South Side Sweetie

Series:

1. The Arrival of Eris: The one man she always wanted stood beside the girl he wanted more than anything. Alone, drinking, and burning with jealousy, she was already on edge, and he shows up. Eris. Her rival. Her enemy. He’s supposed to taunt her, hurt her, break her spirit like always.

2. The Edge of Want*: Eris. Her rival. Her ruin. He was destined to break her, to taunt her with sharp words and cut her down with cold precision. He did indeed. He broke her as he worshipped her, like she was salvation wrapped in fire. He shattered her with reverence, touching every ache she never dared to name. She should have resisted. Instead, she unravelled in his hands, in his mouth—sin by sin.

3. Second Best: She is still unravelling, with each moment and choice still echoing like a wound that refuses to heal. She’s always been secondary to someone else’s story, someone else’s heart. But not to him. Not to Eris.

4. Tension & Temptation*: The morning after, Eris is meant to slip away from the Moonstone Palace, before Rhysand wakes and before Azriel can reveal who spent the night in her bed, but Eris has other ideas for how to spend the morning.

5. Words Like Blades: The consequences of her mistake begin to settle: guilt, longing, and the silence of those she once trusted. Emotions run high, and the weight of her choices grows heavier with each passing day. When the Winter Solstice arrives, a night that was once filled with joy, she finds herself confronting unresolved feelings and the gaze of the one man she is meant to avoid.

6. His Only*: The night feels eerily familiar, echoing the last time she saw Eris. Caught between the past and the present, haunted by grief and guilt, unable to fully escape Azreil’s hold on her heart. Despite everything, she finds herself drawn back to the man she’s been trying to forget: Eris.

7. Please be gentle: She finally confronts her guilt, her grief, and the depth of the feelings she tried to bury. Eris, who only ever wanted to be accepted and loved, meets her in that vulnerability. Together, two wounded souls begin to learn the language of softness, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

8. Worship & War: She chose Eris; now it’s time to live with the consequences.

9. Exiled: Exiled from her home, she finds solace in the arms of the one person Azreil tried to keep her away from: Eris.

10. Welcome to Autumn: Now in the heart of Autumn Court, she must navigate a world of power, cruelty, secrets and breakfast.

11. Take Control*: Eris encourages her to take control, but in their heat, her deepest fear unfurls around them.

12. A Touch*: As she learns to trust Eris, she reveals a secret: her Illyrian wings. Eris begins to truly understand her, to see and know his mate in a way he’s never known anyone before.

13. Bound by Loyalty: Azriel shadows, secrets, and unspoken truths begin to unravel, testing the fragile line between loyalty and desire. As he fights to keep control of both his heart and his duty, the promise that once bound him to Rhysand starts to become the very thing that ruins him.

14. Choking on Silence: She watches her brother slip into the same path of cruelty and anger that haunted their father, becoming everything he once vowed he would never be.

15. Fixing the Broken: She held Eris in her hands. The only thing left to do was mend what Rhys had shattered.

୨ৎ An Honest Mistake┃4.4k 18+

Lonely and bitter following Gwyn and Balthazar's mating ceremony, you and Azriel sleep together. As it turns out, one night is all it takes to change everything.

୨ৎ Sweet and Strange┃4.5k

Weeks after a one-night stand with Azriel left you pregnant, Elain Archeron becomes an unlikely friend. When Azriel discovers your secret, you both must confront an uncertain future.

୨ৎ Topics of Conversation┃6.6k

A dinner with the Inner Circle triggers unexpected resentment. Back at your apartment, you and Azriel have a heartfelt talk.

୨ৎ Something to Lose┃2.6k

Azriel struggles with the weight of impending fatherhood after a political meeting turns personal.

୨ৎ Brave New Beginnings┃8k

Azriel's reluctance to be honest about his protective surveillance clashes with your confusion over his mixed messages, finally forcing both of you toward genuine communication.

୨ৎ Out in the Open ┃4.6k

During a quiet morning with Azriel, the reality of your pregnancy meets the one person you've been avoiding.

୨ৎ Partners in Crime┃2.5k

Pregnancy hormones, unrequited feelings, and family dinners don't mix well. Luckily, Azriel understands the art of a strategic exit.

୨ৎ A Mother's Home┃4.1k FAV!

You take a trip to Rosehall to meet Azriel's mother. The visit unearths more than you expected.

୨ৎ Learning Curve┃3.8k

On his mother's porch, you and Azriel find yourselves talking about forgiveness

୨ৎ Soft Spots┃2.3k

Ice cream nights and sweet confessions.

୨ৎ Growing Pains┃7.9k

Azriel grapples with his possessive instincts when you find comfort with a new healer, forcing him to confront what friendship actually requires.

୨ৎ Measurements of Progress┃3.9k

A bad day prompts you to call Azriel over. The afternoon leads to conversations about your romantic histories.

Current Word Count: 55.2k

BONUS CONTENT

ONE SHOTS:

୨ৎ Sweet Treats┃1.7k HALLOWEEN AU

Six months pregnant, you and Azriel celebrate your first Halloween together.

CHAPTER MEMES:

The Plot of 'Growing Pains' Summarized Through Memes

Moments from 'Measurements of Progress' in Meme Format

ASKS, DISCUSSIONS, AND THOUGHTS:

#Honestverse tag or #baby daddy!az

You stared at Rhys, waiting anxiously for him to finish his sentence.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward before he rolled his eyes subtly and slipped into your mind.

“I don’t want Az to hear what I’m about to say. Pardon the intrusion,” his velvet-smooth voice murmured through your thoughts.

“I’ve been working with your cousin and his mate,” he began, cracking his knuckles one by one — a nervous habit.

“I’ve studied the old languages of this world, and they mention world walkers. I believe, with Aelin’s help, I can create a portal to send you back.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“How long have you known this?” you asked mind to mind.

“We only figured it out a few days ago, and we didn’t want to get your hopes up,” he admitted carefully.

Then, more quietly, “So what do you want to do? Do you want to go home, Y/N?”

From the way he looked at you, you knew he already suspected your answer.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rhys had winnowed you home that night, just as promised.

The following days were long and exhausting as he worked tirelessly to force open a portal back to Terrasen.

By the fifth day, both Rhys and Aelin were nearly drained of power and needed several days to recover.

On the morning of the sixth day, you sat at the breakfast table in the townhouse, a steaming cup of tea by your right hand and a plate of pancakes untouched in front of you.

Rowan and Aelin sat beside you on the right, while Rhys, Azriel, Cassian, and Feyre occupied the remaining seats.

Rhys had organised the breakfast after you admitted you felt isolated, like everyone had chosen Azriel’s side after your fight.

But truthfully, you no longer cared.

You were going home to your mate.

The table buzzed with soft laughter and idle conversation as you quietly picked at your breakfast.

Azriel sat to your left, his hand clasped around your knee beneath the table.

Usually, the touch would have comforted you, but his comment about you being clean from your mate still echoed in the back of your mind.

He knew something was off of course.

In all the years he had known you, you had never brushed off his attempts of affection.

He asked you earlier if you were okay and you lied to his face when you said "I'm fine".

Cassian had just opened his mouth to ask you something when a sharp crack split through the world itself.

Blinding light flooded the room, swallowing the table whole.

All four males were on their feet before the flash had even faded, weapons drawn and ready.

You pushed to your feet too, only to double over as an unseen force slammed into your ribs hard enough to rock you sideways.

“Y/N?” Rowan was instantly at your side, steadying you before you could collapse.

“I— Rowan?” You shook your head, dazed. “What happened?”

Your gaze darted around the room, searching for answers, but no one moved. Everyone waited. Listening.

Then you felt it.

The tug of that invisible thread.

The mating bond.

A gasp tore from your throat as your hand flew to your sternum.

“Y/N?” Azriel’s eyes scanned frantically over your body, searching for an injury.

You ignored him completely and tugged back on the invisible tether.

“I’m going to check it out,” Cassian muttered, blade in hand as he stalked toward the front door.

You stayed perfectly still, terrified that if you moved, you’d miss it. Miss him.

“Y/N, we need to get you out of—”

“Shut up,” you snarled, cutting Azriel off so sharply that he physically recoiled.

The outburst was so unlike you that silence instantly fell across the room.

You hadn’t meant to snap. You were only trying to listen.

