A small, watery laugh escaped me. “Legendary? I was screaming and trying to break your hand.”
“Yeah, it was awesome,” he grinned, flexing his fingers. “I think you might have dislocated my pinky. But you did it. You were scared and you were alone, and you still did it. Caroline’s got one hell of a mom.”
“I wasn’t alone,” I corrected him, meeting his gaze. My voice was thick with emotion. “You were here. You drove me, you coached me with terrible eagle analogies, and you didn’t pass out. You were here, Boone. Thank you.”
He looked down, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Ah, you know. It’s what sidekicks do. We show up.” He paused, his expression turning serious again. “He wanted to be here, Ry. You know that, right? He’s an idiot. A world-class, storm-obsessed idiot. But he would have given anything to be in this room tonight.”
“I know,” I whispered, and the truth of it settled deep in my heart. That was the tragedy of it all. He wasn’t a bad man who didn’t care. He was a good man with a divided heart, and tonight, he had made the wrong choice. A choice he would be paying for, for a very long time.
Through the large window into the nursery, I could see a nurse gently placing a tiny pink hat on Caroline’s head. My daughter. Our daughter. She was here. She was safe.
And her father was racing through a storm in the dead of night to meet her, his heart broken long before they ever had the chance to say hello. The joy of her arrival and the sorrow of his absence were tangled together, inseparable. I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my soul, that the storm inside our little family was only just beginning.
Hours that followed were a surreal, quiet blur. The world outside the hospital room, the world where Tyler was breaking speed limits and his own heart, faded into a distant hum. My universe had shrunk to the dimensions of the hospital bed, to the warmth of my daughter nestled in the crook of my arm.
The nurses had brought her back, swaddled tightly in a white hospital blanket and a pink-and-blue striped hat. She was clean and smelled of baby powder and something uniquely, indefinably her. She slept, her tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm that soothed the frantic pounding of my own heart. I spent the time just staring at her, memorizing every detail: the shell-like perfection of her ears, the delicate curve of her lips, the impossibly tiny fingernails. She was a miracle. My miracle.
Boone had proven to be an unexpectedly competent post-birth companion. After a nurse took pity on him and found him a pair of loaner scrubs pants and some disposable slippers, he looked slightly less like a fugitive. He’d fielded calls from my parents, assuring them that everyone was fine and that yes, he was sure, and no, he wasn’t the father. He’d fetched me water, adjusted my pillows, and sat in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair, alternating between staring at Caroline with a dopey, awestruck grin and anxiously checking his phone.
“He just crossed the Arkansas border,” he announced quietly around 6 a.m. The first pale, grey light of dawn was beginning to filter through the window blinds. “He’s making… insane time. Said he hasn’t stopped once.”
I didn’t reply, just traced the dark sweep of hair on Caroline’s head. Every mile he crossed brought a fresh wave of anxiety. What would I say? What could he possibly say? The words ‘I’m sorry’ felt like trying to patch a canyon with a band-aid.
“He sounds… bad, Ry,” Boone added, his voice low. “Like, worse than the time he thought he’d lost Barnaby.” Barnaby was his beloved, beat-to-hell drone.
“This is a little different than losing a drone, Boone,” I murmured.
“I know.” He scrubbed a hand over his tired face. “I just… be ready, okay? I think he’s broken.”
Another hour crawled by. Caroline woke up, and I fumbled through my first attempt at feeding her, a clumsy, beautiful dance of instinct and uncertainty. She was a natural. I was a wreck. But as she latched on, a profound sense of rightness settled over me. This. This was my new center of gravity.
Just as I was gently burping her, a soft knock came at the door. It wasn’t a nurse’s knock. It was hesitant, uncertain.
Boone was on his feet in an instant. He glanced at me, a silent question in his eyes. I gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. He walked to the door and slipped out into the hallway, closing it quietly behind him.
I could hear their voices through the door, muffled but charged with emotion. Tyler’s voice was a low, desperate rumble. Boone’s was steady, trying to keep him calm. I held my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. Caroline stirred in my arms, and I shushed her gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
After what felt like an eternity, the door opened again. Boone stood there for a moment, his expression grim. “He’s here,” he said unnecessarily. He stepped aside, and then Tyler was there, framed in the doorway.
He was a ghost.
That was my first thought. The vibrant, confident man I loved had been hollowed out. His face was pale and gaunt, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with red, stark against the dark stubble on his jaw. He was still wearing his chase clothes, now stained with mud and rain. His hair was matted, and he looked like he had physically wrestled the storm he’d been chasing and lost. He was trembling, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.
His eyes found mine first. The sheer, soul-deep agony in his gaze was so potent it was almost a physical force. It knocked the air from my lungs. He took a single, faltering step into the room, and his eyes dropped to the tiny, swaddled bundle in my arms.
A sound, a guttural mix between a gasp and a sob, was torn from his throat. His knees seemed to buckle, and he braced himself against the doorframe, his shoulders shaking.
“Oh, God,” he whispered.
He looked broken. And Boone was right. My anger, my righteous fury, it all felt like a distant memory in the face of his raw, unvarnished devastation.
He didn’t move. He just stood there, rooted to the spot, looking at us. He was afraid. Afraid to come closer, afraid of me, afraid of what he’d already lost.
“Tyler,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady.
My name on my lips seemed to break the spell. He pushed himself off the doorframe and moved towards the bed, his steps slow and hesitant, as if he were approaching a wild animal. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze fixed on Caroline.
“Is she…?” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“She’s perfect,” I finished for him. “Healthy. Seven pounds, two ounces.”
He sank to his knees by the side of the bed, his head level with mine. He was so close I could smell the rain and the ozone on his clothes. He slowly, so slowly, raised a trembling hand, his fingers hovering over Caroline’s blanketed form. He looked at me, his eyes pleading for permission.
I gave another small nod.
With a touch as gentle as a whisper, he laid his hand on her tiny body. A fresh wave of sobs wracked his frame, silent and violent. He squeezed his eyes shut, his forehead resting against the mattress by my hip.
“I’m sorry,” he wept, the words muffled by the bedding. “Riley, I am so, so sorry. I will never be sorry enough.”
I watched him, this strong, fearless man, completely undone. My hand, the one not supporting my daughter, came up and rested on the back of his head, my fingers sinking into his damp hair. He flinched at my touch, as if expecting a blow, before leaning into it like a starving man offered bread.
“She looks like you,” I said softly.
He looked up, his face a mess of tears and regret. “That’s not fair,” he choked out. “That’s not fair to her.”
He finally lifted his gaze to fully meet mine, and the chasm between us was right there in his eyes. “I missed it,” he whispered, the realization hitting him like a fresh wave. “I missed it. I wasn’t here.”
“No,” I said, my voice quiet but firm, refusing to soften the truth. “You weren’t.”
He didn’t flinch. He just absorbed the blow, nodding as more tears fell. “I was tracking a storm in the middle of nowhere, listening to the wind, thinking it was the most important thing in the world. And the whole time… the whole time, my world was right here. With you.”
He reached out, his finger gently stroking Caroline’s cheek. She stirred, her tiny mouth making little sucking motions in her sleep. A watery, heartbroken smile touched his lips.
“Hi, Caroline,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m… I’m your dad. I’m so sorry I was late.”
Boone, who had been standing silently by the window, cleared his throat. “I’m, uh… gonna go find some coffee,” he mumbled, clearly sensing the need for privacy. “The kind of coffee that costs eight dollars and comes with a philosophical question.” He gave me a final, supportive look and slipped out, leaving the three of us alone in the quiet dawn.
Tyler didn’t seem to notice him leave. His entire being was focused on the daughter he had just met and the wife he had so profoundly failed. The storm in Oklahoma was over. But the one in this room, the quiet, devastating storm of consequence and forgiveness, was just beginning to make landfall.
The silence Boone left in his wake was thick and heavy, punctuated only by Caroline’s soft, sleeping breaths and the ragged sound of Tyler’s weeping. My hand stayed on his head, an anchor for both of us in the turbulent sea of his regret and my exhaustion. It wasn’t a gesture of forgiveness, not yet. It was simpler than that. It was an acknowledgement: You are here now.
He stayed on his knees for a long time, just watching his daughter sleep, his face a roadmap of grief. The storm chaser, the man who stared into the abyss and didn't flinch, couldn't seem to meet my eyes. He was terrified of what he would see there.
“I heard her cry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Over the phone. Boone was talking, and then… she cried. The whole world just… stopped. The wind, the rain, everything. It just went silent. All I could hear was her.” He finally dragged his gaze up to meet mine, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “And all I could think was, ‘I’m not there.’ I’m hearing the most important sound of my life through a speaker while I’m standing in a puddle in the middle of nowhere.”
He shook his head, a fresh wave of self-loathing washing over his features. “What was I thinking, Ry? I was chasing a pressure gradient. A temperature differential. A bunch of meaningless numbers on a screen. And you were here… you were doing… this.” His gesture encompassed the bed, me, the monumental task I had just completed alone. “You were scared. And I wasn't here.”
“I wasn’t alone,” I corrected him softly, my voice barely audible. “Boone was here.”
The name landed like a punch. Tyler visibly flinched, his eyes closing as if in pain. Of course, Boone had been here. Boone, his goofy, unreliable, lovable sidekick, had been the one to hold my hand, to drive me, to hear our daughter’s first cry in person. The irony was brutal, and it was not lost on him.
“He told me,” Tyler rasped. “In the hall. He told me everything. You trying to drive yourself. Him carrying you to the truck. He said you were… incredible.”
“I was angry,” I admitted, the truth of it feeling distant now. “And stubborn. And scared.”
“You had every right to be.” He finally, shakily, got to his feet. He looked down at his filthy clothes, at the mud caked on his boots. He seemed suddenly aware of how much of the storm he had tracked into this sterile, peaceful room. “I should… I should go clean up. I’m a mess.”
It was an excuse. A way to flee from the intensity of the moment, to regroup. But I couldn’t let him. If he walked out that door, the chasm between us might become too wide to cross.
“Tyler,” I said, my voice stopping him in his tracks. Caroline stirred in my arms, her little mouth opening in a tiny, silent yawn. “Do you… do you want to hold her?”
His breath hitched. He looked from my face to the baby, and a raw, desperate longing warred with a profound sense of unworthiness in his eyes. He shook his head, taking a half-step back.
“I can’t,” he whispered. “I’m filthy. I haven’t earned it.”
The statement was so full of self-punishment, so utterly Tyler, that it pierced through my exhaustion.
“It’s not something you earn,” I said, my voice gaining a sliver of its old strength. “She’s your daughter. You don’t have to earn the right to hold your daughter.”
I carefully, gently, shifted Caroline in my arms, holding her out towards him. It was an offering. A peace treaty. A first step.
He stared at the tiny bundle as if I were handing him a live grenade. He swallowed hard, his throat working. He took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly, hesitantly, stepped forward. He stripped off his muddy, rain-soaked jacket, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. He wiped his trembling hands on his jeans, a futile attempt to clean them.
Then, with a reverence I had only ever seen him show when describing the perfect structure of a supercell, he slid his hands under her, mimicking the way I was holding her. His hands were huge, calloused, and capable, and they dwarfed her tiny form. They looked clumsy and terrified.
As I transferred her weight into his arms, our fingers brushed. A jolt, a familiar spark of connection, shot through me. His eyes met mine over our daughter’s head, and in that moment, the rest of the world fell away. There was no hospital room, no storm, no broken promises. There was only us. The three of us.
Tyler held her. He looked down at his daughter in his arms, and his face crumpled completely. He sank into the visitor’s chair, cradling her against his chest as if she were made of spun glass. He bent his head over hers, his shoulders shaking with silent, wracking sobs. He was home. He was late. But he was finally home.
Just then, the door opened softly and Deb, the kind nurse from the delivery, came in. She took in the scene in an instant—me, exhausted but watching; Tyler, filthy and weeping, holding his newborn daughter for the first time. Her professional smile softened into something genuinely warm.
“Well, look at that,” she said gently. “Looks like Dad made it home.”
Tyler looked up, his face flushed with shame. “I’m sorry, I’m a mess. I probably shouldn’t even be holding her, I’m so dirty.”
“Nonsense,” Deb said, walking over. “A little road grime won’t hurt her. But you know what would be really good for both of you? Some skin-to-skin time. It helps regulate her heart rate, her breathing, her temperature. And it lets her know she’s safe with her dad.”
Tyler looked from Deb to me, his expression uncertain. It was such an intimate suggestion, a level of closeness he still felt he didn’t deserve. I gave him a small nod of encouragement.
“Okay,” he whispered, his voice thick. “How… how do I do it?”
“Easy,” Deb said, her tone gentle and instructive. “We’ll just unbutton that shirt. We’ll unswaddle this little lady, and we’ll lay her right on your chest. You just lean back and hold her. Your heartbeat is the best music she can hear right now.”
With fumbling, clumsy fingers, Tyler began to unbutton his plaid shirt. Deb expertly unwrapped Caroline from her swaddle, leaving her in just her diaper and hat. She was so impossibly tiny, her little legs curled up.
Deb gently took Caroline from him for a moment while he got his shirt fully open, then helped him lean back in the chair. With infinite care, she placed Caroline directly onto his bare chest.
The moment his daughter’s warm, soft skin made contact with his, a tremor went through Tyler’s entire body. He let out a sharp, shaky breath. Caroline, who had been starting to fuss, instantly settled. She turned her head, her cheek pressing against his chest, and let out a soft, contented sigh, as if she’d found the one place in the world she was meant to be.
Tyler stared down at her, his face a mask of pure awe. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand splayed across her tiny back, the other cradling her head. He was no longer just holding her; he was absorbing her.
“There you go, Dad,” Deb whispered, placing a warm blanket over both of them. “Perfect.” She gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze and slipped back out of the room, leaving us in our own private world again.
Tyler didn’t speak for a long time. He just held his daughter, his chin resting on the top of her hatted head. I could see the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart under his skin, and I could see her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect sync with it. The storm chaser had become an anchor.
“I can feel her heartbeat,” he finally whispered, his voice filled with wonder. He looked up at me, and for the first time since he’d arrived, the raw pain in his eyes was overshadowed by a profound, breathtaking love. “Riley… I’m so sorry I missed the beginning. But I swear to you… I will not miss another second…
The afternoon sun cast long, warm stripes across the floor of the hospital room, a stark contrast to the cold, artificial light of the early morning. The day had been a surreal blur. Nurses came and went, checking on me, checking on Caroline. Boone had reappeared with coffee and a bag of clothes for Tyler, looking slightly more human after a few hours of sleep. My parents had called, their voices a frantic mixture of joy and worry, which Tyler had handled with a quiet, somber patience that spoke volumes.
He had showered, washing away the grime of the road and the storm, but he couldn't wash away the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face. He was wearing a clean t-shirt and sweats, and he hadn’t strayed more than a few feet from me or the bassinet all day. He moved with a quiet, deliberate purpose, his focus narrowed to this single room.
Now, a fragile peace had settled. Caroline was asleep in her little plastic bassinet, her chest rising and falling in a steady, peaceful rhythm. I was propped up against a mountain of pillows, feeling the deep, bone-weary ache of a marathon runner at the finish line. Tyler sat in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair, not leaning back, but perched on the edge, as if he still didn’t feel he had the right to relax. His gaze was fixed on his sleeping daughter.
“She smiled,” he said, his voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the quiet. “A minute ago. In her sleep. Just for a second.”
I managed a small, tired smile. “The nurses say it’s just gas. But I’m choosing to believe she’s happy.”
“She’s happy,” he agreed, as if it were a point of scientific fact. He finally turned his gaze to me, his eyes searching mine in the afternoon light. The time for silent companionship was over. It was time to talk.
“You said it earlier,” I began, my voice quiet but clear. “When you first got here. You said you were done.”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He nodded, his expression unwavering. “I am.”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower, laced with a desperate sincerity. “When Boone called and I heard her cry… the line went dead. The pull I always feel from the sky just… snapped. It all reversed. It’s all pointing here now. To this room. To you. To her. I can’t do both, Riley. I see that now. I was arrogant enough to think I could. When the moment came to choose, my instincts were wrong. I can’t trust those instincts anymore.”
I listened, my heart aching. He meant it. He was ready to amputate a part of himself as penance. And suddenly, my own exhaustion was pierced by a sharp, fierce clarity.
“No,” I said.
The word was quiet, but it stopped him cold. He looked at me, confused. “No?”
“No,” I repeated, my voice gaining strength. “You’re not done. I’m not letting you be done.”
He stared at me, his face a mask of disbelief. “Riley, I just told you… I chose a storm over you. Over the birth of our daughter. This is the only way—”
“No, it’s not,” I interrupted, shaking my head. “It’s the easy way out.”
He flinched as if I’d slapped him. “Easy? Giving up the one thing I’ve loved my whole life is not easy.”
“It’s easier than learning balance,” I shot back, the familiar fire returning to my voice, though it was tempered by fatigue. “It’s easier to quit than it is to fix what’s broken. I’m not mad because you’re a storm chaser, Tyler. I fell in love with the storm chaser. I knew who you were. I was angry because you made a promise you didn’t keep. Because you let the chase become more important than us.”
I softened my tone, seeing the hurt and confusion in his eyes. “I don’t want you to stop being the Tornado Wrangler. Your whole team, the people who follow you… you do important work. And it’s part of you. If you give it up, you’ll resent me. You’ll resent her. And that’s a poison I won’t allow in this family.”
He looked completely lost, as if I had just taken away the one sacrifice he could offer. “Then what do we do?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “How do I fix this? Because I have to fix this.”
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted honestly. “We have to figure it out. We have to set boundaries. We have to find a way for you to be her father first, and a storm chaser second. Not one or the other. Both.” I took a breath, the weight of the future pressing down. “But what we’re not going to do is make a massive, life-altering decision out of guilt and grief in a hospital room.”
He reached out and took my hand, clinging to it like a lifeline. He looked from me to our daughter, and I could see the war inside him.
“I promise you, Riley,” he began, his voice raw.
“Don’t,” I said gently, cutting him off. “Don’t promise anything right now. Your promises don’t mean much to me today. Just… show me. Show me you can be here. Show me you can put her first. The words can come later.”
A tear he hadn’t wiped away traced a path down his cheek. He nodded, understanding. It wasn't about a grand gesture. It was about the thousand small moments to come.
He nodded towards the small, cot-like bench against the wall. “I’m not going anywhere tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the night after that. I’m staying right here.”
He stood and walked to the bassinet, looking down at our daughter as she slept in a patch of sunlight. He turned back to me, and the love in his eyes was a tangible thing. It didn’t fix what was broken, not yet. But it was a start. It was the foundation for something new. The storm had passed, leaving devastation in its wake. But here, in the quiet light of day, we were finally ready to start rebuilding…
Two days.
It had been two days since Caroline had blasted her way into the world, and in that time, a new, fragile rhythm had begun to form. Our world had become a cycle of two-hour increments measured in feedings, diaper changes, and stolen moments of sleep. The hospital room, once a stage for high drama and heartbreak, had become a quiet sanctuary, a bubble where we were learning the three-part harmony of being a family.
Tyler had been a permanent fixture. He slept, when he slept at all, on the lumpy cot pulled flush against my bed. He learned the specific, squeaky cry that meant Caroline was hungry versus the one that meant she was just annoyed. He held her, talked to her, and watched her with an intensity that eclipsed any storm he had ever tracked. He was present in a way that was so complete, so absolute, it was both healing and heartbreaking.
Boone had become our official, self-appointed concierge. He appeared every morning with coffee—a fancy one for me, a black sludge for Tyler—and a pastry he’d inevitably take a bite out of on the way up. He’d hold Caroline with the nervous reverence of a man handling an unexploded bomb, regaling her with highly embellished stories of her father’s past chases.
Now, the bubble was about to burst. It was discharge day.
I was dressed in the softest pair of sweatpants I owned, my hair was in a messy bun, and I felt like I’d been awake for a month straight. Caroline was swaddled in a soft, butter-yellow blanket, wearing a ridiculously cute "going home" outfit that my mother had insisted on. She looked like a tiny, precious burrito. All that stood between us and our own home was the final boss of new parenthood: the infant car seat.
“Alright, folks,” said our discharge nurse, a cheerful, no-nonsense woman named Sharon. “Paperwork is signed, baby is adorable, Mom is ready for her own bed. Let’s get this show on the road. Dad, have you got the car seat base installed already?”
Tyler, who was carefully arranging blankets around Caroline in her carrier, froze. He looked up, a deer in the headlights. “The… the base? I took the whole thing out of the box this morning. It’s right here.” He gestured to the sleek, black contraption on the floor.
Sharon’s cheerful smile didn’t falter, but I saw a flicker in her eyes. It was the look of a woman who knew she wasn’t getting home on time. “Okay, no problem. We can’t let you leave until I personally check that it’s installed correctly. It can be a little tricky, so don’t feel bad if you need a hand.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I’ve got it,” Tyler said with a confidence he absolutely did not possess. This was his first test as a competent, take-charge father, and he was determined not to fail. “I build and mount sensor arrays that can withstand 150-mile-per-hour winds. I think I can handle a little plastic.”
Famous last words.
Sharon pushed me in the wheelchair, Tyler carrying our precious cargo, and we made our way down to the hospital entrance. The automatic doors slid open, and Tyler strode out to where he’d pulled his truck up to the curb. His truck. His giant, lifted, monster of a Ford F-350.
Just as we got outside, another vehicle, Boone’s equally monstrous but significantly muddier truck, screeched into a non-parking spot nearby. Boone hopped out, holding two coffees. “Reinforcements have arrived!” he announced. “And lattes! Heard you were breaking out of this joint.”
“Perfect timing,” Tyler muttered, setting the car seat carrier down and grabbing the base. He opened the back door of his truck and stared into the backseat as if it were a complex schematic he’d never seen before. “Alright. Let’s do this.”
He unfolded the instruction manual, a document with more diagrams than a NASA flight plan, and scanned it with a frown. “Okay… LATCH system… or seatbelt path… rear-facing only…”
Boone peered over his shoulder. “Instructions? Dude, no. Toss it. It’s a conspiracy by the car seat industrial complex to make you feel stupid. It’s intuitive. You just gotta feel it.”
“I’m not ‘feeling’ my daughter’s safety, Boone,” Tyler grunted, trying to jam the base onto the seat. It didn’t fit. The angle was wrong.