Searching for any sign that Fenrys was here, that the blinding light had somehow been him.

Azriel opened his mouth again, but another violent yank from the mating bond stole your breath first.

“Y/N.”

Rhys’s violet eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting as though he was listening to something far away.

Then his expression changed.

Not fear. Not anger.

Recognition.

The room held its breath.

And then the front door exploded inward almost knocking Cassian on his ass if he didn't move away just in the nick of time.

Wind and snow rushed into the townhouse in a violent burst, cold air tearing through the warmth of the room as sunlight danced on the figure standing in the doorway.

Your heart stopped.

Blonde hair dusted with frost. Golden-brown skin splattered with blood and dirt. Those impossible onyx eyes wild with terror and desperation as they searched the room.

Searching for you.

“Fenrys,” you breathed.

The bond snapped so violently between you that your knees nearly gave out. Years of grief, of yearning, of endless aching guilt crashed through you all at once.

And then he saw you.

The world seemed to still.

You watched the exact moment his panic shattered apart. Watched relief hit him so hard his chest heaved beneath the white tunic.

“Y/N,” he choked out.

It was barely more than a broken whisper.

Then he was moving and so were you.

A sob ripped from your throat the second his arms slammed around you, crushing you against him so tightly it hurt.

You didn’t care. Gods, you didn’t care.

Fenrys buried his face into your neck like he needed proof you were real, his entire body trembling against yours.

“You’re alive,” he rasped. “You’re alive, you’re alive—”

His voice broke completely.

Your hands flew into his hair, fingers tangling in the blonde strands as tears blurred your vision. He smelled like snow and pine and smoke, like home.

Like him.

“I tried to get back,” you cried into his shoulder. “I tried so hard—”

“I know.” His grip tightened impossibly tighter. “I know, sweetheart. I felt you. Every day, I felt you.”

The mating bond between you pulsed wildly, flooding your chest with so much love and relief it was unbearable. It drowned out everything else in the room until there was nothing except him.

Fenrys pulled back just enough to cup your face with shaking hands.

His eyes searched every inch of you frantically, like he was terrified you’d disappear if he blinked.

“You’re thinner,” he whispered hoarsely. “You look tired.”

A watery laugh escaped you. “And you look terrible.”

Something cracked in him at that.

A broken sound left his throat before he pressed his forehead against yours, eyes squeezing shut.

“I thought I lost you,” he admitted quietly. “There were nights I couldn’t breathe because the bond was there but you weren’t. I thought it was driving me mad.”

Your own tears fell harder.

“I saw you” you whispered. “In dreams. I think the bond was trying to find its way back.”

Fenrys made another shattered sound and kissed you.

It wasn’t graceful.

It was desperate. Hungry. Aching.

Like a dying man finally drawing breath after months underwater.

He kissed you as though he needed to relearn you. Like he was terrified this was some cruel hallucination that would vanish if he let go.

You melted into him instantly, clutching at his shirt, your entire body shaking as every missed touch and every lonely night crashed into you at once.

The room around you had gone completely silent.

Like the inner circle seemed to understand this moment belonged to no one else.

Fenrys rested his forehead against yours again, both of you breathing unevenly.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” he murmured fiercely.

A wet laugh escaped you as you brushed your thumb beneath his eye, wiping away tears you weren’t sure he even realised had fallen given everything.

“You’re crying,” you whispered softly.

“I crossed worlds for you,” he said, voice wrecked. “Of course I’m fucking crying.”

You laughed through the tears, a real laugh this time and Fenrys looked at you like hearing that sound again had healed something deep inside him.

The bond between you settled warm and golden in your chest.

Fenrys’s arms remained wrapped tightly around you, as though even now he feared someone might rip you away from him again.

But slowly, the male’s warrior instincts began to return.

You felt the exact moment he became aware of the room around him.

His body stiffened slightly against yours before he finally lifted his head.

HIs eyes swept across the townhouse cautiously, taking in the armed males still standing around the table. Shadows curled unnaturally along the walls. Power thickened the air.

Strangers.

Danger.

Fenrys subtly shifted you to his side, ready to throw you behind him if need be.

Then his eyes flicked to the two people who were smiling softly in your direction.

“Aelin,” he breathed, spotting the blonde female.

She gave you both a small smile before walking toward you "Welcome to Prythian, local time is nine fifteen am and the temperature is bloody freezing " she jested before quickly giving Fen a hug. “You look like shit.”

Fenrys barked out a rough laugh, still sounding half-broken from emotion. “Missed you too.”

Rowan stepped forward next, extending an arm. Fenrys released one of your hands long enough to clasp forearms with him tightly. No words were needed between them. Relief and understanding passed silently between the two males.

Then Fenrys’s attention shifted again.

To Rhysand.

The High Lord stood relaxed despite the enormous power radiating from him, violet eyes carefully assessing Fenrys in return. Feyre lingered close at his side, calm but observant. Cassian still held his sword loosely in one hand near the doorway.

And Azriel

Fenrys’s eyes narrowed slightly.

The shadowsinger stood rigidly beside the table, siphons glowing faintly beneath his leathers. His hazel eyes were locked entirely on you.

Not Fenrys.

You.

And the expression on Azriel’s face made the air in the room turn sharp..

He was watching you like he was waiting for the perfect opportunity to whisk you away.

He was being territorial.

Fenrys noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

His arm around your waist tightened almost imperceptibly as his gaze flicked between you and Azriel.

The room became painfully quiet. So quiet you couldn't hear anyone breathing even with your hightened senses.

“What,” Fenrys asked slowly, voice dangerously calm, “is that?”

You stiffened slightly as his eyes locked onto Azriels from across the room.

Azriel’s jaw flexed. “Careful.”

The warning in his tone made Cassian mutter a quiet fuck under his breath.

Fenrys straightened to his full height, every inch the lethal warrior as instinct sharpened his features.

“No,” he said coldly, eyes never leaving Azriel.

The shadows around Azriel stirred violently.

You immediately stepped between them, one hand pressing against Fenrys’s chest before this devolved into bloodshed.

“Fenrys,” you said softly but firmly.

His eyes snapped to yours instantly, all that lethal fury softening around the edges the moment he looked at you.

Once you felt your mate wouldn't do anything drastic, you turned your head to look at Azriel.

The male’s face revealed almost nothing, but after years spent around him, you recognised the tension in his shoulders. The tight restraint in his expression.

The day you had both silently feared had come, but neither of you new how to manage it.

There was so much there, so much unspoken.

You saw it in Azriel's face, the hurt, the betryal. Because it was clear who you had chosen.

Rhys sighed quietly, already exhausted. “This is perhaps not the ideal moment for posturing.”

“No?” Fenrys asked without looking away from Azriel. “Because your friend looks one wrong word away from starting something.”

Azriel stepped forward then, slow and deliberate.

"Are you going to tell him Y/N? or should I?" Azriel's words slithered through the room like snakes rolled in oil.

The question left your stomach rolling in on itself, and a new wave of guilt, of shame rose up your throat.

The mating bond surged and Fenrys stepped in front of you slightly, protecting your from the threat he thought was Azriel.

"Azriel, take a walk" Rhy's ordered softly, no room for argument in his voice as his power rumbled across the table.

Az didn't even fight the command as he marched straight out of the room, giving Fen a small growl as he passed.

You sighed in relief as the room lightened slightly. Fen turned to you, his hands cupping your face before Rhy's spoke again.

"Fenrys right?"

Fen looked over his shoulder and nodded once.

"Come sit down, i'm sure the next few hours will be slightly awkward for everyone so we might as well get this over with"

A/N: SO HOW ARE WE FEELING?? are we happy Fen is finally here? because tbh I am lol.

I'm so happy to write this chapter and have Y/N and Fen reunited after so long ( literally because I took a break in writing this story but whatever haha)

I hope you all liked it xx

⌘ Taglist ⌘

The room is quiet, save for the occasional grunt from the newborn sleeping in the bassinet. You shuffle your blanket to the edge of the bed, as close to the walls of the bassinet as you can manage, hoping your scent will waft over enough to keep him asleep.

Shuffling through drawers, you find what you’re looking for, the silk soft against your fingertips. You move quietly, determination dampening every movement. Sliding your pants down your legs, kicking them off to the side before sliding the burgundy shorts up your legs. The silk is from Spring, a deep red that feels luxurious on your skin.

Admiring yourself in the mirror, you peel your top off, cringing at the wet spot you hadn’t noticed. Either spit up or milk, you aren’t sure. Either way it has a slight curdled smell and you can’t help cringing as you hope it hasn’t clung to you.

The new top, flowy and silky, covers your body in a sea of red, the deep burgundy matching your comforter behind you. Your body has undergone so much change in the last year - breasts still swollen, full of milk. Your hips feel wider, stretch marks lingering around your pelvis. Despite endless resources, you still woke up most mornings exhausted.

You felt strong, confident in this new body in a way you knew most new mothers didn’t. As a child, you remembered seeing your mother’s own scars, the proof of creating life from nothing. You had completed the impossible. Such a rarity for fae and you had done it.

Now you have to do the impossible again.

Picking up the thin strap of your top, you slide it down your shoulder, going for nonchalant. Subtle. You spend a moment fussing with your hair, running a balance of putting in effort while knowing you have a short window for accomplishment.

Doing one last spin in the mirror, you can’t stop the mischievous smile, knowing exactly what this will do to your mate.

One last look at Atlas is all you need before heading out, trying not to fixate on how small and alone he looked in the bassinet. But to be the best mom for him, you need to be your best self and only one fae could cure the need that had nestled inside of you.

Padding through your bedroom, you don’t close the door all the way, leaving a slither open to hear. You move through the sitting room, crossing the threshold into the room Eris has made his study for the past few months.

Still in your private chambers, he had the second bedroom converted to get work done while being close at the end of your pregnancy and to ensure no one save his mate disturbed him.

The room had been christened many, many times by the both of you, before and after its renovation. The last time had been at the advice of a healer, a fleeting comment you had heard early in your pregnancy.

Relations can sometimes trigger labor.

She had been right. Past your due date and exhausted, you had cornered Eris one night, begging him to help however he could.

Atlas was born within six hours.

Now you stand in his doorway, reminiscent of that night a month ago, the same needy ache deep inside you. He sat scrawling something down, some kind of correspondence to someone.

Watching him for a moment was enough to get your heart rate up, the way he held a quill enough to make you rub your thighs together.

It has been too long.

“Eris…” you whine, sending all the arousal down the bond to the male sitting before you.

“No.” You balk at his immediate rejection, the sting made even worse by his refusal to look up at you. You step further into the room, closing the door behind you.

“You don’t even know what I want. You won’t even look at me.”

“I don’t have to look at you to know what you want.”

You pout, trying to send the equivalent of stomping your foot down the bond. If he won’t even look up to call you a brat something was clearly wrong.

“So now that I’ve had your baby I’m used goods?”

You fidget with the hem of your shorts, going for meek. Anyone else would have fallen for it, but Eris took a deep inhale, putting the quill down and looking at you.

“That is not what Madja meant by no sexual intercourse.”

“It basically is. All I am is a womb,” you sigh, shaking your head to further your point. Eris grit his teeth, warmth coming off of him already.

“You’re trying to rile me up.”

“Is it working?” You ask, unable to stop the hopeful tone leaking into your question.

“A little.”

You preen in satisfaction, not even trying to carry on the ruse further. You hit him in a primal spot, that instinct to care and please your mate so hard to shake.

“Sweetheart, I know it’s hard-“ you pointedly look down towards his crotch, watching as he adjusted himself through his pants and stopped mid sentence.

“Please, I could just sit on it. You wouldn’t have to do anything, you could even keep doing work,” you interrupt, need making you impatient. He fixes you with a glare, reclining back in his seat, but stays silent.

“What? I just want you inside me. You could just undo the ties of your pants - it’s the least you can do.”

“The least I can do?”

You nod, smiling a little. “I had your baby. You can let me have your cock.”

“Are you bartering our child for sex?”

“No. I’m using him as a reason for sex. Besides, he’s so cute, we could have another one and there’s only one way to do that.”

“You need to heal.” He growls, that protective instinct flaring again at the thought of you pregnant again so soon.

“This isn’t fair. You still fucked me when I had Autumn cough. Was I sexier when I was coughing and sneezing?” You are being petulant but you don’t care.

“You have never been sexier than you are right now and I have to protect you, let you heal before I ravish you.” His voice had deepened, a deep timber that goes straight to your core.

“Promise?”

“I promise. Now stay over there, several feet away from me.” He points to his couch, picking his quill back up to go back to what he was doing.

“It’s been three weeks, Er. I miss you.”

You slowly sit down on the couch, spreading your legs wide, the flowy silk exposing just enough for your mate to see the lack of any undergarments. Leaning back in the seat, you slowly drag your hands up your thighs, delighting in the scowl now adorning Eris’s face.

“Vixen,” he hisses, neck straining as he fights to keep his attention on the papers before him. You say nothing as your middle finger slips inside your shorts, moving up and down your folds slowly. You let a moan slip out at the gentle pace, hips grinding softly against your own hand. You make yourself comfortable on his couch, slouching further into the cushions. You throw your head back, wanting to put on as much of a show for him as possible.

You can’t resist peeking, opening one of your closed eyes to look at him to find his hand already fisting his cock. Your moans must have blocked out the sound of him unfastening the ties to his pants.

No matter. You shamelessly ogle his cock, the tip red and aching, desperate for your touch.

Your ministrations stop for only a moment, long enough for you to pull your shorts off, but the effect was immediate. Eris groans at the sight, the speed you went back to touching yourself is one he was desperate to match.

“Evil female.”

You moan at the half-assed insult, delighting in your cruelty towards him. One of your hands moves up towards your breast, fingers slowly circling the peaked bud.

Your legs spread further apart, not leaving anything for him to ignore. Slipping a finger inside, you couldn’t help yourself, delighting in moaning out your mate’s name.

A growl is his only response.

You were more than happy to continue your distanced torture, but Eris moves across the room, hastily removing his shirt as he went. You do the same, throwing the silk top towards his desk. You moved on the couch, resituating, hoping to have his cock inside of you, but he pauses an inch away from you. You grind your hips against his, but he holds himself back a few inches, not even letting you rub across his cock.

“Now who’s evil?” You pout, almost getting angry at how close he is to giving you what you want.

His eyes are dark, the look he’s giving you enough to know how badly he wants you.

Eris pushes you down onto the couch, your head gently thumping against the cushion. His legs gently nudge yours spread, your body listening to the silent command. You pull your hand away from your cunt, reaching for his cock, but he grabs your wrist, putting it right back where it was.

“Keep going,” is his only direction before his face meets the crook of your neck, gently nibbling at the skin there. You press further into him, his warm chest making your nipples almost painfully hard.

Your fingers move again, circling your swollen clit. Eris holds his body a few inches from yours, but you can feel his hand fisting his cock, causing your own movements to quicken.

Eris kisses down your neck, moving to your breast, gently lapping at your nipple before beginning to suckle. You gasp, surprised at how good it feels, still not quite used to the heavy milk supply you carry.

“Er-“ a hot wave of arousal shoots down the bond, arching your back. Eris doesn’t respond, only moves to your other breast, lapping up everything he can get.

The sounds he makes are utterly filthy, filling the small room. Your fingers pick up speed, your hips bucking wildly, desperate to release what you've been holding in for weeks.

“Delicious,” he murmurs, the vibrations going straight to your core. “Your scent’s been driving me wild, all I’ve wanted was a taste.”

“Was a taste enough?”

“No.”

He drank from your breast, grinding his cock into the couch, desperate for friction. His tongue is warm as it glides around your nipple, lapping and suckling.

His thrusts into the couch make you ache for more, desperate to feel him rocking inside you. The hand that wasn’t wrapped around his cock was on your waist, holding your hips down, keeping what little distance remained between you two.

You struggle against his hand, but he nips your breast in retaliation. Giving up, you focus instead on yourself, feeling arousal pooling in your gut. Your toes curl as you speed up, searching for that high.

The bond flowing between you two only accelerated the feeling, Eris’s own thrusts growing in speed. He was panting against you as your need crescendoed, climaxing a moment before he did, spilling his seed all over your stomach.

Panting, his head falls on your chest, his weight falling more on your body. The room was warm, heavy breathing echoing off the walls.

“How much longer until we can do that again?”