“No, see, you’re trying to force it,” Boone instructed, waving his coffee around. “You gotta finesse it. It’s like wrestling a steer. You don’t go at it head-on. You gotta get some leverage.”
Sharon, our nurse, cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, if you look at the base, there are two yellow clips. Those connect to the anchor points in the seat. You should hear a distinct click.”
Tyler and Boone both ignored her, united in their mission to conquer the plastic beast on their own terms.
“Okay, I see the anchor things,” Tyler said, getting halfway into the truck, his voice muffled. “I just can’t… get the clip to… reach!”
“Here, let me help,” Boone said, handing me his coffee and climbing into the other side of the truck. Now there were two grown men crammed in the backseat of a pickup, grunting and sweating.
From my vantage point in the wheelchair, it was pure theater.
“Okay, on three, we push together!” Boone commanded. “One… two… THREE!”
They shoved in unison. The base, instead of clicking into place, shot sideways and became wedged diagonally between the seat and the back of the cab.
“Well, that’s not right,” Tyler stated, breathing heavily.
“We just need more force,” Boone declared. “It’s a pressure problem. Like trying to punch through a strong CAP. We need upward vertical motion!”
“That doesn’t even make sense, Boone!”
“It makes perfect sense! You hold it down, and I’ll pull up on this strap thingy here!” Boone grabbed a random strap—the one used for tightening the harness—and yanked on it with all his might.
A loud CRACK echoed in the quiet hospital driveway.
The two men froze. I froze. Even Caroline, who had been dozing, let out a little startled jump in her carrier.
“What was that?” Tyler asked, his voice a horrified whisper.
“That,” said Sharon, stepping forward, her patience finally wearing thin, “was the sound of you probably voiding the warranty. Alright, boys, out of the truck. Both of you.”
Her tone was the one a teacher uses on two kids who have just set fire to the chemistry lab. Sheepishly, Tyler and Boone untangled themselves and climbed out of the backseat.
“I’ve seen this before,” Sharon said, sighing. “It’s a classic case of Too-Much-Testosterone-Meets-Child-Safety-Device. You’re engineers of chaos, not baby gear.” She looked at the wedged car seat base. “Okay, how on earth did you even manage that?”
Tyler ran a hand over his face, the picture of defeat. He had wanted so badly to do this one simple thing right, and he had failed spectacularly in front of an audience. His gaze met mine, and I could see the familiar shadow of his guilt creeping back in.
“We were just trying to get it secure,” he mumbled, looking at the ground.
I decided he’d had enough humble pie for one day. “To be fair, Sharon,” I said, a smile playing on my lips, “they once tried to secure a weather sensor to a fence post with zip ties and a roll of duct tape in a hailstorm. This is actually an improvement.”
Boone brightened. “See? Improvement! And that sensor held for almost a full minute!”
Sharon just shook her head, a small smile finally breaking through her professional facade. “Alright, MacGyver, move aside.” She leaned into the truck and, with a series of practiced wiggles and one well-placed shove with her hip, dislodged the base.
“Now, watch,” she said, positioning it correctly. She pointed. “Anchor one, click.” She pushed it into place. CLICK. “Anchor two, click.” CLICK. She then threaded the seatbelt through the indicated path as an extra precaution, pulling it tight until the base didn’t move a millimeter. The whole process took her less than ninety seconds.
She stood up, wiping her hands. “Level indicator is in the green, it’s secure, and it’s rear-facing. Done.”
Tyler and Boone stared, dumbfounded, at the perfectly installed base. They had wrestled with it for twenty minutes, only to be taken down by a five-foot-four nurse with a sensible haircut.
Tyler looked at me, his face a mixture of embarrassment and relief. I just winked at him.
“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath and letting go of his pride. He turned to Sharon. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“All in a day’s work,” she said, her cheerfulness restored. “Now, let’s get this little one clicked in so you can finally go home.”
Tyler carefully picked up the carrier and, with a newfound reverence for proper procedure, clicked it into the base. CLICK. The sound was definitive, secure, and more satisfying than any of us could have imagined.
As he buckled me into the back seat, Boone leaned against my window. “For the record,” he whispered conspiratorially, “I still think a bungee cord would have worked.”
I just laughed, shaking my head. The chaos was back. But this time, it was our chaos. And we were all heading home together…
The decision for me to ride in the backseat was made without any actual discussion. It was simply a fact of the new universe we inhabited. Tyler, in his newfound role as Chief Safety Officer of All Things Caroline, had declared it so with a look. So there I was, wedged into the surprisingly cramped backseat of his massive F-350, my knees brushing the front seat, sitting vigil next to a sleeping baby in a car seat that looked more secure than a bank vault.
Tyler slid into the driver's seat, his movements imbued with the exaggerated care of someone handling ancient, priceless artifacts. He adjusted his seat. He adjusted his mirrors. He checked the rearview, then the side mirrors, then the rearview again, his eyes lingering on the tiny, swaddled form of our daughter.
“Okay,” he breathed, placing his hands on the steering wheel at a perfect, driver’s-ed-approved ten-and-two. “Everybody ready?”
“She’s a sleeping seven-pound baby, not a skydiver about to make her first jump,” I said from my perch in the back. “The only one not ready seems to be you. Can we please get this show on the road before she wakes up and realizes she’s been strapped to a plastic plank?”
He ignored my tone, his focus absolute. He put the truck in drive and pulled away from the curb with the urgency of a snail crawling through molasses. We drifted through the hospital parking lot at a walking pace. I’m not exaggerating; a man on crutches gave us a look of mild impatience as he outpaced us on the sidewalk.
“You know, you could probably get a ticket for going this slow,” I pointed out.
“It’s important to get a feel for the vehicle’s handling with the new weight distribution,” he said, his voice tight with concentration. “Her presence changes the whole dynamic.”
“Tyler, I love you, but she’s the weight of a medium-sized watermelon. She has not fundamentally altered the physics of a three-ton diesel truck. The only dynamic she’s changed is that we now have a tiny dictator who will scream if you take too long to get her home.”
As if on cue, a familiar set of flashing lights began to strobe in the rearview mirror. My stomach dropped. I knew we were a public menace. But it wasn’t the police. It was Boone. He had pulled in directly behind us, his hazard lights blinking with the self-importance of a presidential escort.
“Oh, for the love of God, what is he doing?” I groaned, sinking lower in my seat.
Tyler glanced in the mirror, but instead of annoyance, a look of profound gratitude crossed his face. “He’s running a perimeter. Creating a buffer zone so no one can tailgate us. He’s got our six.”
“He’s going to cause a ten-car pileup,” I countered. “We don’t need a ‘perimeter,’ we need to merge onto the highway like normal members of society.”
We reached the on-ramp. Tyler stopped, watching the flow of traffic like a hawk studying its prey. A gap opened up that was large enough to host a small music festival. Tyler remained stationary.
“That’s your spot, honey,” I said, trying to sound encouraging. “The big empty one. You can do it.”
“Too many variables,” he muttered. “That crossover is approaching too quickly.”
“The crossover is a quarter-mile away! If you don’t go now, we’re going to have to file for residency in this on-ramp!”
He finally took the plunge, creeping up the ramp and merging onto the highway at a speed that was frankly insulting to the concept of momentum. We were doing thirty-five miles per hour. The reaction from the rest of the driving public was immediate and vocal. A chorus of horns erupted around us. A man in a beat-up sedan swerved around us, his entire arm out the window, gesturing wildly.
Tyler flinched but held his speed. “Lots of angry people out today,” he observed clinically.
“They’re not angry, Tyler, they’re confused! They’re wondering why a giant truck that looks like it could tow a house is moving slower than their grandmother’s electric scooter!”
Behind us, Boone was a master of chaos. A semi-truck, impatient with our nonsense, loomed up behind us, but Boone, ever the loyal lunatic, swerved to straddle the lane line, his hazard lights flashing a clear message: Thou Shalt Not Pass.
And then, the inevitable happened. From the car seat beside me came a tiny, disgruntled whimper. Tyler’s entire body went rigid.
“What was that? What’s her status?” he demanded, his head jerking around.
“It was a noise, Tyler. She’s a baby. They’re basically little noise factories.” But then the whimper turned into a cry, and the cry cranked up into a full-blown, fire-engine wail that filled the entire cab.
Panic detonated in the front seat. “Okay, she’s crying! Why is she crying? Is she hurt? Is the seat pinching her? Is the sun too bright?”
“She’s not a delicate flower, Tyler, she’s just mad!” I yelled over the noise. “She’s probably hungry or her diaper is wet or she’s just decided that the color blue offends her! It could be anything!”
The crying intensified, hitting a piercing frequency that made my fillings ache. His phone suddenly rang, and the screen flashed with Boone’s face. Tyler jabbed the answer button, putting him on speaker.
“DUDE!” Boone’s frantic voice exploded through the truck. “I can hear her from back here! It sounds bad! Is that a bad cry?! What’s going on?!”
“I DON’T KNOW!” Tyler yelled back, his voice cracking. “SHE JUST STARTED SCREAMING! I THINK I’M HAVING A SYMPATHY PANIC ATTACK!”
“DID YOU TRY JIGGLING THE CAR?!” Boone offered. “Swerve a little! The motion might soothe her! Like a cradle!”
“I AM NOT GOING TO SWERVE!” Tyler shrieked, his knuckles bone-white on the wheel. “I’m trying to drive!”
“WELL, YOU’RE NOT DOING A VERY GOOD JOB OF IT!”
“YOU’RE NOT HELPING!”
I had had enough. I was trapped in a screaming box with two screaming men. It was time for a coup.
“SHUT UP!” I bellowed, my voice shocking both of them into silence. Even Caroline paused her screaming for a split second, as if to say, ‘Hey, that’s my job.’
“Both of you, listen to me right now,” I commanded, my tone leaving no room for argument. “Tyler. Your only job is to drive this truck. Put your foot on the gas until the little needle points to sixty-five, and keep it there. Do not look back here. Do not talk. Just drive. Get us home.”
He swallowed hard, gave a jerky nod, and the truck finally, blessedly, accelerated to a normal speed.
“Boone,” I continued, leaning forward. “Turn off your stupid lights. Hang up the phone. And stop trying to give advice from another moving vehicle. Just follow us. Quietly.”
“...Yes, ma’am,” Boone’s chastened voice replied before the call ended. The frantic flashing in the rearview mirror ceased.
Peace was restored to the highway. Now, for the cab. I turned my full attention to the screaming infant beside me. “Alright, sweet girl,” I murmured, my voice now soft. “Mommy’s got you. Let’s figure this out.”
I unbuckled my seatbelt, ignoring Tyler’s sharp intake of breath. “I’m just pivoting, settle down.” I rummaged through the diaper bag. Pacifier? She spat it out with contempt. Diaper? Clean and dry. That left the nuclear option: food.
With the steady hands of a surgeon—or at least a very determined mother—I managed to get the cap off a pre-made bottle of formula, lean over the massive car seat, and guide the nipple into her wailing mouth.
She latched on. And the world went silent. The beautiful, ringing, wonderful silence was broken only by the hum of the tires and the happy, rhythmic sucking of a contented baby.
I fell back against the seat, utterly spent, and buckled myself back in. Tyler was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was hushed with awe.
“You’re… amazing,” he said. “You just… handled that. With all the chaos. You were the only one who was calm.”
I looked at my daughter, now drifting off into a milk-drunk sleep, and a weary smile touched my lips. “I wasn’t calm, Tyler. I was just the loudest.”
He reached his hand back between the seats, and I took it. We drove the rest of the way home like that, connected, the chaos momentarily tamed. As we pulled into our driveway, he cut the engine and let his head fall against the steering wheel.
“That was the most stressful thirty minutes of my entire life,” he said into the sudden quiet.
I squeezed his hand. “Welcome to fatherhood, honey,” I said softly. “Buckle up.
The peace inside our house was a stark contrast to the chaos of the car ride. It was a deep, welcoming quiet, the kind I had been craving for days. The late afternoon sun streamed through the living room windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It smelled like home—like clean laundry, old books, and the faint, lingering scent of Tyler’s coffee from a forgotten mug.
For a moment, we just stood in the entryway, frozen. Tyler held Caroline, still asleep in her carrier, with the same cautious reverence he’d had since leaving the hospital. Boone hovered behind us, juggling the diaper bag, my overnight bag, and a giant stuffed giraffe he had inexplicably produced from his truck.
“Well,” Boone announced into the silence, “the Nugget has landed.”
Tyler didn’t seem to know what to do next. He looked around the living room as if he’d never seen it before. “Where… where does she go?”
“Generally, babies go in the designated baby-containment area,” I said, gently nudging him toward the hallway. “You know, the room you spent six weeks painting the wrong shade of yellow before I made you redo it?”
“Right. The nursery,” he said, nodding seriously.
Walking into the nursery felt like stepping into a dream I’d forgotten I had. It was perfect. Soft grey walls, a white crib standing expectantly against the far wall, and the mobile of fluffy white clouds I’d spent a whole weekend assembling. It was a room built on hope and anticipation, and now, the reason for it all was finally here.
Tyler placed the car seat gently on the floor in the center of the room, as if it were a holy relic. He unbuckled Caroline with painstaking care and lifted her out, cradling her against his chest. She was still sound asleep, a tiny, perfect bundle in her father’s arms. He stood there, just holding her, a look of pure, unadulterated wonder on his face.
“I’m gonna… put the giraffe in the corner,” Boone whispered, as if a normal speaking voice might shatter the moment. “For tactical support. And I’ll just… get these bags to your room.” He tiptoed out, leaving us alone.
“We’re home, sweet girl,” Tyler murmured to the sleeping baby. He looked at me over her head, his eyes shining. “We’re home.”
I leaned against the doorframe, a wave of exhaustion so profound it was almost dizzying washing over me. The adrenaline that had powered me through labor, the drive, and the sheer overwhelming newness of it all was finally gone, leaving a deep, aching weariness in its place.
“I think I need to sit down,” I said. “For maybe the next year.”
“The couch,” Tyler decided instantly. “You need the couch. And pillows. And a blanket.”
He led me to the living room, still holding Caroline, and fussed over me like I was a fragile porcelain doll. He arranged pillows behind my back, draped a soft throw blanket over my legs, and only seemed satisfied when I was comfortably ensconced in a nest of my own making.
“Okay,” he said, looking from me to the baby. “What now?”
“Now?” I laughed, a tired, airy sound. “Now, we wait. She’s a ticking time bomb of needs. At some point in the next two hours, she’s going to explode, and one of us will have to figure out if it’s a hunger explosion, a diaper explosion, or a ‘cuddle me right this second’ explosion.”
The concept seemed to terrify him. “How do you know which one it is?”
“You guess,” I said. “And you’re usually wrong the first two times.”
As if on cue, a tiny, disgruntled squawk came from his arms. Caroline’s face scrunched up. Her eyes fluttered open. She was waking up. Tyler froze, his eyes wide with panic.
“She’s making a face! Is that the ‘I’m about to explode’ face?”
“That’s the ‘I’m awake now and I’m assessing the situation’ face,” I explained.
The assessment was apparently negative. The face-scrunching escalated into a full-body wiggle, followed by the opening salvo of a cry. It was happening. Our first domestic crisis.
“Okay, rookie mistake,” Boone’s voice came from the kitchen doorway. He was holding a glass of water for me. “You let her wake up on her own. You gotta anticipate the wake-up. It’s like a storm. You don’t wait for the tornado to be on top of you, you watch the hook echo on the radar.”
“She doesn’t have a hook echo, Boone!” Tyler said, frantically bouncing Caroline in a jerky, nervous rhythm that was probably making things worse.
“Okay, checklist,” I said, taking charge. “When’s the last time she ate?”
Tyler looked at me blankly. “At the hospital? Before we left? I don’t know, I lost all track of time during the Great Car Seat War of 2025.”
“About an hour and a half ago,” I clarified. “So it’s probably not hunger yet. Let’s check the diaper.”
“The diaper. Right.” Tyler looked down at his daughter as if he’d never seen her before. “How?”
“You just… you lay her down and open it.”
He carried her, crying and wiggling, back to the nursery. Boone and I followed, a strange little support crew. Tyler laid Caroline on the changing table, his movements stiff and uncertain. He fumbled with the snaps on her onesie, his large hands struggling with the tiny pieces of fabric.
“It’s like trying to disarm a bomb with oven mitts on,” he muttered in frustration.
“You’re doing great,” Boone encouraged, leaning against the wall. “Lots of focus. Good hand-eye coordination. You’re just… really slow.”
Tyler finally got the onesie open and unfastened the diaper. He peered inside. “I don’t… I don’t see anything. It looks clean.”
I leaned in. “Ah. You’ve encountered the stealth-pee. It’s wet, but it doesn’t look like much. Trust me, it’s there. Change it.”
The process of changing the diaper was a masterclass in chaotic teamwork. Tyler tried to hold her kicking legs down while simultaneously trying to wipe her. Boone, in a misguided attempt to help, tried to distract Caroline by dangling a set of keys in front of her face, which only made her cry harder.
In the confusion, Tyler managed to put the new diaper on backward.
I sighed, stepping forward. “Okay, tap out, champ.” I gently pushed him aside. With practiced, efficient movements, I fixed the diaper, wiped her down, and snapped her back into her onesie. The crying, deprived of its primary cause, subsided into fussy little whimpers.
I lifted her into my arms, and she snuggled against my shoulder, her little body warm and solid against mine. I swayed gently, humming a tuneless little song. Her whimpers quieted. Her eyes began to drift shut.
Tyler and Boone stood watching, their faces a mixture of awe and bewilderment, as if I had just performed a complex magic trick.
“How?” Tyler asked, his voice hushed. “You just… you knew what to do.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confessed, my cheek resting on the top of Caroline’s downy head. “I’m just guessing. But maybe… maybe I’m her mom, so my guesses are just a little bit better.”
We stood there in the quiet nursery, the setting sun casting a golden glow on the walls. The adrenaline was gone, the panic had subsided. This was it. This was the new normal. It wasn’t going to be a dramatic, high-speed chase. It was going to be a million quiet, messy, confusing, and beautiful moments, just like this one.
Boone cleared his throat. “Well, I should probably… go. Let you guys… you know… baby.” He looked at the peaceful scene, a genuine, unguarded softness in his eyes. “She’s pretty great, you guys.”
“Thanks for everything today, Boone,” Tyler said, his voice thick with sincerity. “You were… a good wingman.”
“Always,” Boone said with a grin. “Just call me if you need more tactical giraffe support.”
He gave us a final wave and let himself out, the front door clicking shut behind him. And then, it was just us. The three of us. Alone in our house for the very first time.
Tyler came and stood beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He looked down at our daughter, sleeping peacefully in my arms.
“So,” he said softly, a tired smile playing on his lips. “This is it, huh?”
Grace Corleone married Michael because he was a down to earth man who fought for his country. Big brown eyes and smile that could rival Rudolph Valentino. Never in a million years did she think the man who made her heart dip into her stomach from excitement would cause her stomach to twist in fear and disgust.
Rated M: Be advised that this story will contain storylines depicting sex, verbal assault, physical assault, sexism, cursing, mentions of miscarriage, violence, murder, etc. Please do not read if these trigger you in any way. The story will follow parts of the trilogy. I do not own any characters/scenes created by Mario Puzzo or Francis Ford Coppola.
Taglist: @crazzzyyyy
“Get your hand off me,” I snarl, the words torn from my throat. My voice is ragged, ugly. It doesn’t sound like me, but I haven’t been me in a long time.
Michael’s fingers are a vise around my wrist. He hasn’t tightened his grip—he doesn’t need to. The pressure is precise, a cold, clinical application of force that digs his signet ring into the delicate bones of my arm. It’s a reminder, not a punishment. A reminder of his effortless strength.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is unnervingly calm, a low baritone that cuts through my panic like a scalpel through flesh. He’s looking at the small, packed overnight bag on the bed, then back at me. His eyes—those beautiful, lying brown eyes I once adored—are utterly devoid of warmth. They are the eyes of a banker assessing a defaulted loan.
“I’m taking the children to my mother’s,” I say, trying to wrench my arm free. It’s useless. He doesn’t even shift his weight. “I called you. I left a message. We’re leaving.”
“No,” he says. The word is not an argument; it’s a law of nature. The sun rises in the east, the tides ebb and flow, and Grace does not leave without Michael’s permission. “You’re not.”
“They are my children!” The scream I’ve been swallowing for years finally claws its way out, raw and desperate. “You don’t get to keep them locked away in this mausoleum just because you’re paranoid! They need their family. They need a life!”
He lets go of my wrist so abruptly I stumble back a step. The release is more jarring than the grip itself. He slowly, deliberately, begins to unbutton his shirt cuffs, his movements measured and graceful. It’s the ritual of a man coming home after a long day, a pantomime of normalcy that is absolutely insane in this context.
“You’re emotional, Grace. You’re not thinking clearly,” he says, rolling up one sleeve to reveal a tanned, powerful forearm. “You think this is about paranoia. It’s not. It’s about consequences. There is a man, a former associate, who thought he could make his own rules. This morning, his wife couldn’t find him. His children asked their mother why their papa didn’t come home. What do you think she told them?”
My blood turns to ice. It’s not a story. It’s a message.
“You are a monster,” I whisper, the words barely audible. The disgust is a physical thing, rising in my throat like bile.
“I am a pragmatist,” he corrects me, his voice still infuriatingly level. He starts on the other sleeve. “I am the man who keeps the wolves from the door. But to do that, the door must remain closed. Your little trip to Brooklyn? It’s a vulnerability. It’s a weakness. It tells my enemies that my house is not in order. It tells them my wife is sentimental and foolish.”
“And you can’t have that, can you?” I spit, my fear curdling into a reckless rage. “The great Michael Corleone, seen as having a foolish wife. It might tarnish the brand.”
That’s when he moves. It’s so fast I don’t have time to react. One moment he’s by the dresser, the next he has backed me against the cold, damask-papered wall, his body caging me in. He places one hand flat on the wall beside my head, the impact a dull thud next to my ear. He leans in close, his scent—expensive cologne, clean cotton, and something else, something metallic and cold—filling my senses, choking me.
“The ‘brand,’ as you call it, is what keeps you alive,” he whispers, his lips almost touching my ear. The warmth of his breath is a grotesque intimacy. “It’s what allows your father to draw his pension without worrying that his legs will be broken for some imagined slight from twenty years ago. It’s what allows your mother to go to church and pray to a god that has no jurisdiction here.”
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. The handsome face, the one that could rival Rudolph Valentino, is gone. This face is all sharp angles and predatory darkness.
“I could have them hurt, Grace,” he says, his voice a soft, conversational purr. “So easily. An accident at the docks for your father. A purse-snatching gone wrong for your mother. Simple. Untraceable. And everyone would send their condolences. And you and I would know the truth. We would know it was because you decided to be stubborn. Because you wanted a ‘normal afternoon.’”
A sob escapes me, a raw, animal sound of pure terror. This is the truth of my life, the foundation of my gilded cage. My family, my children, they aren’t just his to protect. They are his hostages.
“Please, Michael,” I beg, the fight utterly extinguished, replaced by a groveling fear. “Please don’t.”
“Then be smart,” he says, his voice softening again, the predator soothing its prey. He brings his other hand up, his thumb gently, almost tenderly, wiping away the tear tracking down my cheek. The gesture is obscene. “You are not a stupid woman. Don’t make stupid, emotional decisions. Your only job is to be the mother of my children and the wife of my house. Nothing more. Do you understand your job?”
I can’t speak. I just nod, my body trembling uncontrollably against the wall.
“Good.” He gives my cheek a final, patronizing pat. “Now. You’re going to call your mother. You’re going to tell her that one of the children is feeling unwell and that you can’t make it. You will sound disappointed but firm. And you will tell her we send our love.”
He’s not just winning; he’s forcing me to be the instrument of my own defeat. He’s making me wield the knife that severs my own lifeline.
He steps back, giving me air. He looks at me, pinned against the wall, broken and sobbing, and nods once, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. He turns, picks up the overnight bag from the bed, and walks into my dressing room. I hear him unzip it. I hear the contents—the children’s carefully folded clothes, Isabella’s favorite doll, a book for Michael Jr.—being dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.
He walks back out, holding the empty bag.
“I’ll have Nico dispose of this,” he says, as if it’s a piece of trash.
He leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him. I’m left alone, sliding down the wall to the floor, my body wracked with silent, agonizing sobs. The man who once made my heart dip into my stomach from excitement had just threatened to murder my parents with the same casual tone he used to order wine. And the worst part, the part that truly shattered me, was the terrifying, undeniable flicker of excitement I saw in his eyes when I finally broke.
He doesn’t just want my obedience. He enjoys my terror. And in this kingdom of his, I am not his queen. I am his favorite thing to hunt…
Sleep is a country I can no longer visit. It’s a foreign land, and my passport was revoked years ago. Instead, I lie perfectly still in the dark, my body a rigid line on my side of the cavernous bed, feigning a peace I will never know again. Beside me, Michael sleeps.
Or, he performs sleep. Even in slumber, he is a portrait of control. He lies on his back, the heavy silk duvet rising and falling with the deep, even rhythm of his breath. There is no tossing, no turning, no sign of the violent undercurrents that define his waking hours. It’s the sleep of a man with no conscience, a man who believes so utterly in his own righteousness that his sins don’t dare haunt him.
The luminous green hands of the clock on his nightstand creep past two. The house is settled into its deepest silence, the hum of dread muted by the late hour. This is it. There won’t be another chance. His threats from earlier were a promise, a clear and brutal map of my cage. He thinks he’s beaten me into submission.
He’s wrong. He didn’t break me. He cauterized my last remaining hope. He burned away any lingering fantasy that the man I married still existed. And in the ashes, something new has taken root: a resolve as cold and hard as his own heart.
Taking his children is a death sentence. He will hunt me. He will unleash an army of men with dead eyes and tailored suits, and they will not stop. And when he finds me, what he does won’t be quick. It will be a lesson. An example. But the thought of my own end is a distant, pale fear compared to the vibrant, immediate terror of what he will do to them if they stay. He will twist Michael Jr. into a mirror of himself. He will crush Isabella’s spirit until she is nothing but a beautiful, obedient doll. He will bleed the joy from Luca until he forgets how to laugh.
A quick death for me, or a slow, spiritual one for them. There is no choice.
My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs, but my movements are liquid. I slide my legs out from under the duvet, my bare feet finding the cold hardwood of the floor with a silence born of years of practice. I rise from the bed, a ghost in a thin nightgown. The moonlight paints a silver rectangle on the floor. I stick to the shadows as if the light itself would betray me.
My first stop is my dressing room. I ignore the pile of my children’s clothes he dumped on the floor—a monument to his victory. Instead, I grab a leather satchel. My hands move with frantic purpose, stuffing it with the thick wads of cash I’ve been skimming for years from the household accounts. An emergency fund for an emergency I never truly let myself believe would come. I add my passport and a small, velvet roll of jewelry—my mother’s pearls, a diamond brooch. Things that can be sold without a paper trail.
The children. Their rooms are in the adjacent wing. Every step down the hallway is a negotiation with the old, groaning floors. I move with my weight on the balls of my feet, my ears straining, listening for the one sound I dread above all others: his voice calling my name from the dark.
I reach Michael Jr.’s room first. He’s ten, and he already sleeps like his father—still and quiet. The sight of his face in the moonlight, a perfect, softer version of Michael’s, sends a pang of grief and terror through me. I am stealing his heir. This is the greatest treason.
“M.J.,” I whisper, touching his shoulder.
His eyes snap open, instantly alert. There is no childish grogginess. He learned long ago that a sudden awakening in this house often meant trouble. “Mama? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lie, my voice a strained whisper. “We’re going on a trip. A surprise. For Grandma and Grandpa.”
He sits up, his brow furrowed with a suspicion no ten-year-old should possess. “Does Papa know?”
The question is a knife in my heart. “It’s a surprise for him, too,” I say. “We have to be very, very quiet. Can you do that for me? Get dressed. Something warm. No noise.”
He studies my face in the dim light, his eyes searching mine. He sees the fear. I know he does. He sees the lie. For a terrible second, I think he will refuse, that his loyalty to the king has already supplanted his love for his mother. Then, he gives a single, sharp nod. He is his father’s son, but tonight, he is mine.
Isabella and Luca are easier. They are still young enough to be swept up in the magic of a secret, middle-of-the-night adventure. I wake them with whispers of a game, of a surprise, their sleepy confusion my greatest ally. As I help Luca, my five-year-old, pull on a sweater, he looks up at me, his eyes wide and trusting.
“Are we being spies, Mama?” he whispers, his voice full of excitement.
“Yes, my love,” I say, my throat tightening so much I can barely speak. “We are the best spies.”
We are assembled in the hallway, three small, silent shadows clinging to me. I have them. Now, we just have to get out. The main stairs are too close to our bedroom. We have to take the servants’ staircase at the back of the house, down through the kitchen. It’s longer, more dangerous.
We move as one, a tiny, terrified unit. Every creak of the floorboards is a gunshot in the silence. Isabella stifles a cough into her sleeve. Michael Jr. holds his little brother’s hand, his face a grim mask of concentration. He understands the stakes.
We make it to the kitchen. The vast, sterile space is filled with hulking, stainless-steel shapes that look like sleeping beasts in the dark. The door to the garage is just ahead. My hand is trembling as I reach for the heavy, brass deadbolt. It’s stiff, and turning it will make a sound.
I look at my children. Their faces are pale in the sliver of light from the hall. This is for them. I take a deep breath, wrap my hand around the cold metal knob, and turn.
The thunk of the bolt sliding back is deafening. It echoes in the cavernous kitchen like a dropped cleaver. We all freeze, our bodies rigid, our ears straining for any sound from upstairs.
Silence. Nothing. Just the low, electric hum of the enormous refrigerator.
A wave of relief so powerful it almost brings me to my knees washes over me. My hand closes around the doorknob. Freedom is on the other side of this door. A different life, a dangerous life, but a life.
I turn the knob.
“Going somewhere, Grace?”
The voice is not a shout. It’s a quiet, conversational question that landed with the force of a physical blow. It comes from the darkness at the far end of the kitchen, from the doorway leading to the dining room.
And as my blood turns to ice and my children shrink behind me, a figure detaches itself from the shadows. Michael. He’s holding a glass of water, as if he just came down for a drink. He isn’t angry. He isn’t yelling. He’s just standing there, watching us, a faint, terrible smile playing on his lips. He knew. He was never asleep. He was waiting.
The world doesn't stop. It shatters.
The sound of the latch clicking open is still hanging in the air when his voice cuts through the dark.
“Grace?”
It’s just my name. A question. Not an accusation, not a command. And it’s a thousand times worse than a shout. It’s quiet, laced with a genuine, soul-deep confusion that makes my blood run cold.
My hand is frozen on the doorknob. Behind me, Isabella’s little body goes rigid, her fingers digging into the thin fabric of my nightgown. Luca, startled from his sleepy haze, makes a small, questioning sound.
He looks at the children, dressed for the cold. He looks at the leather satchel clutched in my other hand. He looks back at me. The pieces are clicking into place for him, and I can see the understanding dawn on his face, followed by a wave of something that looks like nausea.
“What is this?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper. “What are you doing?”
I can’t answer. My throat is a knot of terror and shame.
He walks toward us, his steps slow, uncertain. He’s not a predator now; he’s a man walking through the wreckage of his own home. He stops a few feet away, and the silence is a living, breathing monster between us.
It's Isabella who breaks it. My daughter, my sensitive, fiercely attached girl, sees the look on his face and knows, with a child’s unerring instinct, that the world is about to end. She lets out a terrified sob and buries her face in my waist. “Mama,” she cries. “Mama, I’m scared.”
Her cry is the catalyst. It breaks the spell of Michael’s disbelief and replaces it with a flicker of hardening reality. He crouches down, not to loom, but to see them.
“Michael,” he says, his voice soft, trying to hold onto the role of the father. “Tell me what’s happening.”
My son stands ramrod straight, a miniature version of the man before him. He is trying so hard to be brave, but I can see the tremor in his hands, the way his eyes dart between me and his father. He’s terrified—not of the dark, but of what his father is about to do to his mother. “We were going to see Grandma,” he says, his voice tight.
Michael’s face crumples for a fraction of a second. It is a look of such raw, personal pain that I almost feel a pang of pity. He truly believes he is the protector. In his mind, I am not saving them; I am leading them to the slaughter.
“Grace,” he says, his voice pleading, ignoring the children for a moment. “Don’t do this. Not like this. Whatever you think you’re doing, just… stop. Let’s go upstairs. We’ll talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I choke out, finding my voice at last. “I won’t let you turn them into you.”
That’s the line. The air changes. The hurt in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a cold, glittering fury. It’s the fury of a king whose most cherished belief—his own righteousness as a father—has been thrown in his face as an insult.
“I see,” he says, his voice suddenly devoid of all emotion. He stands up. “I see.”
He reaches for Isabella.
“NO!” The word is ripped from my soul. I spin, pulling Isabella behind me, dropping to my knees and wrapping my arms around her. She clings to me, screaming now, a high-pitched wail of pure terror.
“Don’t you touch her!” I scream, my voice raw and broken.
He doesn’t speak. He kneels in front of us, his movements calm and deliberate. This is not a fight to him anymore; it is a procedure. He takes Isabella’s small hand, the one clutching my nightgown, and begins to uncurl her fingers.
“Papa, no! Stop! Please!” she shrieks, trying to pull her hand back.
“It’s alright, Isabella,” he says, and his voice is a low, terrifyingly calm murmur. He’s not speaking to her; he’s speaking to himself, keeping himself under control. He pries one finger loose. Then another.
“You’re hurting me!”
“No, I’m not,” he says, his voice tight. He gets her hand free. He starts on the other.
“MAMA!” Her scream is a physical blow. I can feel her heart hammering against my back. I am trying to hold her, but he is stronger, more patient. He is dismantling my desperate embrace piece by piece.
He gets her other hand free. He puts one arm around her waist, preparing to lift her. This is my last chance.
“She stays with me!” I sob, trying to wrap my legs around her, to anchor her to me.
For the first time, he looks directly at me, his face inches from mine. “You did this,” he whispers, his voice trembling with a rage that is all the more terrifying for being so quiet. “You made her afraid of her own father. You did this to her.”
With a single, fluid motion, he stands, lifting my screaming, thrashing daughter into his arms.
“MAMA! MAMA, DON’T LET HIM! PLEASE, MAMA!”
I scramble to my feet to get her back, but Michael Jr. suddenly steps in my path, his arms spread wide. “Mama, no! Stop!” he begs, his face pale, his own terror finally breaking through his stoic facade. He knows. He knows what happens when my defiance meets his father’s will. He’s not protecting his father. He’s trying to save me from him.
Michael, holding Isabella as she fights and sobs, turns his cold gaze on his son. “Take Luca. Go upstairs. Go to your room and lock the door.”
The order is a mercy. It is for my son’s benefit, so he does not have to see what comes next. Michael Jr. hesitates, his eyes pleading with me. Please, Mama, just stop. He then grabs his confused little brother’s hand and practically drags him from the room.
The door swings shut. It’s just me, Michael, and our screaming daughter.
“Look at her, Grace,” he snarls, his face contorted. “Is this what you wanted? Is this the happy childhood you were so desperate to give her? This is the memory you just burned into her mind for the rest of her life.”
He turns and carries Isabella out of the kitchen. Her cries of “Mama!” echo down the long, dark hallway. I run after them, my bare feet slapping against the cold floor.
“Michael, please, she needs me!”
He doesn’t stop until he reaches the bottom of the grand staircase. There, he turns. Isabella is still sobbing, still reaching for me.
“She does need you,” he says, his voice dangerously soft. “She needs her mother. But you are not fit to be her mother tonight.”
He starts up the stairs.
“No!” I try to follow, but he stops and turns back to me.
“If you take one more step up these stairs, Grace,” he says, his voice flat and final, “I will send her away. To a boarding school. In Switzerland. And you will not see her again until she is a woman. Do you understand me?”
The threat is absolute. It is not about violence; it is about possession. He will remove her from my life as easily as removing a piece from a chessboard.
I freeze, my foot hovering over the bottom step. My mind screams, but my body obeys. I can do nothing but watch as he carries my sobbing daughter up the stairs and out of sight. I hear her bedroom door open, then slam shut.
Her muffled cries are the only sound in the cavernous house.
I collapse onto the bottom step, my body wracked with a grief so profound it has no sound. I have not just failed. I have been surgically, expertly defeated. He didn’t lay a hand on me. He didn’t need to. He just took my heart and locked it in a room upstairs, leaving me with the knowledge that he holds the key, and he will never give it back…
Time ceases to exist. There is only the cold of the marble step seeping through the thin cotton of my nightgown and the sound. The sound of my daughter crying.
It’s not a loud wail. It’s a muffled, heartbroken series of sobs that travel down the cavernous staircase and find me at the bottom. Each one is a physical blow, a fresh wave of agony that washes over the shattered pieces of my soul. I am folded in on myself, my arms wrapped around my stomach as if to hold myself together, my forehead pressed against the cold, unforgiving wood of the banister.
The grand foyer is dark, save for a single lamp left burning in the hall, casting long, distorted shadows that writhe on the walls like tormented spirits. The house is silent except for her cries. It’s a sound that will be etched into my memory for eternity, the soundtrack to my failure. He knew it would be. This isn’t just the consequence of my actions; it’s a meticulously crafted torture. He wants me to sit here and listen to the pain I have caused, to let it scour me clean of any lingering defiance.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Minutes bleed into an hour. Her sobs become intermittent, punctuated by desolate, hitching breaths. She’s tiring herself out. The thought is a fresh stab of pain. My baby is crying herself to sleep, alone in her room, and I am forbidden from going to her. Forbidden by the man who promised to protect me, who now uses my own heart as his weapon.
Then, I hear it. A soft click from upstairs. A door opening. Followed by his footsteps.
They are not the furious, heavy strides of before. They are slow, measured, the footsteps of a man completely in control, moving through his domain. I don’t look up. I can’t. I just listen as he descends the staircase, one step at a time. He doesn’t stop on the step above me. He continues all the way to the bottom and walks a few feet away onto the marble floor. I can see his polished leather shoes in my peripheral vision.
He is silent for a long time. He is letting me stew in the misery. He is letting the silence, now absent of my daughter’s cries, become its own form of punishment.
“Look at me, Grace,” he says finally. His voice is calm. Not gentle, not cold. Just calm. The voice of a doctor about to explain a terminal diagnosis.
Slowly, painfully, I lift my head. My neck aches, my eyes are swollen and raw. He stands before me, his hands in his pockets, his shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar. He looks tired, but resolute. The wild fury from the kitchen is gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute authority.
“I want you to understand what happened tonight,” he begins, his voice low, conversational. “This was not a fight. This was a choice. Your choice. You chose to believe that your feelings were more important than the security of this family. You chose to believe that your idea of happiness was more important than their legacy.”
He takes a step closer. I flinch.
“You have a role in this family, Grace. It is an important role. You are the mother of my children. You are the lady of this house. You are the face of compassion, of softness, of grace. That is what you are meant to be. It is a vital part of the whole. But you seem to have forgotten that the heart cannot do the job of the head. It cannot make decisions of this magnitude.”
I want to scream at him. I want to spit in his face. But I can’t. The energy is gone. The fight has been bled out of me on this staircase. All I can do is stare at him, this stranger wearing my husband’s face.
“So, from now on,” he continues, “things will be different. There will be new rules. You will no longer have access to the household accounts. Cook will handle all of it, and you will be given an allowance. In cash. Weekly. Enough for your personal needs, nothing more.”
He is cutting off my escape route. The money I’d painstakingly saved is now useless, because I will never be able to accumulate it again.
“Your car keys will remain with me. If you need to go somewhere—to the market, to a luncheon—a driver will be assigned to you. He will take you there, and he will bring you back.”
I am a prisoner. A well-dressed prisoner, but a prisoner all the same.
“And your parents,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “You will not be seeing them for a while. You’ll call them tomorrow and tell them… tell them you’re taking the children on a long vacation. Florida, perhaps. You’ll send postcards. You will maintain the illusion that everything is perfect. And eventually, when I am satisfied that you understand your position, we can revisit the idea of a family dinner.”
He holds my parents’ lives in his hands, and he is reminding me of it.
I finally find a shard of my voice. “And my children?” I whisper, the words cracking.
He looks at me, and for the first time, a flicker of emotion crosses his face. It’s a deep, possessive pride. “They are my children, Grace. They will be raised to understand their name. They will be strong. They will be safe. And they will love their mother, because their mother will be here, every day, being what she is supposed to be.”
He crouches down in front of me, so our eyes are level. “I am not the monster, Grace. I am the man who is willing to do monstrous things to protect what he loves. You tried to run from that. You can’t. It’s everywhere. It’s in the walls of this house, it’s in the food you eat, it’s in the very name our children carry. You can either fight it and drown, or you can accept it and live like a queen.”
He reaches out, not with violence, but with a gesture of finality. He gently brushes a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb.
“I love you, Grace,” he whispers, and the words are the cruelest blow of all, because I know, in some terrifying, twisted way, he believes it. “I will never let you leave me. And you will never try again.”
He stands up, his duty done. The lesson is complete.
“It’s late,” he says, his voice back to normal, as if he were merely ending a business meeting. “Go to bed.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me alone in the vast, silent foyer. I don’t move. I sit on the cold steps, a statue of a wife, a ghost in my own home. The Rudolph Valentino smile is a distant, mocking memory from another lifetime. The soldier I married is dead and buried.
And in his place stands my husband. The king.
I finally understand. My prison isn’t this house. It’s his love. And there is no escape from that. There is only survival.
If you would like to be tagged for this story, drop a comment and I will get you listed. Also, thank you to those that have already commented and liked the story! I greatly appreciate it and I can't wait to take you all on this adventure ❤️
Rated MA: Be advised that this story will contain storylines depicting sex, underage sexual content, verbal assault, cursing, mentions of cheating, mentions of miscarriages, violence, and murder. Please do not read if these trigger you in any way. This story will feature flashbacks from SOA scenes but is primarily AU. I do not own any characters/scenes created by Kurt Sutter.
Taglist: @getitoutofmymindwrites
Any font in italics will be the past - just for reference.
Jax's POV
Two more mornings and the state spits me out. I keep thinking about the first breath I’ll take that isn’t rationed by cinderblock. I’m gonna drag it deep, let it burn, and then I’m gonna go get what’s mine.
I sit on the edge of the bunk already dressed, boots laced, the cell sweating that sour bleach-and-breath smell. The vent rattles like it’s got a bad conscience. My photo’s in my hand. Chelsea frozen mid-laugh, Emersyn a seashell tucked in the crook of her arm. I’ve rubbed the plastic cloudy where their faces are, like I’ve been trying to polish time. I don’t need the picture to remember. I remember better than it wants me to.
Chelsea knew how to curl around me like we were designed. That doesn’t disappear because I got chained up. She’s fire, but I’m the one who taught her where to burn. She’ll see me. She’ll be mad, sure—twenty kinds of it. She’ll throw the first ten at my head and then she’ll run out of ammo and remember the rest. That I came home every night I could. That I made sure a roof existed and the wolves stayed on the far side of the tree line. That I never flinched. And Emersyn—my girl—she’s twelve now. Twelve’s still soft enough to want a father who shows up, even if he’s late. She’ll be grateful even if she makes me dig for it. I can dig. I’ve done worse for less.
The tier wakes like it always does: metal talking to metal, somebody coughing a lifetime into a sink, keys chattering like nervous teeth. I stand, stretch, feel the knee bark about that jump off the rail three years back. It’ll come around. I do my push-ups, feel the old engine still turn over. That’s the thing about me. I take a hit, I lay there, I get up. Repeat.
Wade’s last letter sits folded on my shelf like a permit. Wyoming stamped across the top like a joke. He writes tidy. We got the room ready. We’ll pick you up. We’ll take the long way, clear your head. We. He’s got that word in his mouth all the time now. I chew on it until it tastes like something I don’t like. He moved them out to the middle of nowhere—sky so big it could swallow a man whole and not burp. Why that far, brother? California’s got a chokehold, I get it, but you don’t have to sprint to another planet. You trying to put my family beyond the horizon line? You trying to build a fence taller than the state could?
I call sometimes when the phones aren’t a war. He picks up fast, voice steady like he’s been practicing sounding like home. It used to be thin; now it’s got weight. There’s noise in the background—I catch a laugh sometimes, quick and high, a bell kind of sound that isn’t twelve. He says it’s the TV, a neighbor kid, the wind. Wyoming wind, like that’s a person who needs an excuse. Once he said, “The girls—” and I heard the edge before he smoothed it to “Em and Chels.” The girls. Just them, right? Just my wife and my daughter in my brother’s mouth, tucked together under his wing like they hatch there.