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He’d stumbled out of his childhood home and into the freezing rain, ignoring the desperate calls of his mother from the front porch. The mud had squelched sickeningly beneath his feet as he made a beeline for his truck, its silhouette barely visible in the sickly yellow glow cast by the porch light. 

He needed to be somewhere, anywhere but the ranch. The thought of staying in that house another minute made his stomach turn with nausea. 

So he left, truck rattling down the driveway, the outline of his mother still visible on the porch. He couldn’t even look at her through the rearview. It was too painful.

Following muscle memory, Rhett turned onto the main road, navigating even in the limited visibility, uncaring of the severity of the storm. All he knew as that he needed you. Had to get to you, had to fall into your arms and bare his soul to you. You were the only one who hadn’t utterly shattered his trust.

He knew he should call you, to warn you that he was coming over. It was late, and you’d likely be asleep. But he knew the second he heard your voice over the receiver, emotion would overcome him, and he wouldn’t be able to speak at all. 

So he drove instead, muscles tense, heart hammering wildly as he fought to navigate through the November rain. Ice had mixed with the rain, turning it into a thick sleet, and Rhett knew there was a risk of running into black ice. 

What normally took him thirty minutes, took him nearly two hours as he drove across the stretch of highway that led to your house. By some miracle, he didn’t end up dead on the side of the road. When the warm glow of your home came into view, windows illuminated by the small electric candlesticks you kept on the sills, relief washed over him.

He’d made it in one piece, physically. Inside, he was aching, moments away from falling apart, from losing himself. When he climbed out of the truck, the icy rain was a shock to his system, pattering against his face harshly, like tiny claws piercing his flesh. 

He gasped sharply, wishing he’d had the sense to grab his Carhartt jacket off the peg when he’d stormed out of the Abbott household. All he wore was a thin flannel, his jeans, and his boots. He hadn’t even worn his hat.

His clothes were soaked through within seconds as he ambled up the walkway that led to your front door. Tremors ripped through his body, teeth already chattering as he nearly tripped up the porch steps. His vision was blurred, tears gathering, threatening to fall.

He was a mess, and he had no idea how to navigate the war of emotions being waged within himself. It was all coming unraveled like a spool of thread, faster than he could stop it. 

As he knocked on your door, fist heavy and insistent against the wood, he hoped to god that you would hear it over the roar of the storm. Your doorbell wasn’t going to help him. It had shorted out not long ago, and he’d been meaning to fix it for you ever since. As it turned out, he’d sabotaged himself by not fixing it sooner. Who would have thought he would need to use it?

When the door remained closed, Rhett attempted to text you, but his hands were shaking so violently that the moment he pulled his phone out, it slipped from his grasp and clattered against the porch. Cursing, he bent to grab it, and right when he did, the porch light flickered on, and the door came open.

You had been curled up in bed, book open in your lap, with your cat, Marshmallow, curled up beside you, sound asleep. Over the violence of the storm, you thought you heard someone pounding on the door, but dismissed it as nature wreaking its havoc.

Until the pounding grew louder and more insistent. Someone was at the door, at one-thirty-two in the morning. Heart seizing in your chest, you cast your book aside, murmuring “stay put, Marsh,” as if the cat would listen to reason.

Multiple scenarios ran through your head. Whoever was at the door could be dangerous. Or, they could merely need shelter from the storm. You weighed your options as you padded down the steps, deciding to peek through the small window built into the door first.

You gasped sharply as your eyes took in the sight of your boyfriend, and without another moment’s hesitation, you flipped the porch light on, scrambling to unlock the deadbolt and the doorknob before you flung the door open.

“Oh my god, Rhett!” You exclaimed. He was soaked to the bone, and he wasn’t wearing a coat. When he looked into your face, he crumbled. 

You watched in horror as this steady, immovable force of a man fell apart in front of you. As you guided him inside, you asked, “what on earth happened?!” 

His hand was bleeding, knuckles raw, as if he’d punched something. Or someone. But he hardly noticed the injury. His skin was numb, the cold dulling his nerves. A few cuts were the least of his pain.

“I…my family, th-they–” He couldn’t speak. The words caught in his throat, tight with emotion. 

Carefully, you reached up to touch his cheek, and it broke him. A sob involuntarily tore itself from his chest, and he careened forward into you. You gasped, stricken with worry as you caught him. You’d never seen him like this. It frightened you.

“C’mere,” you whispered, guiding him toward the couch. He collapsed into it, and the moment you took a seat beside him, he was in your arms, head against your chest. And he shook. Oh, how he shook. Deep tremors that felt almost like convulsions. 

You had no idea what had happened, all you knew was that it had torn the man you loved apart. The man who shrugged off bull riding injuries and barely flinched in the face of danger. But as you held him, cradled him, you witnessed for the first time just how fragile he was. 

He didn’t wail. His cries were quiet, but they were there, tearing through him, as if they were the most painful phenomenon he’d ever experienced. And you cried right along with him, solely because you couldn’t bear seeing him in such agony.

“Rhett, baby. What happened?” You begged, fingers threading through his wet hair. 

When he finally pulled back to look at you, his eyes were bloodshot, his face red, and his bottom lip quivered. He wanted to speak. Wanted to explain what had happened that night. But try as he might, his mouth refused to form the words. How could he voice the worst heartbreak he had ever experienced? 

To you, it appeared that he was in shock. Skin pale, teeth chattering, he was freezing. You knew you couldn’t demand an explanation out of him while he was like this. “I’m getting you some dry clothes.”

Without a second thought, you kissed his forehead before you jumped up, feet quick as you hurried back upstairs. He spent a lot of time at your place, and because of that, many of his clothes had ended up at home in one of your dresser drawers. 

You were able to find a pair of sweatpants, boxers, and an old rodeo crew neck. Hastily, you raided the hallway linen closet, retrieving some towels and an extra blanket. Then, you whisked back down the stairs, where you found Rhett still seated on the couch, head in his hands, fingers threaded through wet strands of hair.

The sight was pitiful, and it nearly caused you to break down.

Tentatively, you approached him. “I’m here.”

He lifted his head, and the look in his eyes was bleak. This was the look of a man who had lost something dear to him. You were afraid of the explanation he was going to give. If he was so deeply harrowed by it, you knew that it would, in turn, break your heart. 

But you didn’t push him to tell you. Not now. Instead, you threw yourself into caring for him. As you knelt before him to begun unbuttoning his flannel, he stayed your hands, placing his own larger ones over yours. “You…you don’t have to,” he whispered, voice wrecked. 

“I want to.”

So he let you. 

And for the first time that night, Rhett experienced tenderness. A gentle, loving hand. You were so tender with him. So reverent. There was no hurriedness in your movements as you eased his shirt down past his shoulders. No impatience as you swiped the towel across his damp skin. 

If only for a few moments, he allowed himself to bask in it all, and he was struck with something so overwhelming. It tore him open, but not in the way that teeth or claws would tear into flesh. No, this was gentler. Kinder. Sweeter.

And when he was in dry clothes, you kissed the top of his head, and whispered how much you loved him. There was a deep sincerity in your voice. A sincerity that his own family had not afforded him.

“Why’re you so good to me?” He croaked.

“Because I love you.”

His tears began to flow once again, shoulders shaking. You were kneeling in front of him again, so carefully taking his injured hand into your own. “Talk to me. Did someone hurt you?”

Yes. But not with fists or weapons. With words. 

He leaned forward, eyes red rimmed, exhaustion shadowing his features. He looked older than he was. As if he’d aged in just one night. “My family. They lied to me. This whole time, they’ve been keepin’ secrets from me.”

The weight of dread settled heavily in your chest. You knew how strained his relationship was with his family. He loved them deeply, but they had broken his heart so many times. It was painful to watch him sacrifice so much for them, only to be mistreated.

“What did they lie about, Rhett?” 

Another wave of emotion welled up within him, threatening to strangle him, as if invisible fingers had wrapped themselves around his throat. “I…I’m not…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. The words were bitter, poisonous, sharp as a dagger. Speaking them out loud made it all true. It spoke his worst fear into existence.

But then your hands were holding his cheeks, thumbs brushing away his tears, and he found his strength to speak.

“I’m not Royal’s son.” His throat was raw. The sentence was jagged, as painful as spitting up broken glass. 