I’m not stupid. Suspicion’s been pacing in my chest long enough to wear the floor thin. But I know how to wait out a thing. When I walk through that door, I’ll see it—either the space between them has air or it doesn’t. Either way, I expect my seat at the table. If Wade forgot that, he’ll remember quick.
Chow’s a smear of gray eggs and toast that surrendered before the toaster got warm. Griggs tosses me a grape jelly like he’s throwing rice at a groom. “For luck,” he grins. Gold tooth shows up to bless me.
“I make my own,” I say, pocketing it anyway. I don’t turn down anything sweet these days.
“You ready?” he asks, and the yard smell, that cold iron sun, slips in when the door cracks for the line.
“Born ready,” I say, and it’s not even a lie. Ready is a muscle. Mine never quit.
Reentry class, beige carpet, Denise with the kind eyes that never quite meet the parts of you you don’t want to show. “Name what you’re looking forward to,” she says.
“Family,” I say, and it lands heavy but true. “Putting my hands back on my life. Making it look the way it’s supposed to.”
“And what scares you?” she asks.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” It comes out before I think. She waits, because that’s her trick. I sigh, let a corner down. “That they got used to me not being there.” Used to. Not that they’re better without me. Not that. I won’t speak that into existence. “That my brother forgot there’s an order to things.”
“Order?” She tilts her head.
“Yeah. I’m husband. I’m father. He’s uncle.” I hold her gaze so she knows this isn’t up for debate. “Out there, that’s how it’s gonna be.”
“Family can be support,” she says. “Family can also be a trigger.”
Men around me chuckle. Trigger’s not a metaphor where I come from. It’s muscle memory. The word sits in my mouth like a penny. My mother’s face flashes up uninvited—Gemma with the steel eyes and the softer hands, the mix that made me and unmade me. I put a gun to my own blood and pulled. I feel it at night, in my elbow, like the tendon still remembers the recoil. Unser’s there too, stubborn old man, walked in with love and a badge that didn’t mean anything anymore. I put him down like he was a problem and not a man. Jury, others, bodies stacked like bad choices. I wore a crown made of the club and called it duty while I lit matches under everything that mattered. Those ghosts keep me company. They also keep me honest. I won’t pretend I’m clean. I will pretend I know what to do next, because if I don’t, somebody else will pretend for me, and that’s how you lose your name.
Back in my cell, I take the photo out again, slide it under the pillow like a kid with a stolen cigarette. I write because if I don’t, my head will go hunting and kill what’s left. Dear Chelsea, I start, and then I stop, because I can hear how she’ll read it—chin up, mouth tight, eyes scanning for lies. I want to tell her I’m coming to take back my seat, to unhook all the whispers the town hung on her. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to be hard anymore, that I’ll handle the sharp. I want to tell her that whatever she thinks she built out there in the snow, it was a waiting room. That the real thing starts when I walk through the door.
I cross it out. Write something truer and uglier. I’m pissed you never came. They told you California would put you in the ground and you listened, and I get it, but I’m still mad. I sat through twelve winters and ten thousand hours of lights-out imagining you on a cheap motel bed with our baby, jumping at every car door. You could’ve sent a line. You could’ve looked once, even from a distance. I underlined that twice and then scratched it to hell because I can already hear Wade’s voice: You told her to go. And I did. But I didn’t tell her to forget me.
I write to Emersyn and it’s easier until it isn’t. Hey kid. I’m coming. I’m late, but I’m coming like I said I would, just…way slower. You don’t know me yet. That’s on me. You will. That part’s on both of us. I don’t write “Daddy” because a word like that has to be earned in the cold, not warmed up in a cell. I tell her she’s not a debt. She’s an answer I’m finally getting to say out loud.
Lights-out slams everything flat. The radiator ticks like it’s counting with me. The dark here is domesticated; it knows my hands. I stare at the ceiling and map the road like I’m already rolling. Out of California—past the ghosts, past the men who would love to see me crawl—across empty states that let a man think, into Wyoming where the sky doesn’t need permission. I can work with open. Open is honest. You can’t lie about distance when you can see it from an hour out.
I think about rolling up on that house. I can see the door, a color chosen to pretend winter can’t bite. Boots by the mat. I’ll know if they’re mine by the way the laces are tied. I’ll know if I’ve been replaced by the way shoes are lined up—if there’s a pattern that doesn’t have room for me. I picture Chelsea in the kitchen, hair up, neck bare, turning toward the sound of my name out of Wade’s mouth. I picture that like a punch and a promise. I picture Emersyn—maybe tall now, maybe with my eyes that give away too much if you know where to look—standing with her chin tilted like her mother when she’s not sure whether to hug or swing.
And yeah, I’m jealous. Of Wade’s quiet. Of his timing. Of the way he gets to say we like it’s his birthright. He took them to Wyoming. He packed up my family and drove them past state lines until California stopped echoing, and he didn’t ask me. He’ll say he did it to keep them safe. He’ll be right. I’ll still have a problem with it. That’s my name in their mouths, brother. You don’t tow that behind your truck without checking the mirrors and calling it what it is.
But listen—none of that changes this: I’m the gravity in this picture. I always was. I went off orbit; that’s done. I’m back. You don’t argue with gravity; you adjust.
Two more mornings. The gate opens and I walk. I don’t shuffle. I don’t look back. I take that first breath like it owes me twelve years and then I take the next one easier. Wade will be there, shoulders set like he can stop wind. He’ll hug me and I’ll let him. I’ll thank him for keeping what I dropped from breaking. Then I’ll get in his truck and turn the dial until the radio finds something that sounds like the road, and we’ll point the hood toward Wyoming and all that damn sky.
When we pull up, I’m not knocking like a question mark. I’m knocking like a period. I’m here. We can fight after. We can cry after. We can measure the damage and the distance and the ghosts and make a chart if that helps. But I’m walking in. I’m staying on my feet. I’m taking my place, and if anyone forgot where that is, I’ll remind them. Soft if I can. Loud if I have to. Either way, I’m home. Even if home looks like snow and fence posts and a wind that keeps its own counsel. Even if home is a woman with her arms crossed and a girl who isn’t sure. Even if home is my brother acting like a gate. Gates open. That’s the job.
I turn the photo face-down so I don’t wear their faces out more than I already have. “Two days,” I tell the dark. “Then we start over.” The murders, the club, the crown I welded to my head—all of it still sits in my bones, heavy as winter. I’ll carry it right into their kitchen. Not to drop it at their feet and make it their problem. To show them I know what it weighs. And to prove that even with that load, I can still lift what matters.
The air hung thick and heavy, a humid shroud clinging to my leather vest as I pulled up to Wade’s house. A modest, well-kept single-story with a freshly painted porch and a neat, if small, lawn. The kind of place a man settled into when he finally decided to put down roots, away from the constant rumble of the club. My Dyna’s headlights cut through the oppressive darkness, illuminating vibrant petunias by the front door. I killed the engine, the sudden silence amplified by the distant chirping of crickets. The cabin, a macabre tableau of my mother and Unser’s lifeless forms, still clawed at the back of my mind, a fresh wound seeping guilt and a strange, cold relief. But I pushed it down, deep, where it couldn’t choke me. Not yet.
I walked up the three wooden steps, solid and unyielding under my boots. The porch light, a warm, inviting glow, highlighted a small wreath on the door. I knocked, a sharp, confident rap that belied the faint tremor in my hands. I was Jax Teller, and I had a plan. Even if that plan felt like walking a tightrope over a canyon.
The door flew open, revealing Wade, shirtless, his chest a roadmap of old scars and faded tattoos, but his face was softer now, less weathered than I remembered. He’d clearly been asleep, rubbing at his eyes, but his gaze sharpened on me instantly.
“Jax?” he grunted, the question laced with suspicion. “What the hell, man? You know the time?”
I pushed past him, a practiced move that always worked. Never ask permission, just take it. The house smelled clean, of coffee and something flowery, a stark contrast to the usual clubhouse stink. My stomach, despite the gnawing anxiety, felt hollow.
“I need you to watch things for me,” I said, my voice carrying a hint of my usual confident drawl, though the words felt a little flat even to my own ears. My gaze swept over the comfortable living room – a neatly organized bookshelf, a worn recliner, and on a small end table, a framed photograph. It was Chelsea, radiant and tired, holding a tiny, swaddled Emersyn, her eyes wide and curious. A fresh pang, sharper than the last, twisted in my gut. He kept their picture.
Wade closed the door, the click of the latch echoing in the quiet house. “Watch what, exactly? You look like you just wrestled a ghost, but you’re still standing. What’s going on?” He moved closer, his eyes scanning my face, searching. I could feel his concern, a flicker of warmth that annoyed me. I didn’t need concern. I needed compliance.
“The club,” I finally managed, the words a familiar script. “It’s out of control. Everyone’s looking for me. Because of Jury.” I watched his face for a reaction, the carefully constructed omission hanging in the air. I saw the familiar anger start to simmer, a predictable response. Good. Predictable was manageable.
Wade scoffed, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “No shit, Jax. You killed an old man. A founding member. What did you expect?” His voice rose, the anger building. “You think you can just waltz in here, looking like you own the place, and drop that bomb like it’s a Tuesday night? What about Chelsea? Emersyn?” His eyes darted to the photo on the end table.
My jaw tightened, a muscle jumping. “They’re safe. I made sure of it.” The memory of seeing them, just hours ago, tucked away with Wendy, was a small, fragile comfort. But the image of Emersyn’s tiny, sleeping face brought a fresh wave of something akin to panic. I pushed it down. I had to be strong. For them.
“Safe?” Wade’s voice cracked, raw. He stepped into my personal space, chest puffed out, challenging. His eyes, usually so steady, now flashed with a protectiveness that surprised me. “Safe? You brought them into this, Jax! You brought your goddamn family into this mess! Emersyn’s two months old, man! She shouldn’t even know what a goddamn motorcycle looks like, let alone have a target on her back because of her father’s bullshit! And Chelsea… God, Chelsea deserves so much more than this constant fear you put her through!”
His words, sharp and accusatory, hit me like a physical blow, a direct hit to the one raw nerve I still possessed. He wasn’t wrong. God, he wasn’t wrong. The guilt, already a monstrous thing, swelled, threatening to choke me, but I forced a sneer onto my face. I couldn’t show weakness. Not to him. Not to anyone. Especially not when he talked about Chelsea like that.
“Don’t you dare talk about my family, Wade,” I growled, my voice low and dangerous, a familiar threat. “You don’t know what I’ve done to keep them safe.”
“Oh, I think I do!” he roared, face flushed with fury. “I think I see exactly what you’ve done, Jax! You’ve burned everything to the ground! You’ve taken everything good, decent, and set it on fire! And for what? For this goddamn club that’s eaten you alive! That’s eaten all of us alive! And Chelsea… you keep dragging her back into this, over and over! She deserves better! Emersyn deserves better than a father who’s a walking death wish!”
He lunged, a sudden, unexpected blur. His fist connected with my jaw, a sharp, stinging pain that snapped my head back. The metallic taste of blood bloomed in my mouth. My vision swam for a second, the house tilting.
“You think you’re so high and mighty, King Jax?” he spat, eyes blazing. “You’re just a goddamn killer, Jax! Like all of them! And you’re gonna get them killed too!”
My own anger, a cold, simmering rage that had been building for months, finally broke free. The insult to my family, the implication of my failure, the sheer audacity of him lecturing me about Chelsea… it was too much. I shoved him back, hard, sending him stumbling against a sturdy wooden bookshelf filled with actual books. A vase, filled with colorful dried flowers, wobbled precariously, then crashed to the floor, scattering petals and shards of ceramic.
“Don’t you ever lay a hand on me, brother!” I snarled, my voice a guttural growl. My hands balled into fists, knuckles white. The urge to hit him back, to unleash the torrent of pain and frustration tearing me apart, was almost overwhelming. I was Jax Teller. No one hit me and got away with it.
“Brother?!” Wade scoffed, pushing off the bookshelf, his eyes still locked on mine, defiant. “What kind of brother does this, Jax? What kind of brother brings a child into this life? Sacrifices everything for a goddamn patch? You haven’t watched yourself spiral, year after year, deeper into this hell? And now… now you show up here, looking like you’ve seen a ghost, asking me to ‘watch things’?”
His words, laced with genuine pain, cut through the haze of my anger. He was right. He had watched. He’d been there, a constant, if sometimes frustrating, presence. And I was lying to him. Lying to the one person who, despite everything, had always had my back. But the way he talked about Chelsea, the raw emotion in his voice, it twisted something inside me. A possessiveness, a primal protectiveness.
But I couldn’t tell him. Not about Gemma. Not about Unser. Not about the absolute, crushing finality of what I’d done. The weight of it was too heavy to share. It was mine to carry.
“It means,” I said, my voice hoarse, but I kept my chin up, my gaze steady, refusing to break. “That I’m doing what I have to. To protect what’s left.”
Wade let out a bitter laugh, devoid of humor. “Protect what’s left? Jax, there’s nothing left! You’ve destroyed it all! You’ve destroyed us!” He took another step forward, his fists clenched now. “You think you’re protecting them? You’re just digging their grave deeper with every stupid decision!”
That was it. That crossed the line. No one, not even Wade, got to talk about my family like that. I stepped into him, chest to chest, pushing him back.
“Don’t you ever say that again!” I roared, my voice raw with fury. My knuckles throbbed from his punch, but the surge of adrenaline was intoxicating.
Wade stumbled, hitting the wall with a thud, but he didn’t give ground. His eyes burned with a cold, dangerous fire. “You wanna fight, Jax? You wanna fight for what you think you’re protecting? You wanna fight for the mess you made?”
We stood inches apart, chests heaving, glaring at each other across the wreckage of his living room, the broken vase a stark reminder of the fragile peace I’d shattered.
“What did you do, Jax?” he rasped, his voice hoarse, but his eyes were still locked on mine, defiant. “Don’t lie to me. Not about this.” He looked past me, a quick, almost imperceptible glance, to the photo of Chelsea and Emersyn. And I saw it then – the unspoken truth, the silent plea, the desperate love he held for them, a love he couldn’t express, a love I had taken for granted. A love I was now trampling underfoot.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The chirping crickets outside seemed to mock me, their cheerful rhythm a stark contrast to the despair in the room. I looked into his eyes, my brother’s eyes, and saw the reflection of my own brokenness, a fleeting moment of vulnerability I immediately regretted.
I couldn’t. The words were stuck, a jagged shard in my throat. I couldn’t burden him with that. He deserved to be spared this particular horror. He deserved to hate me for what he did know, not for what he didn’t.
“I can’t,” I finally choked out, the words barely audible, but my expression remained hard, unyielding. “Just… watch out for them, Wade. Please. If anything happens to me…”
“If anything happens to you?” Wade interrupted, his voice rising again, a fresh wave of fury washing over him. “What did you do, Jax? What did you really do?”
He grabbed my shoulders, his grip surprisingly strong, shaking me. “Look at me, Jax! You’re my brother! Whatever it is, tell me! Don’t you dare walk out of here with this hanging over your head, and mine!”
I met his gaze, my own eyes probably as wild and haunted as I felt, but I forced myself to project defiance. I saw the fear in his, the genuine terror for me, for my family, for the crumbling world we inhabited. And a flicker of something else – a deep, abiding disappointment.
“I can’t,” I repeated, the words a desperate plea, but my tone was firm, final. “Just… trust me, Wade. Just this once. Trust that I’m doing what I have to do.”
He slowly released me, his hands falling to his sides. The anger in his eyes was replaced by a cold, resigned sadness that cut me deeper than any punch.
“You always do what you have to do, don’t you, Jax?” he said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. “And look where it’s gotten us.” He gestured around the clean, well-ordered house, now a mess of scattered books and broken pottery, a silent indictment of our shared history, our shared mistakes. “And don’t think for a second I’m stepping into that club. Not for you, not for Dad, not for anyone. I watched Clay turn it into a cesspool, and I watched Gemma crown you king, the prince finally getting his throne. I saw what it did to both of them, and what it’s doing to you. So no, I’m not watching that. I’m watching Chelsea and Emersyn. And you better pray to God that’s enough, because if you think I’m letting them get dragged down, you’ve got another thing coming.” His voice, though quiet, held an iron resolve. “Just… don’t come crying to me when it all blows up in your face. Don’t come crying to me when you realize what you’ve lost.”
He turned away, walking to the large window overlooking his backyard, staring out into the darkness. His shoulders were hunched, a sudden weariness in his posture.
I knew then that I had lost him. Not just for this night, but perhaps forever. The chasm between us, born of my secrets and his righteous anger, felt vast and unbridgeable. I felt a pang, a sharp twist in my gut, but I pushed it down. There was no room for sentiment now.
I stood there for a moment, the silence amplifying the thumping of my own heart. The air was still thick, still heavy, but now it was also tinged with the bitter taste of regret. I had come seeking a kind of absolution, a silent understanding, and instead, I had only widened the divide.
I turned and walked out, leaving Wade alone in the quiet, well-kept house, the unspoken words hanging between us like a death sentence. The engine of my Dyna roared to life, a savage sound that drowned out the crickets, and I rode off into the night, leaving behind another piece of myself, another brother broken by the choices I’d made. The road ahead was dark, and I knew, with a chilling certainty, that I was traveling it alone. But I still had to keep my head up. I still had to be Jax Teller.
Summary: In which Riley Owens, the ex-wife of the infamous Tornado Wrangler, has 36 hours to come to terms if moving to a whole new country with their small daughter is something she truly wants to do.
Warnings: Cursing, angst, suggested smut, fluff. ✶ Chapter One ✶ ✶ Chapter Two ✶ ✶ Chapter Three ✶ Chapter Four ✶
■ A/N: You guys are amazing! I just want to say thank you so much for loving this story and following the tale of Riley and Tyler ❤️ ■ Taglist is available - just drop a comment! Would love to hear your thoughts, questions, or maybe just drop by to say hello! Can't wait to hear from y'all
A/N: I am so sorry for the delay! I hope you guys like the new update -i've literally been writing different parts so I hope they gel well together!
The highway stretched ahead in a ribbon of fading light, the sky bruised with the last streaks of sunset. Tyler’s red truck was a constant in my windshield — the taillights glowing like embers, the silhouette of his cab etched against the horizon. Every time he shifted lanes, I matched him. Every time he slowed, I slowed. I told myself it was because Caroline was in that truck earlier, because I needed to keep him in sight. But deep down, I knew it was more complicated than that.
The hum of my tires was steady, hypnotic, until my phone lit up in the cup holder.
Tyler Owens — Incoming Call.
And there it was — that photo.
He was leaning against the hood of his truck, arms crossed, the late summer sun turning his skin gold. The brim of his worn navy ball cap cast just enough shadow to make his eyes look darker, but not enough to hide the way they crinkled when he smiled. A beer bottle dangled from one hand, his other thumb hooked in his belt loop like he had all the time in the world. I’d taken it years ago, on a lazy Sunday when the air smelled like cut grass and the world between us still felt easy.
It had been my favorite picture of him — so much so that I’d never changed it, even after the divorce, even after the fights. I’d told myself it was because I didn’t care enough to bother, but the truth was uglier: I couldn’t bring myself to erase it.
My stomach tightened. I let it ring twice before swiping to answer.
“What?” My voice was clipped, sharp enough to cut.
“I see you back there,” he said, his tone low and deliberate. “There’s a diner just outside the next town. Caroline’s probably hungry. Thought we could stop.”
I kept my eyes locked on the back of his truck. “We’re fine.”
“Didn’t ask if you were fine,” he replied, and I could hear the faint curl of a smirk in his tone. “I said Caroline’s probably hungry. Neutral ground. Just food.”
I scoffed. “There’s no such thing with you.”
“You’re still mad,” he said, not as a question but a fact.
“Mad doesn’t even cover it.”
“Then maybe you should come tell me all about it over coffee,” he drawled. “Get it out of your system.”
Through the windshield, I saw his arm shift — resting on the open window frame, fingers drumming lazily against the door. That casual posture, the way he tilted his head just enough to glance in his side mirror — it was infuriating.
“Not happening,” I said flatly.
“Riley…” His voice softened, and damn it, that was worse. “She’s gonna want to see both of us sitting at the same table, not glaring at each other from separate vehicles. Just one meal. For her.”
“You don’t get to play the ‘for her’ card after today,” I snapped.
Silence. Then, quieter: “You think I don’t know I screwed up?”
I didn’t answer.
“Look,” he continued, “you can keep hating me for the rest of the drive if you want. But she’s hungry. And I’m not letting you drive past the only decent food for fifty miles just because you can’t stand to look at me.”
The worst part was, I could stand to look at him — that was the problem. Even furious, my body remembered things my mind wanted to forget: the way his eyes darkened when they locked on mine, the way his voice dipped when he was trying to get under my skin, the way his mouth curved when he was winning an argument.
“Fine,” I muttered. “But I’m not doing this for you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice…
The neon glow of Maggie’s Diner cut through the dark like a beacon, its flicker casting red light across the gravel lot. Tyler’s truck was already there, parked at an angle near the entrance, the hood still ticking from the drive. He was leaning against the driver’s side door, arms folded, one boot crossed over the other like he had all the time in the world.
Even from a distance, I could see the way his eyes tracked my car — steady, unblinking — as I pulled in. The lot was quiet except for the crunch of my tires over loose stone. Caroline stirred in the back seat, her voice soft and sleepy.
“Are we here?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“Yeah, baby,” I said, forcing calm into my voice.
Tyler pushed off the truck as I parked, his stride slow but purposeful. He didn’t rush, didn’t wave — just moved with that infuriating confidence that made it seem like he’d been expecting me all along.
By the time I stepped out, he was already at the rear passenger door. Without asking, he opened it and crouched down, his voice warm for Caroline. “Hey, sugar pie. You ready to eat?”
She lit up instantly, the fatigue gone from her face. “Yeah!”
I stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching as he unbuckled her seatbelt with practiced ease. His hands were gentle, his movements careful, and for a moment, I hated how natural it looked — how easy it was for him to slide into this role.
He lifted her out, settling her on his hip like she was still small enough to carry. Caroline wrapped her arms around his neck, giggling when he pretended to stumble under her weight.
“You’re getting too big for this,” he teased, adjusting her so she was balanced against him.
“No, I’m not,” she said, grinning.
His eyes flicked to mine over her shoulder — a brief, loaded glance that said more than either of us was willing to voice. There was no smirk this time, no overt challenge, just a quiet acknowledgment of the storm still hanging between us.
“Let’s get inside,” he said, shifting Caroline slightly before heading toward the diner door. He didn’t wait to see if I followed, but I did — because Caroline was already halfway there in his arms, and I wasn’t about to let either of them out of my sight.
The bell over the door jingled as we stepped inside, the warm air thick with the smell of grease and coffee. The place was nearly empty — a couple of truckers at the counter, an older couple sharing pie in the corner. The neon sign outside flickered against the glass, painting the linoleum floor in pulses of red.
Tyler didn’t hesitate. He slid into a booth by the window like he owned it, stretching out with that infuriating ease. Caroline scrambled in beside him, her ponytail bouncing, already reaching for the sticky laminated menu.
I lingered a second too long before sliding into the seat across from him.
“Don’t hover, Riley,” he said, smirking. “You’re making the waitress nervous.”
“I’m making you nervous,” I shot back, folding my arms.
His eyes lifted, slow and deliberate. “Not even close.”
Caroline kicked her legs under the table, oblivious to the storm brewing between us. “Can I have pancakes? With chocolate chips? Please?”
I shook my head immediately. “No. You’ve had sugar all day.”
Her face fell, lips pushing into a pout. “But Daddy—”
Tyler leaned toward her, his grin softening. “I didn’t say anything yet, sugar pie. But if you ask me, pancakes are good at any hour. Chocolate chips too. What do you think, huh? Just this once?”
I cut him off, sharp. “Don’t. Don’t make me the bad guy while you swoop in as the fun one.”
His eyes flicked to mine, steady, challenging. “I’m not swooping. I’m trying to give her something to smile about. She’s here to see me, isn’t she?”
My jaw tightened. “She’s here because I drove her here. Don’t twist it.”
Caroline’s eyes darted between us, wide and uncertain. “Can I at least have regular pancakes?” she asked, testing the air.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Plain pancakes. That’s it.”
Tyler leaned back, smirk tugging at his mouth. “You always did like being the warden.”
“And you always liked pretending rules don’t matter,” I shot back.
The waitress appeared, pen poised. Tyler ordered coffee and a burger without looking at the menu. Caroline asked for plain pancakes, her voice subdued. I asked for tea, though I knew I wouldn’t drink it.
When the waitress left, Tyler leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His voice dropped, smooth as honey. “Storm’s rolling in tonight. You and Caroline should stay at the motel. Just down the road.”
I shook my head. “We’re fine.”
“You’re tired,” he countered. “She’s tired. And it’s the same motel we used to—”
“Don’t,” I cut in sharply.
But he only smirked, eyes glinting. “—christen every time the weather turned. Remember that one night? Thunder shaking the walls, rain so heavy we couldn’t see the parking lot? You swore you’d never forget it.”
Heat crawled up my neck, anger and something else I refused to name. “That was a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” he said, maddeningly calm. “Same room’s probably still there. Same creaky headboard. Same ugly curtains.”
Before I could snap back, Caroline tilted her head, frowning. “What’s christen mean?”
The word hung there, innocent and sharp as a pin.
I stiffened. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
Tyler’s grin widened, wicked. “It means… breaking something in. Like when you get a new toy and you play with it first thing.”
“Tyler,” I hissed, my voice low and warning.
Caroline blinked, chewing on the explanation. “So… you broke the motel?”
Tyler chuckled, leaning back in the booth. “Something like that, sugar pie.”
I shot him a glare that could have cut glass. “That’s enough.”
Caroline, satisfied for a moment, turned back to her menu — but then her eyes lit up again. “Daddy, will Dexter and Boone be at the motel? I wanna see them.”
Tyler softened, brushing a hand over her hair. “Yeah, they’ll be around. You’ll see them tomorrow.”
I cleared my throat. “Caroline, we have to head out early in the morning. You might not see them this time.”
Her little face crumpled instantly. “Nooo!” she wailed, dragging out the word. “I wanna see them! I wanna stay with Daddy!” Her voice cracked, and tears welled up fast, spilling down her cheeks. She buried her face against Tyler’s arm, sobbing.
The sound made my stomach twist. “Caroline—” I started, reaching across the table, but she turned away from me, clinging tighter to him.
Tyler’s jaw tightened, his easy grin gone. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, his voice low and soothing. “Hey, hey, sugar pie. Don’t cry. Daddy’s right here. We’ll figure it out.” He shot me a look over her head, sharp enough to cut. “What’s the rush, Riley?”
“It’s just the plan,” I said evenly, though my pulse spiked. “We’ve got a flight to catch.”
His eyes narrowed. “A flight? Since when? You didn’t say anything about that.”
Caroline hiccupped through her tears, her voice muffled against his shirt. “I don’t wanna go on a plane. I wanna stay.”
Tyler’s voice hardened, though he kept it soft for her. “You hear that? She wants to be here. With me. And you’re already talking about dragging her off again?”
I reached for Caroline’s hand, but she pulled it back, still crying into his chest. My throat tightened. “Sweetheart, we’ll talk about it later, okay?.”
Tyler leaned in, eyes narrowing. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I met his gaze, refusing to flinch. “Nothing that concerns you.”
Caroline sniffled, still pressed against Tyler, her small shoulders shaking. He rubbed her back in slow circles, murmuring soft reassurances meant for her but aimed at me.
“You see what this does to her?” His voice was low, controlled, but the edge was sharp. “She’s been counting down the days to this, Riley. And now you’re telling her she won’t even get to see the people she loves?”
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “Don’t put this all on me. Plans change. Life doesn’t revolve around your schedule.”
Caroline lifted her tear‑streaked face, eyes red and wet. “Please, Mommy. Can’t we stay? Just one more day? I don’t wanna go on the plane. I don’t wanna.” Her voice cracked, and she buried herself back into Tyler’s chest.
My hands curled into fists under the table. “Caroline, we don’t always get what we want. You know that.”
Tyler shot me a look that could have cut glass. “She’s six. She doesn’t need a lecture, she needs her parents to stop yanking her around.”
I bristled. “Don’t you dare talk to me about yanking her around. I’m the one who’s been here. Every day. Every night. You don’t get to swoop in for a weekend and act like you know what’s best.”
His jaw clenched, but he kept his voice calm for Caroline’s sake. “What’s best is that she feels wanted. That she knows she matters. And right now, all she hears is that you can’t wait to leave.”
Caroline hiccupped, her little voice muffled against him. “I wanna stay with Daddy.”
The words hit me harder than I expected, sharp and unfiltered. I looked away, blinking fast, my chest tight.
The waitress returned with plates, sliding them onto the table with a forced smile, clearly sensing the tension. Caroline’s pancakes sat untouched in front of her, syrup glistening under the fluorescent lights. She didn’t even look at them.
Tyler kissed the top of her head, his eyes never leaving mine. “She’s not the only one who deserves the truth, Riley.”
I forced my hands to steady as I picked up my tea, though it sloshed against the rim. “Eat, Caroline,” I said softly, though my voice cracked.
Caroline shook her head, pressing her face harder into Tyler’s shirt.
Tyler’s hand stilled on her back. “You see that? She’s not hungry. She’s upset. And you still won’t tell me what’s going on.”
I met his gaze, my pulse hammering. “Because it’s not your decision.”
His eyes narrowed, suspicion burning there. “If it affects her, it damn well is.”
For a moment, the only sounds were the clink of silverware from the other tables and Caroline’s uneven breaths. My secret pressed against my ribs like a weight I couldn’t carry much longer. England. The move. The goodbye I hadn’t prepared him for.
And still, I stayed silent…
The waitress hovered near the counter, pretending not to watch. She refilled a mug that didn’t need it, wiped at a spotless patch of Formica, her eyes flicking toward us in quick, guilty glances. The plates sat untouched, syrup congealing into a glossy amber crust, the pancakes sagging under their own weight. The coffee in our cups had long since lost its steam, a thin film gathering on the surface.
No one spoke. The hum of the neon outside bled through the window, a low buzz that seemed to crawl under my skin. Caroline stayed tucked against Tyler, her face hidden. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, just kept his eyes locked on me across the table.
The silence stretched until it felt unbearable. My hands itched for something to do, but there was nothing left — no food to pick at, no words that wouldn’t make it worse. The air was thick with everything unsaid, pressing down until I could hardly breathe.
Finally, I reached for my bag, the scrape of leather against vinyl loud in the quiet. My fingers shook as I pulled out a few bills and set them on the check.
I slid out of the booth, forcing my voice steady though it came out flat, final. “We’re done here.”
I leaned across the table, reaching for Caroline. “Come on, sweetheart—”
Tyler shifted back, tightening his hold before I could touch her. His voice was low, edged. “Not tonight.”
The refusal hit like a slap. Heat flared in my chest, anger rising sharp and fast. “She’s my daughter, Tyler. Hand her to me.”
His jaw flexed, eyes narrowing. “She’s my daughter too.”
The words landed heavy, cutting through the stale air between us. Caroline stirred faintly against him, too worn out to lift her head.
I was already on my feet, my hand half‑extended toward her. “Tyler, give her to me.”
He rose smoothly, keeping Caroline close, his body angled just enough to block me. “Not tonight.”
The refusal burned. Heat flared in my chest, anger rising sharp and fast. “Don’t you dare walk out with her like this.”
But he didn’t answer. He shifted Caroline higher in his arms and strode past me, leaving me standing there with the sting of quick, guilty glances from the counter. The waitress froze mid‑pour, a man’s eyes flicked up from his plate — no one lingered, but I felt it all the same. My face burned as I followed him out.
The night air hit me like a slap. Tyler was already halfway across the lot, his stride steady, Caroline limp against his shoulder. I quickened my pace, my pulse hammering.
When I saw him open the passenger door of his truck, something inside me snapped. He bent, careful as he set her down on the seat, tucking her in like she belonged there, like she was his to take.
“Are you out of your mind?” My voice cracked, sharp enough to echo off the empty lot. “You don’t get to just put her in your truck and drive off like she’s yours alone!”
The sight of her small form against the worn upholstery made my vision blur with rage. My hands shook, fists clenching at my sides. Every nerve in me screamed to rip the door open, to pull her back into my arms.
Tyler’s hand clamped around my wrist before I could reach Caroline. He yanked me back so hard my spine slammed into the truck door, the cold metal biting through my shirt.
“You don’t get to swoop in now,” I spat, my voice shaking with rage. “I’m the one who’s raised her. Every fever, every nightmare, every scraped knee — me. You weren’t there.”
His eyes flared, his jaw tightening like I’d just struck him. “You think I disappeared?” His voice was a snarl, ragged. “You’re the one who jetted off, Riley. You built a whole new life without me. Don’t stand here and act like I was the only one who left.”
The words hit like a slap. My chest heaved, fury and shame tangling until I could hardly breathe. “I had to!” I shouted, my throat raw. “I had to move forward because you weren’t here. Because you made it impossible to stay.”
His grip on me tightened, his face inches from mine. “No. You chose to cut me out. You chose to run. And I’m done letting you run.”
Caroline whimpered faintly from the seat, the sound slicing through the shouting. For a heartbeat, we both froze, our ragged breathing filling the night.
Then Tyler moved.
In one swift motion, he wrenched the truck door wider and shoved me toward it. My shoulder clipped the frame as he forced me inside, his voice a low growl in my ear. “You’re coming with us. You don’t get to stand out here and pretend you’re in control anymore.”
I stumbled into the seat beside Caroline, my pulse hammering, my hands shaking. Before I could scramble back out, the door slammed shut, the sound reverberating through the cab.
Through the glass, I saw him stalk across the lot to my car. He yanked the back door open, grabbed the luggage I’d packed, and hauled it out like it weighed nothing. The slam of my trunk echoed like a gunshot.
He tossed the bags into the bed of his truck, his movements sharp, furious. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack.
When he came back around to the driver’s side, his eyes cut to mine through the window — dark, blazing, unrelenting.
“You wanted to run?” he said, his voice low but carrying. “Not tonight. Not anymore.”
He climbed in, the cab filling with his presence, the air thick with gasoline, sweat, and fury. My chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, Caroline’s soft breathing the only fragile sound between us.
I pressed back against the seat, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. For the first time all night, I realized he wasn’t bluffing. Tyler wasn’t just angry. He was done...
The truck crunched to a stop in the motel lot, headlights sweeping across cracked asphalt and a flickering neon sign that buzzed like a dying fly. Tyler killed the engine, and the silence that followed was suffocating.
He didn’t say a word. Not when he shoved his door open, not when he lifted Caroline carefully against his chest, not when he yanked my bag from the backseat. His silence was a wall, and it made my skin crawl. I wanted him to snap, to shout, to do something — anything but this.
I slid out, my legs stiff, my chest tight. Boone, Lilly, Dexter, and Dani were waiting near the office, clustered under the buzzing light. Their conversation died the second they saw us.
Boone’s smile faltered. “Well… you two look cozy.”
I shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t start.”
Dexter muttered, “Yikes. Tension so thick you could butter it.” Dani smacked his arm, but her eyes stayed on me, wide and worried.
Lilly tried for diplomacy, her voice too bright. “Long drive?”
I forced a brittle smile. “Something like that.”
Tyler brushed past without answering, Caroline’s hair spilling over his shoulder. The others exchanged looks like they were watching a bomb tick down.
Boone cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “So, uh… before we get the keys, there’s a little… situation.”
My stomach dropped. “What kind of situation?”
He winced. “There weren’t enough rooms. We had to double up.”
I blinked at him. “Double up?”
Lilly jumped in, words tumbling out. “It’s just for tonight! The place is booked solid, and we didn’t want to—”
Boone cut her off, grimacing. “You and Tyler are sharing.”
The words hit like a slap. My chest seized, heat rushing to my face. “Absolutely not.”
I spun toward Boone. “He can bunk with you.”
Boone’s eyes went wide. “Nope. Not happening. I already got stuck with Dexter, and he talks in his sleep. Whole conversations. Last time he asked me if I believed in alien lizards running the government.”
Dexter grinned. “Still a valid question.”
I turned to Lilly, desperate. “Fine. He can stay with you.”
Lilly’s hands shot up. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. I need my eight hours or I turn homicidal. And Tyler—” she gestured vaguely at him, “—he’s like a human earthquake. No thanks.”
I whirled on Dani. “What about you?”
Dani shook her head so fast her ponytail whipped. “Nope. Not a chance. He hogs the covers. And he kicks. I’ve seen it.”
I blinked. “You’ve seen it?”
Dexter snorted. “We all have. Guy passed out on the couch once and nearly broke the coffee table with his thrashing.”
Boone muttered, “Still not over that.”
I threw my hands up. “So what, you’re all just fine throwing me to the wolves?”
And finally, Tyler spoke. His voice was low, smooth, and infuriatingly calm. “Wolves? That’s harsh. I was thinking more… bedmate.”
My head snapped toward him, heat flooding my cheeks. “Excuse me?”
He smirked, shifting Caroline against his shoulder like he hadn’t just lit me on fire in front of everyone. “Relax, Riley. I’ll stay on my side of the bed. Unless you ask otherwise.”
Boone choked on a laugh and quickly turned it into a cough. Lilly’s eyes went wide as saucers. Dani muttered, “Oh my god,” under her breath, while Dexter grinned like he’d just been handed front‑row tickets to the circus.
I jabbed a finger at him, my voice low but sharp. “You’re not sleeping anywhere near me. Floor. Bathtub. Hell, sleep in the truck for all I care. But you are not getting in that bed.”
Tyler’s grin widened, slow and infuriating. “Floor, huh? You sure you can resist me if I’m that close?”
“Try me,” I snapped.
Dexter let out a low whistle. “This is better than cable.”
“Dex,” Lilly hissed, smacking his arm.
Boone dragged a hand down his face. “This is exactly why we didn’t want to tell you two.”
I folded my arms, glaring at Tyler. “You so much as breathe in my direction tonight, and I swear—”
He leaned in just enough for only me to hear, his voice pitched low, smooth as sin. “Careful, Riley. You sound like you’re daring me.”
I didn’t wait for anyone to say another word. Heat burned in my chest as I spun on my heel and stalked across the lot toward the office, gravel crunching under my boots. Behind me, I could hear them — Boone muttering something low to Lilly, Dexter’s laugh cutting through the night like he’d just tuned into his favorite sitcom, Dani hissing at him to shut up before he made it worse. Their voices blurred together, a chorus of whispers and snickers that only made my stride sharper, my fists tighter.
Let them laugh. Let them whisper. I was not spending the night trapped in a room with Tyler.
The neon vacancy sign buzzed overhead like it was mocking me as I yanked the office door open and stepped inside.
The place smelled like stale coffee and lemon cleaner. A man in his fifties sat behind the counter, glasses perched low on his nose as he worked a crossword. He looked up, his expression bored but polite.
“Evenin’,” he said.
I leaned forward, palms flat on the counter, forcing a smile that felt brittle. “Evening. I need another room. Anything you’ve got. Doesn’t matter if it’s a closet or a cot in the laundry room. Just… not the one you’ve given us.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am. We’re full up. Big fishing tournament in town. Every room’s booked.”
I slid a twenty across the counter. “What about now?”
He barely glanced at it. “Still full.”
I was about to push harder when the door creaked open behind me. My stomach sank.
Tyler’s voice came smooth and warm, dripping with mischief. “She’s just nervous.”
I spun on him, heat flooding my face. “Tyler—”
He strolled up beside me, leaning an elbow on the counter like he owned the place. “Don’t mind her. She’s shy. It’s her first time, you know.”
The clerk blinked, confused. “First time?”
Tyler nodded solemnly, then let a grin spread across his face. “Yep. She’s a virgin. Our wedding night. She’s just trying to wriggle out of it.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you insane?” I shoved at his chest, my face burning. “If I were a virgin, it’d be because the universe was protecting me from you.”
Tyler chuckled, unbothered, and leaned closer to the clerk like they were old drinking buddies. “See what I mean? She’s fiery. Pretends she doesn’t want me, but she’s been saving herself for this night.”
“Saving myself?” I snapped, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. “The only thing I’ve been saving is my sanity by staying as far away from you as possible.”
The clerk’s eyebrows shot up, but Tyler just laughed, sliding an arm around my shoulders before I could dodge. “She talks tough, but trust me, she melts the second I touch her.”
I shoved him harder, nearly knocking him off balance. “The only thing melting is my patience.”
Tyler smirked, lowering his voice like he was confiding in the man. “She’s always like this. Gets all worked up, blushes, swears she hates me. But you know what they say—hate’s just another kind of passion.”
The clerk chuckled awkwardly, clearly entertained. “Well, congratulations to you both. Big step.”
“Big mistake,” I shot back, glaring at Tyler.
He winked at the clerk. “She’ll thank me in the morning.”
I nearly choked. “The only thing I’ll be thanking you for is if you choke on your own ego in your sleep.”
The clerk shook his head, still smiling. “Sorry, folks. Wish I could help, but you’ll just have to make do. And hey — nothing like a little forced closeness to bring a couple together.”
Tyler clapped the counter like he’d just won something. “Exactly! Finally, someone who gets it.”
I yanked free of his arm, my voice sharp and shaking. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”
Tyler leaned down, his breath warm against my ear, smugness dripping from every word. “Sure, Riley. But we both know you’ll be staring at me all night, wishing I wasn’t.”
I spun on him, fists clenched, my whole-body trembling with fury. “You are insufferable.”
He only smiled, slow and wicked. “And you love it.”
If you would like to be tagged for this story, drop a comment and I will get you listed. Also, thank you to those that have already commented and liked the story! I greatly appreciate it and I can't wait to take you all on this adventure ❤️
Rated MA: Be advised that this story will contain storylines depicting sex, underage sexual content, verbal assault, cursing, mentions of cheating, mentions of miscarriages, violence, and murder. Please do not read if these trigger you in any way. This story will feature flashbacks from SOA scenes but is primarily AU. I do not own any characters/scenes created by Kurt Sutter.
Any font in italics will be the past - just for reference.
“So your father was telling me the football team is actually good this year,” Mom says, voice bright enough to bleach the tablecloth. Her fork hovers over her salad like it’s waiting for permission to land. “Are you going to try out for cheer?”
The peas on my plate line up like tiny green soldiers I’m trying to command with my mind. Maybe if I stare hard enough, I’ll slip through the floor. “I don’t know. Maybe.” My voice is dead-flat, a cardboard cutout of a response. “Not really my scene.”
They exchange that look—the parental telepathy that says we agreed on this. Shut up and smile. Mom leans in like she smells blood in the water. “You need to get out of the library sometime. Socialize with people who aren’t fictional. It would be good for your… presentation.”
“My what?” I ask, even though I know. My everything.
“College,” she says, like the word itself should make me sit up straighter. “Leadership. School spirit. You’ve already got the grades. You need dimension.”
“If I needed dimension,” I mutter, “I’d take geometry twice.”
Dad sets down his knife with a deliberate click. “Don’t be smart.”
“I thought being smart was the whole point,” I say. “Silly me.”
Mom lifts her napkin, patting her mouth like I’m a stain she can dab away. “You’re not hearing us. Cheer is a team. Teams build character. Connections. The coach is very connected.”
The peas stop listening to me, traitors, and start cooling into little green bullets. “I don’t want to scream on cue so a bunch of strangers can feel something about a ball moving in a straight line.”
“I’m not raw dough,” I snap. “I don’t need to be kneaded into a shape that looks pretty on a Friday night.”
“Watch your tone,” he says. “And enough with the dramatics. You sit in your room and read like it’s a personality. That’s not sustainable.”
His words hit me in the sternum, dull and heavy. Reading like it’s a personality. I grip my fork to keep my hands from shaking. “Cool. So what is a personality? Pom-poms?”
Mom’s voice goes soft, dangerous. “There’s a winter formal. In two weeks. Tyler Pruitt told me he doesn’t have a date yet. I saw him at the Dairy Bar, remember? He asked about you.”
“No, he asked if I was your daughter because you were blocking the straws,” I say. “And Tyler Pruitt couldn’t find a date with a GPS.”
“Enough,” Dad says, sharp. “The kid’s a star. He’s got offers. He’ll go places.”
“He’ll go places because other people will drive him there,” I fire back. “You hear yourself? ‘No reason to use his brain for anything other than football’—are you kidding me? You want me to glue myself to that?”
His eyes harden. “He’s focused. That’s what success looks like.”
“Success looks like never thinking again? Bold strategy.”