He was in the kitchen all over again. Chest heaving. Hands trembling. Alone, despite the people surrounding him. His mother, his father, his brother. He felt as if he stood in a room full of strangers. 

The walls were closing in. Suffocating, oppressive. 

“What the hell’s he talking about?” Rhett hardly recognized his own voice. Raw, barely contained.

“He deserves to know,” was what Perry had said. For once, the voice of reason. 

Cecilia stood at the sink, dish towel clutched in her hands. Her face was stricken, as if she couldn’t believe Perry had dared to bring up the subject. At the head of the table, Royal sat, his face unreadable, though the worry lines had deepened in his forehead. 

The discussion around the table had grown heated after Amy went up to bed. Something was wrong. Things had been tense for the last few days. A secret left unspoken, that only the walls of the house were privy to.

“What do I deserve to know, Ma?” There was a tightness in Rhett’s chest. A strange sense of anxiety and fear. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer. 

His mother shook her head, tears shining in her eyes. “No. I’m not havin’ this discussion right now.”

Royal spoke then, his steady, even tone cutting through the tension. “CeCe, it’s time. He ain’t a boy anymore. He’s a man. He needs to know the truth.”

A shuddering breath rippled through Rhett’s chest. Blood rushed in his ears. His palms had gone damp. He knew better than to disrespect his mother, and he didn’t make it a habit to swear around her. But here and now, he didn’t care anymore. “What the fuck is goin’ on?”

She wouldn’t look at him. “You weren’t supposed to find out like this.”

“Mom.”

Cecilia set the dish towel aside, stepping forward. There was a pallor to her skin, a sickly pale shade that made her look unwell. As if her entire life was unraveling before her very eyes, in the heart of her kitchen. The place that had always been a safe space, now tainted by a lifetime of lies.

“I did something foolish, years ago. A sin I’ve asked the Lord to forgive me for over and over again. One I hope you can forgive me for, too.”

Perhaps Rhett had always known, deep down. Maybe that was why he wasn’t overcome with shock when she spoke her next words into the eerie stillness of the room.

“Your father and I had hit a rough patch in our marriage. I was lonely, and I was hurting. So I…I went to an ex-boyfriend for comfort. I’m not proud of it. Matter of fact, I still hate myself for it. I don’t condone what I did. But it gave me you, Rhett. My baby boy. And I wouldn’t trade you for anything else in the world. You have to know that.”

Rhett went silent, his breath caught in his chest as he stared at his mother. “Say it like it is. Don’t fuckin’ sugarcoat it.”

“Watch how you talk to your mother,” Royal snapped, eyes sharp. 

“I ain’t talking to you,” Rhett shot back, hardly sparing the man a glance. “I want the whole truth. So tell it to me.” 

Cecilia stared at him, mouth pressed into a thin line. It was clear she didn’t want to admit it outright. She didn’t want to utter her own sin out loud. But she could see the anger, resentment, and betrayal clouding her son’s face. She’d already lost him, that much was clear.

“I was unfaithful to your father. Is that what you want to hear? I slept with another man and I ended up pregnant with you.”

There it was, plain as day. The admission that would crumble the very foundation of Rhett’s entire life. Incensed, his gaze snapped toward Perry. “You knew?”

Face bleak, Perry nodded. He couldn’t make excuses, or shift blame. He’d known for a long time, but he had sworn to his mother that he would never say anything. Until now. In the sudden disappearance of his wife, Rebecca, old family secrets had begun to bubble to the surface, like oil from the ground, as the police investigated every detail of the Abbott’s lives. Rhett would have found out the truth sooner than later. It was only a matter of time.

“And you just decided to keep it from me?!” Rhett’s voice rose a few decibels. 

“Let’s not turn this into a shouting match,” Royal tried to reason, leaning forward in his chair.

Rhett shot out of his seat, chair clattering to the floor, the impact loud enough to echo through the entire house. “No. You don’t get a say in this, because you aren’t my goddamn father!” 

Cecilia stood then, jaw set firm. “He is your father, Rhett. He raised you like his own. Loves you like his own. His name is listed on your birth certificate.”

“But he’s not my blood father! All these years, you kept this from me. How could you?! I deserve to know who my dad is!”

“Because it didn’t change anything! Your father was willing to forgive me for what I did. We put it behind us, and we did what we had to do, to keep this family together!”

“It changes everything!” The raw betrayal in Rhett’s voice reverberated through the plaster walls, seeping into the marrow of the house. A painful admission, a horrific realization. “My whole life is a lie! You get that, right?!”

“Rhett, please–”

“Who’s my real father?”

That made Cecilia blanch, her eyes widening. It was clear she didn’t want to say who it was. Rhett watched his family’s faces. Royal refused to look at him. Perry was staring at his mother, seconds away from telling Rhett the truth himself. 

“Ma, if you don’t tell him, I will.”

Tears began to spill down Cecilia’s cheeks as she slowly crossed the room, until she stood before her youngest son. Gingerly, her hand came up to touch his cheek, but he shied away as if she’d her touch would scald him. 

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Rhett–”

“Who is it?!” He sounded so wounded. It broke his mother’s heart.

“Oh, my boy, my boy. I’m so sorry. I should have told you years ago. I just thought I’d have more time.” Her hands were held out before her, longing, yearning to touch him, to comfort her child. It didn’t matter that he was a man now. To her, he would always be that sweet little boy with cherubic cheeks and eyes full of curiosity and mischief. 

But she had to accept the reality that she was now the cause of his pain, and no matter what she did, she would never be able to provide him the comfort he needed. In fact, she knew, as everything fell to pieces before her eyes, that Rhett would never come to her for comfort ever again. He might not even speak to her again. And that thought was what undid her.

Rhett watched his mother fall apart. Such a steady, God-fearing woman, now destroyed by her own grief. The very grief that she was the perpetrator of. 

How quickly things had fallen apart. She’d lost her daughter-in-law, and now, she was losing her son, in an entirely different way.

Cecilia now had to explain something she never thought she’d speak of again. Something she and Royal had agreed to put behind them forever. A moment of weakness, a foolish decision brought forth by the ache of loneliness. But the truth could no longer remain concealed.

“Before I fell in love with Royal, I had a brief fling with Wayne Tillerson. And once I was married, I thought I’d never let myself get involved with him again. But then my marriage was on the rocks, and Wayne was just…there. I let myself get tangled up with him again.”

Rhett stared at his mother, all the oxygen robbed from his lungs. He swayed slightly, unsteady, full of disbelief. “You’re sayin’ Wayne Tillerson is my goddamn father?” Sharp, venomous. In what world would his mother ever believe it a good idea to shack up with a man like him?

The pain in her eyes told him everything he needed to know.

“Rhett…” she tried, reaching for him once again.

“No.” He stumbled back. “I’m…I can’t be here right now.”

He ignored her as she called out to him. Clambered out the door and into the frigid storm, skin burning, heart pounding, head spinning. He had to leave. Had to be anywhere but here. 

And now, here he sat, huddled against your couch, hands shaking as he recalled the story with a voice that was raw and broken. He could hardly bear to look at you, because when he did, all he saw were the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. 

“Oh, Rhett,” you whispered. “Baby, I’m so sorry.” 

Rhett was so used to bottling everything up. Pushing it down, swallowing it all like a bitter pill. Be strong. Don’t let them see you cry. Yet, he wept openly as you climbed into his lap, wrapping your arms around him, whispering soothing words as you held him close.

It was all a lie. How was he meant to move forward after this?

“Sh-she wasn’t even gonna tell me. Only reason she did was because Perry brought it up,” Rhett told you, voice rough and trembling, after his tears had finally slowed. 

“Why now?” You wondered, fingers lovingly threading through his hair. 

“S’because the cops have been goin’ through our family history, with Rebecca being missing. They must’ve found something. Even Per knew about it. They all knew. Except for me.” The betrayal was so painful, it took his breath away. An ache had spread through his chest, sharp and insistent, as if someone had driven a dagger into his heart.

Oh, how you wished you could take his hurt away. Absorb all that pain, take it upon yourself so he didn’t have to suffer. His anguish was unbearable to witness. And there was nothing you could do to fix it. 

Instead of filling the air between you with words, you merely let the silence wash over you. There was nothing you could say to make this right. No amount of reassurance would change what had happened.

Your heart ached for Rhett. Though you were well aware of the rising tensions in his family, you would never have thought that everything would come unraveled this way. 