Mom’s smile is porcelain. “We’re not going to let you sabotage your future because you’re feeling contrary this week.”
I laugh, and it sounds like glass in my throat. “Contrary. Right. That’s me. I woke up and decided to rebel by… not jumping.”
Her composure cracks a hairline. “We already spoke to Coach Daniels,” she says, and there it is, the ambush. “Tryouts are Saturday. She said you’d be welcome.”
My fork hits the plate, a tiny, traitorous clang. “You what?”
“We set you up for options,” Dad says. “We’re not going to watch you self-isolate into oblivion. You’re not making smart choices, so we’re helping.”
“You talked to my school about my body and my time without telling me.” I can feel my face heating, my pulse thudding in my ears. “Do I get to sign off on anything in my own life or should I just send you my schedule and you can initial it in red pen?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Mom says. “We’re your parents. It’s our job to guide you.”
“Guide me into a pleated skirt?”
“If it gets you into a good college,” she says. “Yes.”
Dad leans back, steepling his fingers like he’s delivering a verdict. “You have to meet us halfway. Try it for a season. If you hate it, we’ll reassess.”
“I hate it now,” I say. “I hate that you think there’s a version of me you’d prefer and it’s louder and shinier and dumber.”
“Chelsea,” Mom warns, voice cool as the fridge light. “That’s cruel.”
“What’s cruel is you wanting a different daughter,” I say, and the room goes very quiet except for the tick-tick-tick of the clock. “One who smiles for photos and says ‘Go team’ and doesn’t make you think about anything you don’t want to.”
Dad’s face shutters. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know enough,” I say. “I know you miss being the guy in the photos with the jacket and the cheers and the easy story. I know Mom wants a Christmas card that looks like a college brochure. I know you both want me visible, but not seen.”
Mom inhales like a gasp is going to fix it. “You are being unbelievably selfish.”
“Me? You’re bartering me like a raffle prize to a boy who can’t spell Dairy Bar.”
“Stop insulting him,” Dad snaps. “You don’t know him.”
“I know enough,” I echo, “and I don’t want to be his accessory.”
Mom’s voice shifts into that brittle, administrative tone she uses with telemarketers. “If you won’t listen, then we’ll make this simple. If you don’t go to tryouts, we’re limiting your extracurriculars. No debate. No late nights at the library. Curfew at nine. And we’ll revisit the phone.”
My laugh dies in my mouth. “Wow. Conditional love with fine print.”
“Conditional privileges,” Dad corrects. “Love is not the question.”
“It is,” I say quietly, because it is. “It always is.”
He pushes his plate away, metal scraping ceramic. “You’re not the only person in this house. We make sacrifices. We do things we don’t feel like doing for family.”
“I am not a chore,” I say. “I’m not a box you check so you can feel like good parents who raised a spirited, social, scholarship-winning girl. I am allowed to be a person you don’t understand.”
Mom stands, smoothing her napkin, the way you smooth a bed before you put someone in it. “Saturday. Ten a.m. Wear something appropriate. We will be there.”
“Then you can try out,” I say, pushing my chair back so it scrapes the floor. “You can stand on the sideline and smile until your face aches and pretend it’s joy.”
Dad’s voice is low, final. “You’ll be there.”
I meet his eyes and for once don’t look away. “Maybe the problem isn’t that I won’t cheer,” I say. “Maybe the problem is you won’t listen.”
My dad simply shakes his head, deciding to furlong the conversation. With an annoyed huff, I excuse myself from the table, practically stomping up the stairs to my room. In my mind, I slammed the door shut, letting out an animalistic growl, but in reality the lock simply clicked and my body fell onto the bed. My whole entire life had been micromanaged by my parents, my mom especially. Growing up, I was exactly what they had hoped for – my mom had me in pageants – out on the ballet stage – up front of the children’s choir in the local church. It wasn’t until I was around 13 when I started pushing back little by little. I quit the pageant scene and of course stopped the fucking dance. My passion was no longer about their wants or needs – I wanted to be my own person – I wanted to be my own version of Chelsea. It’s kind of hard to do that when you’re 16 years old...
The phone lights the ceiling before it lights my face. JAX, bright and shameless.
“Yeah?” I whisper, even though no one’s listening.
“Come out,” he says. No hello. No please. The roar of a bike idling leaks down the line like a heartbeat. “Next block.”
“You at my house?”
“I’m at your whim,” he says, amused. “Hurry up.”
I slip past the family photos, the ones where my parents look like glossy versions of themselves. If they knew where I was going, who waited for me, they’d salt the earth. Tellers are a four-letter word in this house; SAMCRO is the slur they won’t say around company. They think leather is a diagnosis. They think I don’t know better. Maybe I don’t.
Outside, the neighborhood is all sprinklers and moths. My pulse tries to outrun me to the corner.
He’s leaned against the Dyna under the dead streetlamp, and for a second I forget my own name. The kutte hangs open over a thin white tee, the leather broken in like a second skin. Vice President is a fresh patch over his heart, black thread still tight, and it changes his posture in ways he pretends it doesn’t. His hair is sun-bleached at the ends, pushed back and failing at it. There’s road dust on his trainers, a smear of oil on his forearm, rings glinting on blunt fingers. His mouth is a line that knows exactly when to curve. When he looks up, it’s the full weight of him: lazy, assessing, like he called and expected the night to send exactly this.
“There she is,” he says, like he’s been waiting forever and like nothing could be easier. His gaze runs over me—jacket, jeans, bare throat—and leaves a warmth behind it. “You wearing my hoodie?”
“It’s mine,” I say. It’s not. He gave it to me and then took it back with a look. I tug the sleeves anyway.
He grins. “Looks better on you.”
I don’t ask for a helmet. He doesn’t offer one. I slide on behind him and he reaches back blind, palm skimming down my thigh to find my knee, dragging it closer so I’m flush. The bike vibrates through muscle and bone. When he pulls away from the curb, I fold into him on instinct, cheek to the space between his shoulders, breath full of gasoline and soap. There’s a ringing in my chest that feels like the opposite of fear.
The clubhouse is a square of light and noise stuck to the edge of town. Bikes line the curb—chrome, matte black, some with skull caps on the bars like jokes with teeth. Music leaks from the open door; laughter spikes and then breaks. The neon sign blinks like it’s tired of the job.
Jax kills the engine and the night exhales. He swings off in one clean line and turns to me, hands up for me to balance against. I don’t need the help. I take it anyway. He plants a hand low at the back of my jacket, fingers curving in, heat passing through to skin.
“First time,” he says quietly, like telling me a secret and a warning.
“I know.” I know because Wade never brought me here. Wade’s a Teller too, just younger, with the last name he tries to hide behind stadium lights and homework he doesn’t understand. He’s been my friend since we were barefoot on sprinklers, all knees and grass. He never asked for this. He never wanted me anywhere near it.
Inside, the air is thick—beer, old wood, warm bodies, the singe of something frying. Women laugh at the bar, sharp and practiced. They spot Jax before they see me; they always do. One with glossy black hair and tattoos like jewelry peels off the bar and walks straight for him, her smile already loaded.
“VP,” she purrs, as if it’s his first name. She plants a kiss on his cheek that misses by a mouth and drifts too close to his lips. Her eyes cut to me and back to him. “You finally brought a fan?”
“Chelsea,” he says, ignoring the question, and slides me half a step forward with his hand on my spine. “You need anything, you ask me.”
The woman clocks the possessive and isn’t impressed. “So you’re Chelsea,” she says directly to me, voice sugar that sticks to your teeth. “Cute jacket.”
Another one sidles up—a redhead with a throat tattoo that disappears under her tank. She loops her arm over Jax’s shoulder like it’s a rail. “We saved your seat,” she says to him, not moving her arm. “Patch party in back.”
Jax’s mouth tips into that private smile that makes bad ideas sound like destiny. “Gimme a minute.”
Redhead’s gaze lands on my hand at his side and pushes it gently aside without touching me. The message is clear anyway: we know what we are here; do you? “We’ll keep it warm,” she tells him, and drifts away, her perfume blooming behind her. When she passes me, she gives me the kind of smile you give a kid at a casino. I try to school my face. It probably comes off as stubborn. Jax watches me rather than them, eyes tracing the effort. He likes to watch. He likes to see what I’ll allow.
A palm claps his back hard, and then Wade is there, squeezed into a letterman jacket that looks wrong next to leather. He’s broader than he was last summer, shoulders cramped with ambition and something like dread. His eyes cut to Jax’s hand on my waist, then back to my face. He doesn’t bother hiding it.
“Jackson,” he says, the syllables clipped.
“Baby brother,” Jax says, easy, and drags his thumb just inside the waistband of my jeans like punctuation. “You look lost.”
Wade ignores him and angles to me. “Chel.” The old nickname comes out soft, like it might still mean safety. “You—uh.” He looks around, jaw clenching. “This isn’t—can we talk?”
Jax doesn’t move his hand. “We’re talking,” he says, pleasant as a blade. “You got homework to do or something?”
Wade’s eyes flash. He’s not good at hiding when he’s angry; it just makes him look younger. “This isn’t her place.”
“She’s with me,” Jax says, and that’s the point, and he knows it. The women at the bar hear it too; there’s a ripple, like fish turning under water.
“Is that supposed to make it better?” Wade asks, and there it is—the thing he doesn’t say out loud, finally showing its teeth. He looks at me again, all the history between us crowding the air. “You good?
My mouth is dry. My parents would say I’m proving them right. The club is a story they’ve told me my whole life with a moral taped to it. Jax is the first person who ever made that story read like a possibility instead of a warning. I nod, because my throat won’t play along. “I’m fine.”
A brunette with a laugh like a dare leans across the bar to hand Jax a bottle, her wrist brushing his chest on purpose. “Congrats, VP,” she says, eyes dragging over him and then over me like I’m optional. “Heard you’re taking more meetings now.”
Jax takes the bottle, never looking away from me. “I make time,” he says.
“For who?” the brunette asks, faux-innocent. She glances at me, then leans up to murmur something against Jax’s ear that makes his mouth curl. She’s close enough I feel the heat of her press from where I stand. She laughs as she peels away, shoulder bumping mine without apology.
I take half a step back to get my balance. Jax’s hand follows, it always does, palm flattening against my stomach, tucking me into him like shelter, like display. It’s both, and the confusion of it makes my cheeks burn.
Wade watches, jaw grinding. “You enjoy this?” he asks Jax under his breath. “Making her stand here while they—”
“This is the room,” Jax says, mild, inexorable. “If she’s with me, she’s in it.”
“I’ve been in this room my whole life,” Wade snaps, quiet fury trembling at the edges. “Doesn’t mean I want her to be.”
“Then maybe don’t want so much,” Jax says. He’s smiling, but it’s the kind that never reaches his eyes. “You think she’s glass?”
“I think she’s not yours to—” Wade cuts himself off, swallowing the word. He looks at me, and the thing he doesn’t say is suddenly everywhere.
Another woman—a bleach-blonde in a ripped band tee—slides in to press her mouth to Jax’s jaw, leaving a lip gloss stamp and a story. “We riding out later?” she asks, eyes flicking to me with naked curiosity. “Or you babysitting?”
Jax doesn’t wipe the mark away. He tips his head, lets her make it, then angles just enough for me to feel the shift of him, his fingers tightening fractionally on my hip. “Don’t wait up,” he says. He’s talking to her, but he’s answering me.
It’s petty and practiced and I hate that it works. The anger comes in a clean, bright line, threaded through the soft, dumb love I keep pretending is bravery. Jax feels it under his palm and his voice softens by a degree no one else would hear. “Hey,” he murmurs, low, for me alone. “Eyes on me.”
I look. It’s a mistake. Up close he’s all details that add up to something too easy to ruin you: the scar under his lip you don’t notice until he smiles, the lashes that have no right being that dark, the way he tilts his head when he’s listening like he’s about to decide you. I’m eighteen and this is the first time anything has felt like it might blow up my life and leave a shape I recognize. That should scare me. It doesn’t. It makes me step closer.
Wade inhales like he’s been punched. “Chel—”
Jax turns his head just enough to catch Wade in his periphery. “You got a game Friday?” he asks, bored.
“Yeah.”
“Win it,” Jax says. “Make Mom happy.” The word lands heavy between them. Their mom. Their house. Their history I’m only now realizing I’ve walked into with both feet.
Wade’s mouth tightens. “If only that actually was the thing that would make her proud of me.”
Jax’s smile is small and cold. “You don’t want to keep score with me, kid.”
“And you don’t want to make her a score,” Wade says, louder than he means to. A couple heads turn. He drops his voice. “Chelsea, let me take you home.”
“Home feels like a lecture right now,” I say, hating how small my voice wants to be and forcing it not to be. “I wanted to see where he lives.”
“This isn’t where he lives,” Wade says. “This is where he performs.”
Jax laughs, low. “You learn that word in study hall?”
“Enough,” I say, before Wade says something that gets him in trouble and before I say something I can’t forgive myself for. I slide my hand over Jax’s knuckles where they rest on my hip. He flips his hand, threads our fingers without looking away from Wade. It’s thoughtless and practiced and I feel it everywhere.
Redhead drifts by again, tilting her chin at me like she’s measuring me for something I won’t want to wear. “You sure?” she says to Jax, as if I can’t hear. “She’s… young.”
“Yeah,” Jax says, and it’s nothing like an apology. “She is.”
Redhead’s mouth hooks. “Cute. For now.” She taps his chest right under the VP, proprietary as a brand, and slides off to her orbit. As she passes Wade, she gives him a look that says she knows everything without asking.
The room hums around us. On the wall behind the bar, a TV shows a game with the sound off; the players move like figures in a fever dream. Someone racks pool balls; the clack echoes. A laugh pops, then another. It’s all so alive it feels like it will keep going if I walk out and if I stay. I think of my mother’s mouth when she says Teller. I think of my father’s silence. I think of Wade’s hands stuffed in his pockets so he won’t swing at his brother. I think of the heat of Jax’s palm and the way he hasn’t asked me to be anything except here.
“Come on,” Jax says, voice slipping under the noise, the way he always does. “I’ll show you the back.”
Wade steps in, not touching me, blocking just enough that I feel the shield he can’t help being. “Don’t,” he says to Jax, and his voice cracks like it used to when we were twelve and he fell off his bike. “Don’t do this to her.”
Jax considers him a beat too long. Something like pity, or curiosity, ripples across his face and is gone. He looks at me, not Wade. “You scared?”
I meet his eyes. I don’t know if I’m brave or stupid. Maybe both are the same thing, at least at the start. “No,” I say, and the word tastes like a door closing and opening at once.
Jax’s hand doesn’t take me to the bar or the pool table. He angles us down the back hallway—dimmer lights, louder bass, a door at the end with a dent like a fist kept its promise. The room he opens is small: bed, crooked lamp, cracked mirror, his cut flung over a chair like it owns the furniture. It smells like leather, cologne, and the ghost of other nights.
“Back here,” he says, like it’s a favor. He shuts the door with his heel and turns the lamp low. The noise outside blurs into a pulse.
I start to say something—some dumb joke to buy time—and he’s already there, mouth on mine, palms bracketing my jaw like he’s anchoring me. The kiss is greedy in a way that makes me forget I meant to be careful. I kiss back, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging because he likes it. He groans into my mouth and it flips a switch in me; I step forward, he backs up, and we hit the wall the way we always do: like we planned it.
“Been thinking about you all day,” he says against my throat, breath hot. “About this mouth.”
I pull his shirt up without thinking, palms skating over warm skin and the hard lines I shouldn’t know this well. He laughs, low, surprised, and raises his arms so I can strip it off. His rings clink; the fabric hits the floor. He’s all heat and muscle and smugness and I hate how much it works on me. He grabs the hem of my shirt and waits exactly one heartbeat—permission by habit, not by principle—and I lift my arms. Cool air licks my skin. His eyes go dark.
“Jesus,” he says, almost reverent. His hands bracket my ribs, thumbs tracing slow at the edge of my bra. “You make me crazy, you know that?”
“Show me,” I say, breathless, trying to be brave. He does.
It’s fast and it’s not. His mouth is everywhere—collarbone, the hollow at my throat, the slope of my shoulder. He maps me with his teeth in places that won’t show. I tip my head back and let him. He drags his hands down my sides, over my hips, up my spine, fingers deft on the clasp at my back. He pauses. I realize I’m nodding before he even asks. The clasp gives; the strap slackens. He doesn’t look for long; he looks at my face.
“Better,” he murmurs, and kisses me again, slower now, like he’s tasting a yes he earned. I melt. I hate that I melt. I clutch at his shoulders and he lifts me, easy, setting me on the dresser. The mirror rattles. The bass from the bar thumps through the wall. Somewhere someone laughs like a dare.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, and then his mouth is back on mine and his hand slides, sure and gentle, learning me. Heat spikes low and bright. I make a sound I don’t recognize. He eats it up, grinning against my lips.
“Look at me,” he says. I do. It’s a mistake. He’s unfair up close—lashes I want to hate, that tiny scar under his lip, eyes gone focused and hungry. His hand skims my stomach, lower, teasing, patient in a way I didn’t know he could be. He’s asking without asking. I answer without words—leaning in, hips tipping. He swears softly, head dropping to my shoulder like the restraint costs him
“Bed,” he breathes, a promise and a plan. He kisses me and guides me off the dresser; the mattress catches the backs of my knees. He’s smiling, wrecked and sure, one hand on my hip, the other threading into my hair. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.”
The word bed breaks the spell. The room snaps into focus: the crooked lamp, the dented door, the laugh that spikes right outside like an audience on cue. I see tomorrow. I see me trying to make a dingy room mean something it can’t.
“Jax,” I say, palms flattening to his chest. “Wait.”
He stills, breathing hard, eyes searching mine. “What?”
“Not—” I force the word through a throat that wants to say yes to anything he asks. “Not here. Not tonight.”
His gaze flicks to the bed, back to me, to my mouth. He’s close enough to feel the tremor in my hands. “Chelsea, we’ve been doing this dance for two months,” he says, voice rough, not unkind yet. “I’m not trying to make it a big thing. I just want you. I want you now.”
“I want you too,” I say, and it’s humiliating how true it sounds. “But I don’t want my first time to be with people laughing through the wall.”
Color rides high in his cheeks. He drags a hand through his hair, breath catching. “Door’s locked. Nobody’s coming in.”
“They don’t have to. I can still hear them.” I gesture toward the wall; the bass answers for me. “I want to remember you. Not this.”
He looks at me like I’ve moved a goalpost he didn’t agree to. The softness bleeds out of his face. “So, we do the boyfriend show out there,” he says, chin tipping toward the bar, “and hit the brakes in here.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s accurate.” He laughs once, no humor in it. “I’ve been patient.”
“You’ve been persistent. That’s not the same thing.” I swallow. “I’m not saying no to you. I’m saying no to this room.”
He steps in again, hands sliding to my waist, voice dropping to a coax. “You’re shaking. You want me.”
“I do,” I whisper, hating how my body gives me away. “And I want to choose.” I meet his eyes. “Not like this, Jax.”
He holds my stare for a long beat. Then something shutters. His hands fall away like he’s done holding anything fragile. “You think I’m gonna keep playing house while you figure out a venue?”
“Don’t make it small because I want it to matter.”
He smiles, gorgeous and mean. “I care about you.” He says it like he’s throwing me a bone. “But I’ve also got needs, baby. I’m not taking a vow because your folks think my last name is a disease.”
There it is—the cheap shot. It still lands. My face heats. “So go meet your needs,” I say, voice going flat to keep from breaking. “Find someone who won’t say no to a mattress that’s seen half of Charming.”
His laugh is soft and sharp. “That was the plan.”
The words slice. I flinch. He sees it and doesn’t look away.
“Don’t be mad at me because you’re scared,” he says, almost bored now.
“I’m not scared,” I fire back. “I’m careful. There’s a difference.”
“Not to me.” He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek, impersonal as a stamp. “You chose me. This comes with me.”
“I’m choosing me tonight,” I say, and I hate that my voice shakes. “Move.”
He does, but not because I asked. He’s already somewhere else in his head—out the door, down the hall, back to the noise. “Don’t be dramatic,” he mutters.
“I’m leaving.” I grab my shirt with hands that don’t want to work, yank it on crooked, fumble the clasp with fingers that remember his mouth. He doesn’t help. He doesn’t watch. He’s already reaching for his tee.
I get the door open and the hallway hits like weather. Laughter pops. The bass kicks. I keep my spine straight and my eyes dry until I clear the room. The women clock me in a heartbeat. Redhead tips her bottle toward the back, then toward me, mouth curving in a smile that says there-there. The brunette with the wing tattoo lets out a small, amused breath. Bleach-Blonde leans to her friend: “Bless her heart,” with the sweetness of a knife. I move through like they’re furniture. Jax doesn’t stop them. He doesn’t stop me.
Outside, the first tear escapes anyway. I swipe it hard and walk faster. The lot smells like oil and night-blooming jasmine from somebody’s fence. Gravel crunches under my boots. I don’t look back.
“Chelsea!” Wade’s voice cuts across the lot. A truck door slams. He jogs up, wide-eyed and furious for me. “What did he—”
“Don’t,” I say, palms up. “Not right now.”
He swallows the words like they burn on the way down. The anger doesn’t leave; it sits behind his eyes, coiled. “Get in. I’ll take you home.”
“I can walk.”
“It’s three miles.”
“Good.” I head for the sidewalk. He keeps pace, walking backward like an idiot because he’s never learned how not to care.
“Chel, please. He’s an ass when he’s pissed. I don’t want you out here with him deciding to prove something.”
“I’m not a trophy,” I snap. “I’m not his or yours.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “I know that.” He glances back at the building; his jaw flexes. When he looks at me, it’s softer. “Let me get you out of here. Not home if you don’t want. Just… not here.”
I stop because the night feels too big and my hands won’t stop shaking. “Where?”
He jerks his chin toward the road. “Field’s empty. Stadium lights are off. Park’s open. We can sit. Talk. You can yell. I’ll take it.”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” I say, which is a lie I wish could be true.
“We don’t have to,” he says. “We can talk about the dumb squirrel that always falls off the bleachers. Or how Coach says ‘fundamentals’ like his tongue’s too big. Or how you’re gonna get out of this town and make me buy tickets to your graduation.”
Against my will, my mouth twitches. I wipe my face again. “You’re terrible at sales.”
“I’m great at driving.” He opens the passenger door like a white flag. “Please. Let me do this one thing right.”
I look at the clubhouse, at my trembling fingers, at the slice of road that leads away. I nod. “Okay.”
He exhales like he’s been waiting to breathe. “Okay.” He helps me in without touching me and jogs around. The cab smells like wintergreen and laundry soap. He doesn’t talk on the way; he lets the quiet be useful.
The stadium rises out of the dark, hulking and familiar. He parks by the gate and kills the engine. Metal ticks as it cools. The air is cooler here; the night feels cleaner.
“You okay?” he asks finally, not pushing it at me, just offering.
“No,” I say. “But I will be.”
He nods. “Okay.”
We walk to the bleachers, our breath ghosting in the air. The field smells like cut grass and old adrenaline. Somewhere, a flag chain clinks. We sit with a little space between us that means everything and nothing.
Under the dark, the quiet is a different kind of loud. Wade stares at the fifty-yard line like it knows something he doesn’t.
“Say it,” I murmur. “Whatever you’re chewing on.”
“You gonna throw it back at me?” he asks, mostly to buy time.
“Probably.”
He tips his head back, jaw tight. “He’s not good for you.” He flinches like he expects me to swing. When I don’t, he adds, softer, “For anyone. But for you? He’s… worse.”
“I know,” I say. The words hurt and help. “And I still—”
“Yeah.” He nods, gentle. “I know.”
We sit there until my pulse remembers how to be a pulse and not a siren. Somewhere, back at the clubhouse, a door slams and laughter spikes and a bike revs like a threat. Here, the only sound is the wind and the stupid squirrel in the hedge and us breathing.
“Thanks-” I say. “For coming after me.”
He bumps his shoulder into mine, once. “Always.” He doesn’t say the rest. He doesn’t have to. It sits between us, patient, like something that might grow if we ever let it.
“Tell me about fundamentals,” I say, because I need something dumb and steady. He huffs a laugh and starts talking. It’s specific and ridiculous and exactly the noise I need to fill the space where the bass used to be. And for a little while, with the lights off and the bleachers cold, I remember that wanting something and choosing something aren’t the same—and that I’m allowed to pick me.
When Jax Teller was sentenced to prison, his wife Chelsea was left to pick up the pieces of their shattered life. With their 9-month-old daughter in tow, she fled Charming, leaving behind the memories of their tumultuous past. Before he was locked away, Jax had asked his younger brother Wade to keep an eye on Chelsea, trusting that he would protect her from harm. What Jax didn't anticipate was that Wade's feelings for Chelsea would eventually blossom into something more.
Twelve years have passed since Jax's incarceration, and he's finally being released on good behavior. As he makes his way back to Chelsea, he's met with a shocking revelation: she and Wade have been in a long-term relationship, raising a daughter of their own together. The court orders Jax to stay with the couple until he can get back on his feet, forcing him to confront the harsh reality of their situation.
As Jax struggles to come to terms with Chelsea's new life, he finds himself torn between his loyalty to his brother and his lingering feelings for his wife. Despite his best efforts to move on, Jax can't help but feel a spark of jealousy ignite within him. He begins to subtly manipulate the situation, trying to drive a wedge between Chelsea and Wade in the hopes of rekindling their lost love. But as tensions rise, Jax must confront the consequences of his actions and decide what he's truly willing to fight for: his family, his brotherhood, or his own selfish desires.
Sons of Anarchy AU multi-chaptered story.
Rated MA: Be advised that this story will contain storylines depicting sex, verbal assault, cursing, mentions of cheating, mentions of miscarriages, violence, and murder. Please do not read if these trigger you in any way. This story will feature flashbacks from SOA scenes but is primarily AU. I do not own any characters/scenes created by Kurt Sutter.
The paper was thin and county-issue, the kind that goes soft where you fold it, but it felt heavier than the table under my hand. His handwriting still slid downhill like it always had, that cocky slant that used to feel like a secret between us and now just looked careless.
I’m out next week. No placement cleared. They have Wade’s address. I know I don’t deserve it. I’m coming. I want to make it right.
The lamplight made a small circle on the rug. The fridge hummed. Somewhere down the hall, one of the girls turned over and the bedsprings answered. It was an ordinary house on an ordinary night, and that felt obscene.
“You’re doing the lip thing,” Wade said from the kitchen—water off, cabinet shut, his voice warm and cautious. He came to the doorway and stopped there, towel still in his hands. He always stops at the threshold when I’m like this, waits for me to decide.
“You gave them our address,” I said. It came out flat. I didn’t know what I wanted it to sound like—shock? Betrayal? It was just heavy.
“They called,” he said. “I had about thirty seconds.”
“And you used them to hand him our front door.”
“It’s my front door too.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t soften it either. “And he didn’t have anywhere else.”
The towel made a quiet thud on the counter. He took a few slow steps toward me, then another, keeping his hands in plain sight like he knew I might read everything into a gesture right now. “It’s supposed to be temporary.”
I laughed without humor. “He’s going to sleep under our roof, Wade. Your brother. My ex-husband. He’s going to be in our kitchen, in our bathroom, he’s going to see our life. The one we built without him. The one he made impossible.”
“I know.” He didn’t try to pat it away. He didn’t tell me to be reasonable. “I know exactly what that means.”
“Do you?” I looked up at him. His eyes had that tired steadiness I used to hate—like calm was a trick he was good at. “Because you sound like you’re explaining a guest room, and I feel like I’m about to throw up.”
He slid his thumbs into his front pockets, a little tell he has when he’s holding more than he’s saying. “I’m not explaining anything. I’m telling you what I did. I said yes to parole because the alternative was pretending I didn’t hear the phone ring. He’s my brother.”
“And I’m your wife,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “And he’s my ex-husband. There’s no clean way to stack those.”
“No,” he said, and his mouth twitched like he’d tried to smile and thought better of it. “There isn’t.”
Silence thinned the air between us. The clock kept steady time. Past the porch, frog song rose and fell like a bad joke.
“I hate that you did this without asking me,” I said. It wasn’t the only truth, but it was the one burning a hole through the others.
“I should have asked you,” he said, immediately. He didn’t defend himself. “I’m sorry I didn’t. I panicked.”
“About him,” I said, because I wanted it to sting.
“About all of it,” he said, and something unguarded slipped into his tone. He looked down the hall out of habit—checking for little feet—and then back at me. “About you walking into this with no control. About him walking out to nothing while I stood here and pretended I couldn’t do anything. About the fact that there wasn’t a right call.”
I pressed my thumb into the fold of the letter until the paper gave. Twelve years since I left him in that visiting room. Twelve years since I ran because staying would’ve ground me down to grit. Fifteen years and I was still this raw, this stupidly loyal to a version of him that didn’t exist anymore.
“He’s going to look at me like I owe him,” I said. “Like we pressed pause and he gets to hit play. And I don’t know what I’ll do if I see that face and my body remembers before my brain does.”
Wade took one more step and stopped, close enough that I could see the nick on his knuckle from a stubborn bolt and the white crescent scar at his hairline from the bike wreck when he was fourteen. I’ve known that scar most of my life. “If that happens, you look at me,” he said. “And I’ll remind you who you are.”
The words should have felt good. They hurt, because they were true.
“You say that like it’s easy,” I whispered.
“It isn’t.” He swallowed. “I don’t know how I’m going to feel when I see him either. I haven’t seen him outside of counted minutes and metal chairs in a long time.” He rubbed his thumb against his palm, a nervous habit he pretends nobody notices. “I hate what he did. I hate what it did to you. I hate that my first instinct is still to make sure he doesn’t drown.”
“You don’t have to pretend you don’t love him,” I said. It came out tired, not accusing. “Just don’t pretend it doesn’t touch me.”
He flinched, then nodded. “It touches everything,” he said quietly. “That’s why this is hard.”
I tipped my head back and looked at the ceiling because it was easier than looking at him and thinking about the kid he used to be—skinny with road rash on his knees, trailing after the older brother everyone watched—the man he is now—the one who fixes leaky sinks and remembers the teacher conference without being asked and buys the right cereal without texting a photo of the aisle. The one I married after swearing I’d never be any kind of Teller again.
“You’re sure this doesn’t change us?” I asked, and I hated how small I sounded.
“It changes the calendar and the shoes by the door,” he said. “It doesn’t change us unless we let it.”
“That sounds like a slogan,” I said, because I needed him to know I heard the difference between a promise and a wish.
He gave a small, pained huff. “It’s me trying to say the hard thing without dressing it up. I chose you. I choose you every morning. That doesn’t switch off because he needs a place to sleep. If I thought it would, I wouldn’t have said yes.”
“You already did say yes,” I said, and the old ache in me snapped at the words. “That’s the part that keeps catching.”
“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry you’re carrying it because I didn’t pick up the phone first. That’s on me.”
I looked at the letter again. My thumb had left a faint smudge in the fold. The ink had bled a little where he must have paused too long on a word. I knew which word. I could hear the way he said it in my head, soft like a trick. Sorry.
“I don’t want you to hate yourself for not leaving him out there,” I said finally. “I want you to be honest about what it costs you to bring him in here.”
“It costs me sleep,” he said. “And pride. And the illusion that I can keep every part of my life in separate rooms with the doors shut. It costs me watching you brace.” He exhaled, rough. “It doesn’t cost me you. That’s not for sale.”
Something in me loosened and stung. I didn’t move. He didn’t reach. We stood in it—the mess that wasn’t going to get cleaner by being named, but still somehow felt less like it was going to swallow us whole.
“I’m not sorry about us,” I said. “I’m not sorry about Cam. I’m not sorry about the world we made in the middle of the wreckage. I am sorry it hurts you to carry both your brother and me in the same body.”
His eyes went shiny in the way only I ever see. He took the last half-step and touched the back of my neck with two fingers, the way he does when the room tilts. “I can be hurt and certain at the same time,” he said. “You don’t have to make it neat.”
I leaned forward until my forehead found his chest. He smelled like detergent and the cinnamon gum he keeps in the glove box and a day that had been too long. His heart thudded steady under my cheek.
“What do we tell the girls?” I asked into his shirt, voice small. “Not the details—just…anything.”
“We tell them the truth they can hold,” he said. “That someone from our past needs a place to stay for a bit. That we’re the adults and we’ve got it.”
I nodded against him. That felt like something I could do.
“We’ll take it day by day,” he said. No plan, no schedule, just the simplest path forward. “If it’s too much, we adjust. If you need space, you take it. If I get weird, you tell me.”
“You will get weird,” I said, and a rickety smile pulled at my mouth.
“I already am,” he said, and his laugh was a tired exhale that still managed to be warm...
We didn’t straighten a pillow. We didn’t put out a glass of water. We left the room as it was—the fox on the rug, the lamp throwing that small circle, the letter under my palm, the air thick with everything we hadn’t figured out yet.
Later, in the dark, he slid in behind me the way he does when my mind wants to run—arm heavy across my ribs, not holding me down, just holding me. He didn’t say it would be fine. He didn’t tell me to be brave. He breathed slow until my body remembered how.
The house was quiet in that way it gets when everyone you love is asleep and you’re the only one holding the noise. I lay there and tried to picture the shape of my life with Jax in it without letting him be the center of it. My brain kept circling the same two hard things: how to live next to him without losing myself, and how to tell Emersyn the truth without breaking what we’ve built.
I could feel Wade awake behind me even with his eyes closed, the way you can feel a storm even when the blinds are drawn.
“How do we do this with Em?” I asked into the dark. “Really do it.”
He was quiet so long I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep sitting up inside himself. Then: “We tell her the truth she can carry. We don’t make her hold ours.”
“What words?” I whispered, because words are where I’ve always bled out.
He shifted, his arm still heavy across my ribs, his voice low. “We say… ‘There’s something important we haven’t told you, and that was our mistake. When you were a baby, the man who helped make you—his name is Jax—couldn’t be here. I’ve been your dad every day since, and that doesn’t change. He needs a safe place for a little while, so he’ll be staying with us. You don’t have to decide anything about him today. You can have all the feelings you have, and you can ask all the questions when you’re ready.’”
I swallowed hard. “She’s going to look at me like I lied to her.”
“We both did,” he said. “So she can be mad at both of us. I’ll take my half.”
“She calls you Dad like it’s the truest word she knows.”
“It still is,” he said, no bravado, just bone-deep fact. “Me being her dad doesn’t get voted on. Biology doesn’t outrank breakfasts and bedtimes.”
I lay there and let the sentences line up in my head, all the wrong ones first: He’s your father and he’s staying here and I’m sorry and please don’t hate me. I kept stripping them down until only the parts that belonged to her were left. Don’t hand her the weight of my history. Don’t make her manage anyone’s shame. Don’t ask her to perform forgiveness to make our grown-up guilt quieter.
I saw the day in little pieces, because that’s the only way I know how to do hard things.
- We tell her at home, in daylight, when there’s time to sit. Kitchen table, not car ride. No phones, no TV, the doorbell ignored.
- Wade and I both there, both taking responsibility, no “your mom” or “your dad” blame games.
- Short sentences. Honest ones. No gory details. Jax made choices. Jax wasn’t safe. We kept you safe. Wade has been your dad. That doesn’t change.
- We name what she might feel so she doesn’t have to guess if it’s allowed: confused, mad, sad, relieved, curious, nothing at all.
- We tell her she gets to decide what to call him. She doesn’t have to call him anything today.
- We promise her schedule doesn’t change. School. Skateboard. Pancakes. Homework at the same table.
- We tell her she doesn’t have to be alone with him until she says it’s okay—and even then, we go slow.
- We tell her we’re right here if she wants to talk later, even if “later” is two months from now in the cereal aisle.
“What if she asks why we didn’t tell her sooner?” I asked.
“Because we were scared,” he said. “And because you deserved a childhood without our mess in it. That’s the truth. It isn’t pretty, but it’s not a lie.”
“And if she says I’m not who she thought I was?”
“Then you tell her you’re more,” he said, and I could hear the smile he didn’t want to make. “And I’ll remind her.”
I breathed, and it felt like dragging air through wire. “And me with him? Day to day?”
“Boundaries,” he said, simple as a tool list. “You don’t owe him history lessons or emotional CPR. You don’t let him draft behind old muscle memory. You set the house rules and expect him to follow them. You keep your routines on purpose. You take space when you need it. If he tries to turn a hallway into a confessional, you walk past him and go fold laundry.”
A laugh broke loose in my throat and surprised me. “Laundry as a survival strategy.”
“It’s worked before,” he said. “You want me to be the one to tell him the rules?”
I pictured Jax’s eyes when he thinks charm might work. The way the word sorry comes out of him like a soft knife. “Yes,” I said. “You can translate brother-to-brother better than I can.”
“I’ll make it simple,” Wade said. “Respect the house, respect you, respect the girls. He’s a guest, not a project.”
The word guest soothed and scraped me at the same time. I let it. Not everything had to heal tonight.
“What about me,” I asked, “the version of me that still lives in his shadow? The one who wants to light herself on fire to keep everyone warm?”
“You don’t owe that version anything,” he said. “But if she shows up, we won’t hate her. We’ll just not let her drive.”
“Say it again,” I said, because repetition is how I glue myself back together.
“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “You can fall apart. We don’t.”
I rolled onto my back and stared up at the faint square of streetlight on the ceiling. I rehearsed the conversation with Em under my breath, the way you practice saying a name you haven’t said out loud in years. I pictured telling her and her face pulling tight and then softening and then tightening again. I pictured her saying, Are you still my mom? like she did when Cam came home from the hospital, afraid love was a pie you could run out of. I pictured saying, Yes. Always. And Dad is still Dad. That part isn’t changing.
I pictured Jax in the periphery of the day like a piece of furniture you can’t move yet: present, unavoidable, not the point. I pictured him learning how our house worked instead of us learning how to work around him. Shoes off by the door. Dishes rinsed. Voices low after bedtime. No walking into a room like it owes him anything.
I pictured myself choosing dull, ordinary acts over dramatic ones—chopping onions, swapping the laundry, answering Em’s question with “I don’t know yet” when that’s the truth. I pictured texting a therapist, not because crisis makes me weak, but because prevention makes me smart.
“You’re thinking loud,” Wade murmured.
“I’m making a map,” I said. “So I don’t end up back where I started.”
He kissed the corner of my jaw, small and thoughtless, the kind of touch that says I’m here without making a speech. “Good. Draw the exits first.”
When Jax Teller was sentenced to prison, his wife Chelsea was left to pick up the pieces of their shattered life. With their 9-month-old daughter in tow, she fled Charming, leaving behind the memories of their tumultuous past. Before he was locked away, Jax had asked his younger brother Wade to keep an eye on Chelsea, trusting that he would protect her from harm. What Jax didn't anticipate was that Wade's feelings for Chelsea would eventually blossom into something more.
Fifteen years have passed since Jax's incarceration, and he's finally being released on good behavior. As he makes his way back to Chelsea, he's met with a shocking revelation: she and Wade have been in a long-term relationship, raising a daughter of their own together. The court orders Jax to stay with the couple until he can get back on his feet, forcing him to confront the harsh reality of their situation.
As Jax struggles to come to terms with Chelsea's new life, he finds himself torn between his loyalty to his brother and his lingering feelings for his wife. Despite his best efforts to move on, Jax can't help but feel a spark of jealousy ignite within him. He begins to subtly manipulate the situation, trying to drive a wedge between Chelsea and Wade in the hopes of rekindling their lost love. But as tensions rise, Jax must confront the consequences of his actions and decide what he's truly willing to fight for: his family, his brotherhood, or his own selfish desires.
Sons of Anarchy AU multi-chaptered story.
Rated MA: Be advised that this story will contain storylines depicting sex, verbal assault, cursing, mentions of cheating, mentions of miscarriages, violence, and murder. Please do not read if these trigger you in any way. This story will feature flashbacks from SOA scenes but is primarily AU. I do not own any characters/scenes created by Kurt Sutter.
Warning: Story will contain situations involving alcoholism, sexual harrassment, sexual content, cursing, etc.
A/N: Hello! So, first off I know I say this all the time but I have not forgotten about Kansas Anymore! I've just had a little roadblock with that story and I am still mapping everything out. As for this new fic, I am a little late to the game but thanks to TikTok, I have discovered Friday Night Lights - I have also discovered Tim Riggins/Taylor Kitsch.... With that being said, i've been brainstorming this story for a couple weeks and have finally put pen to paper
(or fingers to keyboard). This will be a multi-chaptered fic and will feature past and present scenes. I don't know how big the fandom for FNL is on here but if you are interested in reading that would mean the world to me! Please let me know what you think and if you would like to be tagged, just let me know 😊❤️
"Why'd you even bother coming back?" His voice sliced through the sweltering Texas summer air, a low, husky growl that sent shivers down my spine, like a warning of the storm brewing beneath. The words hung in the air, a challenge, a provocation, a desperate attempt to unravel the tangled web of emotions that had always bound us together.
I leaned against the scorching hot car, the metal burning my skin, as if the heat of the summer afternoon was nothing compared to the inferno raging inside me. "I told you I didn't want this to happen," I spat, frustration etched in every word, my voice trembling with the weight of unshed tears. "I just wanted to finish what needed to be done and leave, but you never make it that easy, do you?" The words spilled out in a torrent of pent-up emotion, a confession of the pain and the longing that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long.
He kicked at the dry gravel with his boots, his hand raking through his unruly hair, a familiar gesture that betrayed his growing agitation, a nervous habit that spoke of the turmoil brewing inside him. "Don't put this on me, Rae," he growled, his gravelly voice low and menacing, a warning that I knew all too well, a reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath his surface. "You're a grown adult, just like me. You have feelings, just like I do. I'm not the one who stopped you from getting on that plane last week."
As his eyes bore into my skin, memories of the past month swirled through my mind, a kaleidoscope of emotions, a jumbled mess of love, anger, and regret. The same skin he'd been caressing and kissing just hours ago now felt like it was on fire under his intense gaze, a flame that seemed to burn brighter with every passing moment, a reminder of the passion and the pain that had always defined our relationship.
"I never meant for any of this to happen," I said, my hands gesturing wildly, as if I could somehow conjure up a different reality, one where we weren't standing here, locked in this endless cycle of love and hate. "I never meant to end up in your bed, over and over again. I never meant to fall for you all over again, like I did 20 years ago." The words tumbled out in a rush, a confession, a plea, a desperate attempt to make him understand the turmoil that had been brewing inside me.
My voice cracked with emotion, the words spilling out in a torrent of pain and longing. "My father needed me, and like always, you were there. And for some reason, I always run to you. I ran to you all those times when you were cheating on me with those sisters behind my back. I ran to you when you were screwing Lyla behind my back. And now, here I am, running back to you like a lovesick teenager, because I don't have anyone else." The words hung in the air, a confession of my deepest fears, a admission of my greatest weakness.
I took a step forward, my eyes locked on his, the air between us charged with tension, like the moment before a storm breaks. "That's the problem, isn't it? I've always been running to you, because I don't know how to be alone. I don't know how to be without you. And that's what scares me, because it means I'm still trapped in this never-ending cycle of love and hate, and I don't know how to escape."
He didn't respond, didn't react, just stood there, his eyes fixed on mine, a silent witness to the turmoil that was raging inside me. And for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes, a glimmer of understanding, a spark of empathy. But it was gone, extinguished by the anger and the hurt that had built up over the years, leaving only a cold, hard mask in its place.
His voice was like a slap in the face, a cruel reminder of the past. "Well if that's the case – if I'm some bad fucking guy then why the fuck did you agree to marry me all those years ago? Why would you stay with someone who treated you so badly?" The words cut deep, a painful reminder of my own complicity in the mess that was our relationship.
I felt a sting of tears in my eyes as I looked at him, my heart heavy with the weight of our past. "I was young and stupid, okay? I thought I could change you. I thought our love was strong enough to overcome anything." My voice cracked as I spoke, the words tumbling out in a rush of emotion.
He snorted, a cold, hard sound that sent shivers down my spine. "And now? What do you think now, Rae? Do you think our love is still strong enough to overcome anything?"
I shook my head, feeling a wave of despair wash over me. "I don't know, okay? I don't know what to think anymore. All I know is that I'm tired of this, tired of the pain and the hurt and the anger. I'm tired of loving you and hating you at the same time."
His eyes narrowed, his face twisted in a scowl. "Maybe that's the problem, Rae. Maybe you're just too afraid to let go."
I felt a surge of anger at his words, a spark of defiance that ignited within me. "I'm not afraid to let go," I spat, my voice low and deadly. "I'm just not sure if I'm strong enough to walk away."