Rebecca’s disappearance had shaken the very foundation of the Abbott family. The crisis they found themselves in the midst of had revealed some hard truths that none of them wanted to face. Perhaps their bond wasn’t as unshakable as they’d once thought. And maybe they had spent years sweeping things under the rug instead of facing them head on. 

The result? 

A family’s implosion. 

“The signs were always there, I think. I was just too blind to see ‘em.” Rhett murmured, now seated at your kitchen table, a mug of hot cocoa clutched in his large palms. You’d offered to make him some, and he accepted, though he hadn’t taken a single sip of it. It was merely something to keep his hands busy. 

“What do you mean?” You questioned, touch gentle as you tended to his split knuckles. A result, he’d told you, of slamming his fist angrily against the steering wheel of his truck when he’d left his house that night. 

“Royal…he’s always treated me different from Perry. He was harder on me. Expected more. I never understood it, ‘cause I always thought the oldest kid was supposed to get that treatment. Instead, it was always me. Part of me wonders if that was because he resented me for the fact that I wasn’t his blood son. For the fact that I’m Wayne’s son.”

You fell quiet as you carefully patched his knuckles, gauze textured beneath your fingers. What could you say to him, in this moment? You couldn’t reassure him. Couldn’t say “he loved you in his own way,” because you didn’t know. You hadn’t been in Rhett’s shoes, growing up. 

“Maybe he did resent you,” came your whispered words of agreement. You had known the Abbotts for most of your life. Royal was a complicated man. An emotionally distant father, someone who had clearly never processed the trauma he had experienced in his own childhood, and therefore projected some of that trauma upon his own children.

You had witnessed, time and time again, the way he treated Rhett. He loved the boy, but it was always clear that he expected more from him. Perry seemed to get away with a lot of things. His parents, whether consciously or subconsciously, catered to his emotional issues. Perry could be volatile, at times, and when something set him off, he was hard to control.

Rhett was easier to handle. He did what he was told, and he didn’t succumb to emotional outbursts. Rather, he bottled his feelings up and kept them at bay, because he didn’t want to burden his parents when they already had enough to deal with when it came to Perry. 

Because Rhett always appeared to be fine, he often fell by the wayside. As a child, his emotional needs were not met the way that they should have been, because it was assumed that he was independent enough to handle things on his own. He could adapt. 

But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Now, as a man, Rhett struggled deeply to process his emotions. And as he sat in your kitchen, he was broken. He was spiraling. Everything he’d believed to be true about his life, about his family, was shattered. 

Perhaps he’d always known. Just as he’d said, something was always off about the way he was treated. But he’d brushed it off. Told himself he was imagining it, that he was being too sensitive. 

As it turned out, he should have listened to his gut feeling. 

“I never thought it would fall apart like this,” came his admission, rough in his throat. “My Ma tried so hard to hold the family together, even after Rebecca went missin’. A lot of good it did ‘er.”

When he looked at you, his eyes were red-rimmed, laced with a pain so deep it stole the very breath from your lungs just to see it.

“Where do I go from here? How the fuck do I move forward from this?”

He crumbled once again, and you reached for him, your own tears overwhelming you as you held him close, his head against your chest. “I don’t know, baby. I don’t know. But I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You were the only one who did have him. And while that realization was comforting, it was also agonizing. He’d lost so much, and nothing would ever be the same again.

That night was one of the most difficult nights he’d ever endured. He was empty, heartbroken, grief stricken. He felt as if he was outside his body, watching as you lovingly guided him upstairs, and helped him into your bed. He disconnected from himself, watching you pull him close, and wrap your arms around him. The whisper of reassuring words was left against the warmth of his forehead. 

By some miracle, he fell asleep, but he did not rest. His slumber was plagued with dreams. Horrible, awful dreams. And when he woke that morning, gray light pouring in through the window of your bedroom, there was a hollowness in his chest. 

As if on a loop, the scene in his parents’ kitchen replayed in his mind. The sick realization. The knowledge that his father, his blood father, had lived directly next door on the neighboring property, his entire life, and Rhett had no idea. The knowledge of who his father was left  bitter taste in his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he could accept it. For as long as Rhett had been alive, the Abbotts had always been at odds with the Tillersons. Two competing ranchers.

But there was a deeper reason for that rift. And maybe Rhett’s connection to Wayne was that reason. 

His mind continued to pull him deeper into the spiral of grief and confusion, weighing him down like a cinder block tied to his ankle. But then, there was a sweet, gentle, sleepy murmur of his name.

“Rhett.”

And the fog cleared.

When he turned, he found you curled beneath the covers, already awake. You offered him a sweet smile, leaning in to press your lips to his in a tender kiss that nearly unraveled him. 

Neither of you spoke. Not at first. What could you say? What could take his hurt away? Instead, you held one another, bodies intertwined, protected from the harshness of the world outside. As your fingers threaded through his hair, gently combing through the strands, he let himself believe that, if only for a moment, everything was going to be okay.

But reality had to settle in eventually, shattering the peace that had filled your bedroom. The sharp vibration of Rhett’s phone on the nightstand. He flinched, eyes flickering shut, because he knew who it was. 

And then you were there, reaching over him, fingers fumbling for the phone before you snatched it off the desk. The screen was bright, the name Ma flashing across the top. A flare of protectiveness welled in your chest. She was the last person Rhett wanted, or needed, to speak to. 

For now, he needed rest. So you hit decline, and turned off the phone altogether. Rhett regarded you silently, eyes misty with emotion. “Y’didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes I did. You need time away from your family, to process all the shit you’ve gone through. They can wait to talk to you. They’ll be fine.” You said it so simply, so determinedly. 

You were going to bat for him, when no one else would. “Why’re you so good to me?”

His face was warm, stubble rough against your palms as you held his cheeks in your hands. “Because I love you.”

Love. The kind of love that told the truth, even when it hurt. He wished his own mother had been able to spare that kind of love for him. Instead, she had concealed that truth in the name of protecting him. All it had done was break him.

Silence washed over you, heavy and deep. Outside, the storm had come to a close, but the sky was still bleak, its cold light washing over your homestead. There were chores that needed to be done. Animals that needed to be tended to. Yet none of that was more important than the man who was huddled in your bed, in the midst of the most terrible crisis he’d ever experienced. 

You wanted to offer him some semblance of comfort and normalcy. “How about I make you some breakfast?”

His mouth curved into a slight smile. “Y’don’t have to.”

“Actually, yes I do. Don’t want you turning into a hungry ole grizzly bear because you didn’t have your breakfast,” you teased, leaning forward to kiss the rounded tip of his nose. “I’ll make you some coffee, too.”

And so Rhett let himself be cared for. You didn’t further discuss what happened the night before, not yet. He needed time to ease into the day. To wake up and move freely about your home, relishing in the comfort it brought. It was a safe haven, compared to the tumultuous state of his own childhood home. He needed the stability.

When he sat at your kitchen table thirty minutes later, a mug of black coffee and a plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon before him, he took a moment to process it all. You had done so much for him, in such a short amount of time. No questions asked. No hint of annoyance. You were happy to care for him. 

“You can stay here as long as you want,” you told him, as you settled into the chair beside him, your knee bumping his.

He paused, swallowing a sip of coffee. “Darlin’, I don’t wanna put you out.”

Your hand landed upon his forearm. “Don’t you dare say that. You’re already here every day anyway. It won’t change anything, other than the fact that you’ll be sleeping in my bed every night now.”

“My family’ll probably come lookin’ for me. I don’t wanna pull you into the middle of it.”

“I already am in the middle of it. You and me, we’re partners. Whatever you’ve gotta face, I’ll face it with you.”

He squeezed your hand in quiet thanks, and you kissed his temple. He wasn’t alone in this. You wouldn’t let him be. 

After breakfast, you told Rhett to get some rest, but he shook his head, already jumping up to retrieve his clothes from the dryer, which you’d placed there the night before. “Nah, might as well make m’self useful. Plus, work’ll get my mind off things for a bit.”

That was how you found yourself tending to chores, Rhett alongside you. He fed the chickens while you gathered the eggs. He let your horse, Clover, out into the pasture for some exercise while you cleaned out her stall. He helped you haul heavy bags of feed into the storage shed alongside the barn, insisting he do all the heavy lifting. 