He raised an eyebrow, a cold, hard glint in his eye. "Then maybe you should try."
I felt a stinging sensation in my eyes as I looked at him, my heart heavy with the weight of our past. "Maybe I will," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sound of my own heartbeat.
your ex is coming back to collect some things he left behind and you accidentally tell him that you have a new boyfriend, so hangman accepts the role of your new (fake) boyfriend
⭑.ᐟ cowboy I @/geminiwritten
the squad are sick of you and hangman pining after each other, so they set you up with the cowboy hat rule - 'you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy'
⭑.ᐟ baby sister I @/geminiwritten
hangman has a serious crush on you, it might even be love, but it's a little complicated seeing as rooster is your older brother
⭑.ᐟ perfect storm I @/geminiwritten
you and jake have a messy history and have been comfortably hating each other for the past few years, until all hell breaks loose when you're brought in as the newest member of maverick's special detachment
⭑.ᐟ from friends to forever I @/geminiwritten
you've been in love with hangman for as long as you can remember, but he's never looked at you that way, not until he meets a guy you're dating for the first time and everything you thought was unrequited becomes dangerously mutual
⭑.ᐟ dirty laundry pt2 I @/geminiwritten
after a couple months of living together, you're still completely oblivious to how you affect jake and he's starting to spiral because now he's... feeling things
⭑.ᐟ you called my wife? I @megalony
The Dagger squad don't know much about Jake's personal life. And when he gets hurt during an exercise, they are surprised who comes to look after him.
⭑.ᐟ love of my life I @moondancediner
the dagger squad meets hangman's best-kept secret
⭑.ᐟ hangman’s mystery I @0mg-bird
Jake takes you to meet the crew after claims of him hiding you from them. You’re extremely shy and aren’t a fan of lots of people, making Jake be more protective of you. For once, Rooster knows more about Jake’s life than the others do.
⭑.ᐟ watermelons I @promisingyounglady
Jake loves ur boobs.
⭑.ᐟ request I @ddejavvu
⭑.ᐟ spring fling pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 I @/ddejavvu
You should have known the ‘no refunds’ detail on the website for Spring Fling was a red flag. But you paid no mind to it, eager to be assigned a quick fuck for spring break. When the man that walks through your cabin door is none other than Jake 'Hangman' Seresin, your wildly infuriating fellow pilot, you have two choices: bicker the entire time and have a miserable spring break, or fuck.
⭑.ᐟ medical emergency I @marvelwitchergilmore
When Jake gets a call asking to pick you up from the hospital, it's safe to say he's confused. Especially considering neither of you were known for getting along with the other.
⭑.ᐟ just ask me I @/marvelwitchergilmore
Hangman is used to getting what he wants, so what happens when he doesn't get you?
⭑.ᐟ unlikely hero I @/marvelwitchergilmore
You're in labour and nobody is picking up, so you're forced to call someone you never thought you would have to.
⭑.ᐟ best worst christmas I @ohtobeleah
After some life altering news. You confide in Hangman which leads you to ticking off something incredibly important on your bucket list.
⭑.ᐟ roll the dice pt2 pt3 pt4 I @/ohtobeleah
When Rooster makes a snarky remark that should have never left his mouth—everyone who knew, for a brief moment in time, Is brought back to the moment where Jake Seresin lost his one and only wingwoman.
⭑.ᐟ frozen I @/ohtobeleah
Jake is so intoxicated he forgets he played a life-threatening prank on you. Leaving you to freeze, for hours.
⭑.ᐟ request I @/ohtobeleah
You and Hangman sneaking around behind everyone’s back.
⭑.ᐟ cuckhold I @/ohtobeleah
⭑.ᐟ request I @/ohtobeleah
⭑.ᐟ sign of the times pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 I @se7entyrell
You're destined to die in Jake Seresin's arms. In every life, in every iteration, it's inescapable. Whether you loathe, or love each other, each ending stays the same. But what if it doesn't have to?
⭑.ᐟ good in bed I @honkytonk-hangman
Jake has made it crystal clear to you that you're only friends with benefits, so why did he go and delete your dating apps?
⭑.ᐟ line of sight pt2 pt3 pt4 I @/honkytonk-hangman
You're almost certain that Jake Seresin could care less about you, that is, until you're in a tight spot and the one guy you assume will hang you out to dry, instead comes to your rescue.
⭑.ᐟ they all know, he’s in love with you I @hangmanssunnies
From the night you first set eyes on Jake “Hangman” Seresin, and went home with him from the bar, you knew that there wasn’t ever going to be anything serious between you two. You just wish you could figure out why he keeps acting the opposite, and everyone thinks you are together.
⭑.ᐟ fair game I @sunlightmurdock
Bradley has been being a shitty boyfriend. His girl isn’t happy. In Jake’s eyes, that means she’s fair game.
⭑.ᐟ nothing but a gentleman I @simpforrooster
jake is obsessed with you. you eat it up. you’re obsessed with his obsession. but also with him.
⭑.ᐟ touch me, i’m sick I @ohcaptains
it’s always been easy to resist hangman’s charm – until one lonely night, when it becomes the hardest task you’ve ever had to complete.
⭑.ᐟ there’s a honey I @bussyslayer333
3 times your aunt penny sees herself and maverick in your relationship with jake and 1 time she doesn’t.
⭑.ᐟ feels like home I @crossskylinesandcontrails
It all started with a care package. What began as a few thoughtful letters quickly unraveled into something deeper between two friends.
⭑.ᐟ this isn’t what it looks like I @phoenixsbby
Hangman is totally, 100% over his ex … he just needs a fake girlfriend to prove it.
⭑.ᐟ it’s not me, it’s you I @/phoenixsbby
your ex is back in town and that might be the kick in the ass Hangman needs to change the parameters of your situationship.
⭑.ᐟ the thing about forever I @/phoenixsbby
your casual relationship with Hangman can’t stay casual forever, especially when your heart isn’t the only one you have to protect
⭑.ᐟ baby, you down? I @softspiderling
5 times Bradley was blissfully unaware of who you’re dating and the 1 time he wasn’t
⭑.ᐟ cruel existence I @/softspiderling
you get hurt at work and Jake spirals
⭑.ᐟ my darlin’ I @mydarlingrose
when the daggers are spontaneously relocated in Texas in for a mission and have no where to stay, Jake lets them stay at his place and discover Jake has been keeping a secret from them for a very long time
⭑.ᐟ the beanery I @callsign-peach
jake goes from drinking the base’s stale coffee to bringing in cups from the cafe down the road from the hard deck, and the dagger squad is determined to find out why
⭑.ᐟ just friends I @say-al0e
Everyone seems to think you’re Jake Seresin’s girl. It’s easier than explaining to them that you’re just friends with benefits. But that arrangement doesn’t seem to be working for either of you anymore.
⭑.ᐟ opposites attract pt2 I @topguncortez
how can Hangman, cocky, arrogant Hangman fall in love with a girl who is so different than him and raise a family completely opposite of him.
⭑.ᐟ miscalculation pt2 I @mrsbbradshaw
Instead of Hangman saving both Maverick and Rooster, it was her. But at what cost ?
⭑.ᐟ husband? never heard of him I @tw1sters
When Jake stumbles into your office attempting to flirt with you, all you can do is humor the fact that your husband seems to have forgotten you.
⭑.ᐟ home life I @angelbby555
Jake acts two different ways. An asshole at work, and a caring husband at home.
⭑.ᐟ you left me no choice but to stay forever I @sunderlust
you and jake have been best friends for years and eventually he becomes the love of your life - which makes it that much harder to cope when he starts pulling away with no explanation
⭑.ᐟ he did what? I @lulunothulu
When your boyfriend cheats on you, Jake can’t help but want to rip his head off. Because how could that fucker cheat on the most perfect girl he’s ever met?
⭑.ᐟ touch and go I @seresinhangmanjake
You and Jake had been sleeping together for months, and as sure as you were of your feelings for him, you were unsure of his for you. He, however, certainly knew how he felt about you, and after you decide to go on a long trip without telling him, he lets you know just exactly what’s on his mind.
When will take me Away be finished I really enjoy your fics and especially that one! Good luck on the writing babe❤️
Well first off, thanks so much for the love ❤️ I have been so busy with work and life that I haven't even cracked the surface of Take me away. I feel like I have neglected it and i'm so sorry. Hopefully once everything goes back to normal, I will be able to sit down and start working on it again!
✶ Weren't for the wind - Jake Seresin x OC ✶
Part one
Warnings: Story will contain situations involving arranged marriage, sexism, cursing, verbal and emotion abuse, sexual content, mentions of suicide mentions of drugs and alcohol, miscarriages, etc.
😊 If you would like to be tagged, drop a comment or message me 😊
The lacy material pooled around me like a wealthy curtain—a curtain that I would never be able to afford myself. The dress was a masterpiece, or so Lydia had declared when she first laid eyes on it. It was her choice, of course, not mine. She had swooped into the bridal boutique like a hurricane, dismissing every gown I tried on with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. “Too plain,” she’d said about the first one. “Too modern,” about the second. “Not elegant enough,” about the third. And then she’d seen this dress—a beaded, lace-covered monstrosity that weighed more than I did. “This is it,” she’d announced, her voice ringing with finality. “This is the one.”
Now, standing in front of the full-length mirror with the dress clinging to me like a second skin, I felt like an imposter. The bodice was too tight, the seams digging into my ribs, and the fabric bunched awkwardly around my hips. Lydia’s sharp intake of breath behind me was all the confirmation I needed that something was wrong.
“Are you sure this is the correct size, Shelia?” Lydia’s voice was tight, her words clipped. “I don’t remember all these rolls sticking out the last time we tried the dress on her.”
I flinched at her words, my cheeks burning. Rolls? I glanced at the mirror again, my eyes darting to the areas she’d pointed out. Was it really that bad? I had been trying to keep up with her ridiculous fitness regimen—her “little” cardio plan that involved waking up at the crack of dawn to jog around the neighborhood before work. But after the third morning of her personal trainer pounding on my door at five a.m., I’d given up. I’d opened the door, glared at him, and then slammed it shut in his face. Sleep had won out over wedding prep every time.
“Have you been snacking since the last fitting?” Lydia’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and accusatory. She stepped closer, her designer heels clicking against the polished floor. “You’re getting married in less than a week, Mia, and the dress barely fits you!”
“Lydia, it’s not a big deal,” Shelia interjected, her tone calm and soothing. She was kneeling beside me, pinning the fabric where it needed to be adjusted. “I can take a few seams out, and everything will be just fine.”
Lydia let out an aggravated sigh, the frown lines she spent thousands of dollars erasing with Botox every few weeks creasing her forehead despite her best efforts. She rubbed at her temples; her frustration palpable. “I can’t have you standing up at that altar, in front of all Dallas society, looking like a sausage in a casing.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from snapping back. A sausage in a casing? Really? I wanted to tell her that maybe if she’d let me choose my own dress, I wouldn’t be in this mess. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Lydia had a way of making me feel small, like my opinions didn’t matter. And, if I was being honest, I was too exhausted to fight her.
“Lydia, please,” Shelia said, her voice firm but kind. “Mia looks beautiful. The dress just needs a few adjustments, and it will be perfect. Trust me.”
Lydia huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fine. But it better be ready by Thursday. The rehearsal dinner is Friday, and I won’t have any more delays.”
“It’ll be ready,” Shelia promised, giving me a reassuring smile as she stood.
As Lydia turned to examine the accessories on display, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. Shelia leaned in closer, her voice low. “Don’t let her get to you, Mia. This is your day, not hers.”
I nodded, but the words felt hollow. Was it really my day? Or was it just another event for Lydia to show off to her high-society friends? I glanced at my reflection again, the dress still clinging to me in all the wrong places. I didn’t feel like a bride. I felt like a prop in someone else’s production.
“Come on,” Shelia said gently, guiding me toward the fitting room. “Let’s get you out of this and into something more comfortable.”
This marriage wasn’t for me—it wasn’t for the groom—it was for the family business. A business that was being passed off to my soon-to-be husband, Jake Seresin, who had fucked around and found out with most of the women in Texas and beyond. His party boy ways were an embarrassment to the family, and they’d found some poor sap (me) to try to tame his ways and be the loving wife he needed to finally settle down and become serious.
My history with Jake Seresin was not one that contained any love or even respect. I’d known the guy for most of my life, being in the same class in elementary school and having classes together in high school. He was the typical rich boy jock—hosting parties at his parents’ lake house every weekend and during the summer, being the loudest one in class to get attention, or making a show when he scored a touchdown on Friday nights. He was the golden boy, the one everyone wanted to be around, but not for the right reasons.
Jake was the kind of guy who thrived on chaos. He’d show up to class hungover, brag about his conquests, and somehow still manage to charm his way out of trouble. I’d always kept my distance, preferring to stay under the radar while he basked in the spotlight. But now, here we were, about to be married—not because we wanted to, but because it was expected of us.
The Seresin family business was on the line, and Jake’s antics had finally caught up with him. His reputation was in shambles, and the board of directors was threatening to cut him out of the inheritance unless he “cleaned up his act.” Enter me—the daughter of a single mother who owned the only bar in town that Crawford Seresin frequented whenever he and Lydia were on the outs. No one of the Seresin status, or even close to it, patronized the Whiskey Highway. Lydia called it an eyesore and had even petitioned for it to be demolished and turned into a Chick-fil-A. But she couldn’t get the signatures from those she often looked down upon, the very people who found solace in my mom’s bar.
Crawford Seresin was a man of few words, but he had a certain presence that commanded respect. He knew of my mom’s struggles since Dad up and left in the middle of the night 15 years ago. He had watched my brother, Brian, and me grow up, sometimes talking to us as we did our homework at the vacant table near the back. He was nice—cold, but nice. There was a gruff kindness to him, a quiet understanding that didn’t need to be spoken.
I had dropped out of college to help Mom and Brian out at the bar, deciding that I didn’t need to become a doctor at this point in my life. The Whiskey Highway was more than just a bar; it was a lifeline for my family. It was where we scraped together enough to pay the bills, where Mom worked herself to the bone, and where Brian and I learned the value of hard work. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was ours.
So, when Crawford approached me one evening, sitting at his usual spot at the bar with a glass of whiskey in hand, I wasn’t entirely surprised. He had that look in his eyes—the one that said he was about to make a proposition.
“Mia,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “I’ve been watching you for a long time. You’re a hard worker, loyal, and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. My son… well, he’s not like you.”
I didn’t say anything, just waited for him to continue.
“Jake needs someone like you,” Crawford said, his gaze steady. “Someone who can keep him in line, make him grow up. The board is breathing down my neck, and if he doesn’t shape up, he’s out. I’m offering you a deal—marry Jake, and I’ll make sure your family is taken care of. The bar will be safe, and your mom won’t have to worry about money ever again.”
I stared at him, my mind racing. It was an insane proposition, but there was a part of me that couldn’t ignore the practicality of it. My family had struggled for so long, and this could be a way out—for all of us. But at what cost?
“And what about me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “What about what I want?”
Crawford leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “You’ll have security. Stability. And who knows? Maybe you’ll even find a way to make it work with Jake. He’s not as bad as he seems.”
“No offense,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me, “but I’d rather cut both my legs off with a dull knife and bleed to death than marry your son.”
Crawford Seresin froze mid-sip of his whiskey, his glass hovering in the air as his sharp eyes locked onto mine. The bar was quiet for a moment, the hum of the jukebox in the background the only sound breaking the tension. Even my mom, who was wiping down the counter a few feet away, paused, her eyes widening as she glanced between me and Crawford.
“Mia,” she said softly, a warning in her tone. But I didn’t care. I’d had enough.
Crawford set his glass down slowly, the clink of it against the bar echoing in the silence. “That’s a strong statement,” he said, his voice calm but laced with something dangerous. “Care to explain why you feel that way?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, refusing to back down. “Your son is a walking disaster, Mr. Seresin. He’s arrogant, selfish, and hasn’t had a single thought in his head that wasn’t about himself since the day I met him in elementary school. He’s the kind of guy who throws parties at your lake house and leaves the place trashed, then expects someone else to clean it up. He’s the guy who brags about his conquests like they’re trophies and then acts like the world owes him something when he inevitably screws up. I’m not going to tie myself to that for the rest of my life, no matter what you’re offering.”
Crawford leaned back in his chair, studying me with an intensity that made me want to squirm. But I held my ground, my chin jutting out in defiance.
“You’ve got guts,” he said after a long moment, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll give you that. But let me ask you this—do you really think you’ve got a better option?”
I faltered for a moment, his words hitting harder than I wanted to admit. The truth was, I didn’t have a better option. The Whiskey Highway was barely staying afloat, and Mom was working herself to the bone just to keep the lights on. Brian was doing his best to help, but he was still just a kid. I’d dropped out of college to take care of them, and now I was stuck in this town with no prospects and no way out.
Crawford must have seen the hesitation in my eyes because he leaned forward, his voice low and serious. “I’m not asking you to love him, Mia. Hell, I’m not even asking you to like him. I’m asking you to do what’s best for your family. Marry Jake, and I’ll make sure your mom never has to worry about money again. The bar will be safe, and Brian will have the chance to go to college without drowning in debt. All I’m asking is that you give my son a chance to grow up.”
I looked away, my chest tightening. He was offering me everything I’d been fighting for—security, stability, a future for my family. But at what cost? My own happiness? My freedom?
“And what if he doesn’t grow up?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “What if he stays the same selfish, entitled jerk he’s always been? What then?”
Crawford sighed, running a hand over his face. “Then you’ll have my word that you can walk away. But give it a year, Mia. That’s all I’m asking. One year to see if he can change.”
I stared at him, my mind racing. One year. One year of pretending to be the perfect wife to a man I couldn’t stand. One year of playing the role for the sake of my family. It sounded like a prison sentence, but it was also a lifeline.
“I need to think about it,” I said, my voice firm but my mind racing. “Maybe find the knife just in case,” I muttered the last part under my breath, too quietly for Crawford to hear—or so I thought.
His sharp eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought he’d caught it. But he didn’t say anything, just leaned back in his chair and took another sip of his whiskey. “Take your time,” he said, his tone calm but laced with an edge that told me he wasn’t used to being told no. “But don’t take too long. The board’s patience is wearing thin, and if Jake doesn’t get his act together soon, this whole deal falls apart.”
I nodded, my throat tight, and turned away before he could see the uncertainty in my eyes. My mom was still behind the bar, her hands busy wiping down the counter, but I could feel her gaze on me. She didn’t say anything, not yet, but I knew she’d have questions later. She always did.
I stepped outside, the cool night air hitting my face like a slap. The Whiskey Highway was on the edge of town, surrounded by nothing but empty fields and the occasional flicker of a streetlight. It was quiet out here, the kind of quiet that made it easy to think—or maybe too easy to think. I leaned against the wall of the building; my arms crossed over my chest as I stared up at the stars.
Marry Jake Seresin. The idea was ludicrous, laughable even. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn’t just about me. It was about my mom, who’d worked herself to the bone for years to keep this place running. It was about Brian, who deserved a chance to go to college without worrying about how he was going to pay for it. It was about the Whiskey Highway, the place that had been my family’s lifeline for as long as I could remember.
But at what cost? My happiness? My freedom? My sanity? Jake Seresin wasn’t just a jerk—he was a walking disaster, the kind of guy who’d make my life a living hell just because he could. And yet, here I was, seriously considering marrying him to save the people I loved.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “This is insane,” I muttered to myself. “Absolutely, completely insane.”
But even as I said it, I knew what I was going to do. I didn’t want to. I didn’t like it. But I was going to do it anyway. For my family. For the life we’d built together.
“Mia, let’s go!” Lydia’s voice echoed through the store, sharp and commanding. “Daylight is wasting, and I’ve already called Brendan and told him about our weight situation. He’s agreed to literally squeeze you in for a 30-minute session!”
The store, which had been buzzing with the soft murmurs of other brides and their entourages, fell silent. I could feel the weight of their stares, even though the closed curtain of the fitting room. My cheeks burned with humiliation, and I clenched my fists at my sides, trying to steady my breathing.
Our weight situation.
As if my body was some kind of problem to be solved, a project for Lydia to manage. I glanced at the mirror in front of me, my reflection staring back with wide, panicked eyes. The dress was still half on, the zipper stuck somewhere around my ribs, the fabric clinging to me in all the wrong places. I looked like a caricature of a bride, and Lydia’s voice was the punchline.
Would it be a tragedy if I were to break a piece of the glass from the mirror and stab myself in the neck? The thought flashed through my mind, dark and unbidden, and I immediately shook my head, trying to dispel it. But the idea lingered, a morbid escape from the suffocating reality I was trapped in.
“Mia!” Lydia’s voice was closer now, her heels clicking against the floor as she approached the fitting room. “What’s taking so long? Brendan’s waiting, and I don’t have time for this!”
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. “I’ll be out in a minute,” I called back, my voice steadier than I felt.
“Well, hurry up! We’ve got a schedule to keep!”
I stared at my reflection again, my hands trembling as I reached for the zipper. This wasn’t me. This wasn’t the life I wanted. But it was the life I’d agreed to, for the sake of my family, for the Whiskey Highway, for everything I’d fought so hard to protect.
And now I was stuck in a dress that didn’t fit, about to be dragged to a personal trainer because Lydia had decided my body was a problem.
“Mia!” Lydia’s voice was sharp, impatient, and I knew I couldn’t stall any longer.
“Coming!” I called back, my voice tight. I yanked the zipper down, the fabric falling away from my skin, and stepped out of the dress, leaving it pooled on the floor. I grabbed my jeans and t-shirt, pulling them on quickly, desperate to feel like myself again, if only for a moment.
As I stepped out of the fitting room, Lydia was waiting for me, her arms crossed and her expression one of thinly veiled irritation. “Finally,” she said, her tone clipped. “Let’s go. Brendan’s waiting.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and followed her out of the store, the weight of her expectations pressing down on me with every step.
Grace Corleone married Michael because he was a down to earth man who fought for his country. Big brown eyes and smile that could rival Rudolph Valentino. Never in a million years did she think the man who made her heart dip into her stomach from excitement would cause her stomach to twist in fear and disgust.
Rated M: Be advised that this story will contain storylines depicting sex, verbal assault, physical assault, sexism, cursing, mentions of miscarriage, violence, murder, etc. Please do not read if these trigger you in any way. The story will follow parts of the trilogy. I do not own any characters/scenes created by Mario Puzzo or Francis Ford Coppola.