The rhythm you fell into was steady, comforting, natural. Rhett spent many a night at your place, and when he did, he would always help you get started on chores the next morning, before he had to head back home to get his own chores done on the ranch.

But now, there were no other responsibilities calling to him. And the thing of it was, Rhett couldn’t find it in himself to care that he’d left an extra work load on Perry and Royal’s shoulders. 

He much preferred the gentle quiet that doing chores with you brought. You worked well together, like two cogs in a machine, moving with purpose. You didn’t have to verbally communicate, all you had to do was share a look and Rhett knew what you were thinking. 

If only for a little while, he let himself fall into step with you, and pretend that everything was okay. 

Until the sound of an old truck came rumbling up the driveway. 

Before the vehicle even came into view, he knew who it was. A strange tightness immediately seized his chest, as if a rope had been pulled taut. You watched the way his face changed, his eyes widening, the previous sense of ease stolen away, replaced by worry.

It lit something within you. That same sense of protectiveness you’d felt earlier that morning when his mother called. And that was what ultimately drove you to march out of the barn, yanking your work gloves off, shoving them firmly into the back pocket of your jeans. 

Rhett stood in the doorway, watching as you stopped in the middle of the driveway, stance wide, arms folded across your chest, shielding him even from far away. When Royal’s truck slowed to a stop, you stepped over to the driver’s side window.

The man offered you a nod, his expression unreadable. “Mornin’.”

“Mornin’, Royal,” came your reply. Not unfriendly, but not warm and welcoming either. 

“I see my boy made it here safely last night.” His gaze traveled over to Rhett, who still stood just outside the barn door, tense and uncertain.

“He did.” You didn’t elaborate. Didn’t reveal how you’d held Rhett in your arms as he wept. Didn’t say that you’d patched his bleeding knuckles up. Royal didn’t need to know any of it. Those moments of vulnerability were between you and Rhett only.

Royal called over your shoulder then. “Glad to see you’re safe and sound.” His voice carried toward Rhett, who merely nodded, but didn’t reply. “You should come back home. Your mother’s worried.”

Rhett’s stony expression melted slightly, a deep sadness darkening the blue of his eyes. He looked so weary in the late morning light. All he could do was shake his head, afraid he wouldn’t be able to speak as his throat tightened.

You intervened, responding in his stead. “He’s gonna stay with me for a while longer. He needs some time.”

Royal was silent for a beat, eyeing you. He, too, looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept a wink all night. Understanding softened his brow, however. “S’pose we owe him that much,” he agreed. “Take the time y’need, Rhett. I’ll tell your mom you’re safe, so at least she has that.” 

You hadn’t expected him to leave so suddenly. But off he went, truck rattling back down the driveway, and your arms dropped from where they’d been crossed, relief softening your posture. You’d been prepared to argue, unsure if Royal would simply leave Rhett be or not. Perhaps he understood that he had no say anymore. Rhett wasn’t going to listen to reason. 

“You okay?” Your voice was gentle, concerned, as you approached Rhett again.

He let out a shuddering breath, chin quivering, eyes narrowing as he fought to keep himself from succumbing to tears. He’d cried enough. “I don’t know,” he honestly replied. What he did know was that he wasn’t ready to face his family yet. And he wasn’t sure when he would be.

You didn’t pressure him. You let him come to terms with things in his own time. Since Rebecca had gone missing, he hadn’t had the chance to fully sit with his feelings. And now, to add the bombshell that had just been dropped on him, there was so much he had to process.

The grief was sharp and cutting. It washed over him in painful waves, as if he’d been plunged into a pool of freezing water. And oh, how miserable it was. There was no bottling it up anymore. Now that it had begun to spill forth, he couldn’t find it in himself to keep it at bay.

How could he just continue on with life as if nothing had happened? The very foundation of his existence had been shaken to the very core.

The only constant for him now was you. You, and your gentle hands, your soothing words, your kindness and love. It had always been there, of course. Over the course of your relationship, he had come to learn just how good and loving you were. However, in the midst of this crisis, he was beginning to see you in a different life.

You showed him how devoted you were to him. How unconditionally you loved him. And though his heart was broken, you still held it in your hands with a gentleness that was unmatched. 

He was certain that he wouldn’t be able to go through any of this without your unwavering support. 

A week had passed since that night in the kitchen. A long, agonizing week. Rhett hadn’t spoken to anyone in his family since the day his father pulled up to your property. Since then, it had just been you and Rhett, falling into some semblance of routine. Chores, meals, time spent doing mundane tasks.

It was all incredibly healing for Rhett. It did your heart good, too.

But reality soon began to set in. And the following week was when he decided he was finally ready to face his family. 

“I have to,” he said, “I’ve gotta bite the bullet and talk things out.”

He knew that things would never be resolved if he hid away forever. So he arranged a time to speak with his mother, on his own terms. 

You offered to go with him, but he took your hands in his work-roughened ones and said, “‘ve gotta do this on my own, darlin’.”

So you kissed the bridge of his nose and whispered, “good luck.”

It was late morning when he pulled up to the Abbott property. A Thursday. Amy was at school. Royal and Perry were off buying supplies in town. That left Cecilia alone on the ranch, providing Rhett the perfect opportunity to speak to her alone. 

His heart grew heavier in his chest with each step he took toward the porch. When he let himself inside, the house was quiet, save for the quiet hum of work taking place in the kitchen. When Rhett reached the kitchen, he was met with the sweet scent of apples and cinnamon. 

His mother had prepared an apple pie. His favorite. But the sight of the pie, resting upon the table, its crust golden brown and crisp around the edges, did not bring Rhett comfort. It only worsened the heaviness in his heart. 

Cecilia looked up from where she stood at the counter, putting the coffee pot on to brew. She offered a smile, but its warmth didn’t reach her eyes. 

Standing there in the doorway, Rhett could see how much of a toll things had taken on her. He’d never thought of his mother as old. But now, as he gazed upon her, he realized how she’d aged. A deep, all-encompassing sense of sadness washed over him. 

“Rhett. Good to see you,” Cecilia spoke, voice trembling. She longed to step forward and wrap her arms around him, but she refrained. 

“Didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” he murmured, motioning to the pie. 

“Nonsense. No trouble at all, just wanted you to have somethin’ good to come home to.”

Home. This place no longer felt like it. As he glanced around at the house he’d grown up in, it felt more like a mausoleum. Something had died here. 

“Ma, I’m not…this ain’t me comin’ back. All I’m here to do is talk.”

Cecilia didn’t acknowledge that. Instead, she turned, gathering two dessert plates from the cabinet beside the fridge. “You want ice cream on yours?”

Soon, the two of them sat across from each other at the table, mugs of coffee and plates full of vanilla ice cream-topped apple pie in front of them. Rhett lifted a forkful of pie to his mouth. Its sweet spiciness, cut with the decadent smoothness of the ice cream, met his tongue, and his eyes fluttered shut at the taste.  

For a brief moment, he was transported back to a simpler time in his childhood. He’d always ask for apple pie for his birthday dessert. 

“S’real good,” he told his mother, nodding in her direction. 

“Glad you like it.”

For a few moments, they ate in silence. But the weight of what they would soon discuss already hung heavy in the air, insistent and pressing. 

“I was worried about you, y’know. The night you left. The weather was so bad, I thought maybe you’d ended up dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Rhett was quiet, regarding his mother. Her gaze lingered on the table, but she didn’t meet his eye. 

“I’m sorry about the way I ran off,” Rhett said. “But I had to get outta here.”

“You could’ve at least called and let me know you were safe.”

At that, he nodded in agreement. “I could’ve. But I just needed some time. You dropped a pretty big bombshell on me, Ma. It was a hard pill to swallow.”

A weary sigh passed through Cecilia, and she nodded, finally bringing herself to look at her son. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I never meant for you to find out that way.”

A flash of anger welled up within Rhett, but he held it at bay, knowing he couldn’t let his emotions get the best of him. “Were you ever gonna tell me?”

The question lingered in the air, heavy and fraught. 

Cecilia reached for her coffee cup, in desperate need of something, anything, to keep her hands busy. “I always planned to. Believe me, I did. But the timing was never right.” Her eyes drifted shut for a moment as she grounded herself. “Not tellin’ you sooner is my biggest regret. I’m so sorry, Rhett. For everything. It was wrong of me to keep that from you.”

Tears welled in Rhett’s eyes, grief flashing through his chest in a painful wave. “Does…does Wayne know about me?” He couldn’t keep the emotion out of his voice, raw and wavering. 

His mother looked at him, her face drawn, eyes red-rimmed. Something in her expression made Rhett’s heart sink. He knew then that he wasn’t going to like whatever she had to say. 

Cecilia was silent for a beat, unsure of how to word her reply. No matter how she spun it, Rhett wouldn’t take it well. “I didn’t tell him. Not at first. And I wasn’t going to, either, because as far as I was concerned, Royal was your father. We were gonna figure things out together.”

She remembered that time. How Royal had reacted to the news. He didn’t yell, didn’t swear, didn’t even threaten divorce. He simply went silent, staring at her, in the middle of the kitchen, much like Rhett was doing right now.

Royal didn’t owe Cecilia an ounce of decency or mercy. He could have ended their marriage right then and there, and walked away forever. But he didn’t. He knew the judgment his wife would face, from the rest of the town, if it was ever found out that she’d been unfaithful. The family name would be disgraced. 

He also knew that he couldn’t let her go it alone, not with a baby on the way. So, against his better judgment, he presented her with conditions. “Promise me you’ll never see Wayne again.”

Cecilia didn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

And then he was in her space, close as could be. “And don’t you ever go behind my back like this again, you hear me?”

She never did. However, her promise to never see Wayne again fell through when he showed up at the Abbott household one day, just a few months before Cecilia was due to give birth.

It wasn’t a romantic visit. It was strategic. Planned. Wayne showed up at a time when he knew Royal wouldn’t be home. Cecilia was all alone with a then five-year-old Perry. Upon seeing Wayne on her doorstep, she hurriedly sent Perry up to his room, instructing him to stay there and not come out until Momma said it was okay.

And then, she found herself in the kitchen, wringing her hands as Wayne stood at the counter, staring out the window. He was silent for a long moment, and his presence felt threatening. Foreboding.

He turned and glanced at her belly. “It’s mine, ain’t it?” He wasn’t naive. He knew the timeline. 

Cecilia squared her shoulders. “It’s Royal’s.”

An admission that held so much more meaning behind it. It didn’t matter that this baby was Wayne’s. Royal would raise the child as his own. For all intents and purposes, the baby was his. 

But that answer wasn’t good enough for Wayne. He reached into his jacket, sliding something out of the inner pocket and placing it on the countertop. A check. “I’m glad you said that. But just in case you get any ideas, here’s a little incentive to keep your mouth shut. Patricia can never know about this. Neither can my boys.”

“You don’t need to pay me off,” Cecilia protested, anger seeping into her tone. She realized, in that moment, just how foolish she’d truly been. How could she ever think getting involved with this man again was a good idea? She hated herself for getting caught up in his charms.

Wayne merely shrugged. “Just coverin’ all my bases. You understand, I’m sure.” Then, he stepped toward her, leaning in close, eyes narrowed. “You ever change your mind and try to claim this kid is mine, I’ll make sure this ranch goes belly up.”

Then he turned on his heel, spurs jingling as he headed for the door. Turning one last time, he tipped his hat. “Always good to see ya, Mrs. Abbott.” And with that, Wayne Tillerson was gone, leaving a shaken Cecilia alone in the kitchen, gripping the counter, knuckles white.

Now, she sat at the kitchen table, gazing upon her son as he processed the story she’d just told him. A spark of rage flickered in his eyes, not directed at his mother, but at his father. His blood father.

“Goddamn bastard,” Rhett spoke through his teeth, hands trembling. He had half a mind to head over to the Tillerson ranch and grab Wayne by the throat. 

But by far, the most painful realization was that Wayne knew Rhett was his son, and he didn’t care. And that was somehow worse than learning Royal wasn’t his blood father. He understood, then, why his mother had kept this from him for so long. She knew how painful it would be. She was trying to protect him.

Cecilia leaned forward, reaching across the table, placing her hands upon Rhett’s. He didn’t pull away. “I’m so sorry, Rhett. I wish I had done many things differently. But you have to know…out of all my regrets, I don’t regret you. You’re my boy, and I love you.”

Rhett nodded, though his chest was tight, and tears clouded his vision. He felt sick to his stomach. Nothing had been resolved here. There was no relief, knowing the truth. In fact, his pain had only worsened, taking root deep within him.

He had heard it said many times: “the truth will set you free.” But he didn’t feel set free. He felt imprisoned.

Even so, he managed to whisper, “I-I love you too, Ma.” Because he did love her, and he always would. However, he was certain now that things had been irreparably damaged. His relationship with his mother would never be the same again. He understood her reasoning for keeping the truth from him, and he knew she did what she thought she had to.

But it didn’t change the grief he felt. How could he move on from this? This was a deep, cutting loss. It felt like a death, of sorts. The death of his childhood. The death of his innocent belief that the man who’d raised him was his father.

“Are you comin’ back home?” Cecilia’s question was cautious, uncertain.

He looked at her. “I…” Hesitating, he closed his eyes for a moment. Over the last two weeks, he’d had time to mull it over in his mind, and talk things over with you. It was time for him to leave home. He couldn’t stay in this house any longer. The feeling of a safe haven had been shattered. 

“I can’t,” he finally admitted. 

Tears welled in her eyes. “There’s nothin’ I can do to make you change your mind?”

With the sad shake of his head, he stood. “It’s time for me to leave. I’ve gotta go my own way. And I just can’t stay here anymore. There’s too many bad memories, now. Too much fuckin’ pain.”

With Rebecca gone, and the knowledge that he had been lied to his whole life, it felt too much like a house full of ghosts. 

Cecilia longed to press the subject, to plead with him to stay. But she knew there was no changing his mind. Rhett was his own man, and if he wanted to make the decision to leave, there was nothing she could do to stop him.

Defeated, she stood, stepping toward him. “There will always be a place for you here, if you ever need it.”

Rhett nodded. “I know.”

And just like that, as quickly as it had started, it was over. Cecilia watched her son leave, her heart breaking at the sight of his retreating form. She’d lost him forever, she knew. It wasn’t that she would never see him again, of course. She would see him. And they would slowly heal from this event. But things would never be the same again, and Rhett would always be guarded around her. 

It was just the same as losing him.

As Rhett drove back home to you, he didn’t cry. Didn’t angrily slam his fist against the steering wheel and split his knuckles again. He merely sat in silence. No radio, just deafening quiet. He was numb. Dejected. 

And when he eased the truck into the driveway, he looked up to see you sitting on the porch swing, mug of tea in your hand, waiting for him. Heart heavy, he climbed out of the Sierra, boots crunching against gravel as he made his way to the porch.

You offered a gentle smile as he moved to sit beside you. His shoulders slumped in defeat. 

“How’d it go, baby?” You asked, voice gentle, cautious. Your mug of tea was set aside in favor of turning toward him fully.

Rhett shook his head, chin quivering. “Everythin’ is such a mess. I don’t know what to do.”

And so he told you everything. What Wayne had done all those years ago. How Rhett couldn’t even confront him, because of the threat Wayne had made to his mother. As he spoke, your heart ached. 

“I’m so sorry,” came your broken whisper. 

“Yeah. So am I.”

You held him then, arms wrapped around him, his head resting upon your chest. For what else could you do? There was no way you could pick up the pieces and fix the shattered glass that was his life. 

All you could offer was your support. And that was what carried Rhett through the worst season of his life. 

You were there, right by his side, the day he decided to head back to his parents’ and gather all his belongings, preparing to move into your place permanently. You helped him pack his life up, placing rodeo trophies, CDs, and endless memories into boxes.

It was a somber task. The closing of a chapter. 

But worst of all wasn’t leaving his childhood home behind. No, worst of all was the tearful little girl who stood in the doorway, watching her uncle put the last of his belongings into the back of his truck.

You gave Rhett his space, hanging back as he said his goodbyes to his niece. 

“I don’t want you to go,” Amy whimpered, large, round eyes shining with tears. It broke Rhett’s heart. She’d already lost her mother. Now her uncle was leaving, too.

“I know, honey. But this is somethin’ I’ve gotta do.”

“Promise you’ll visit a lot.”

He pulled her into his arms, hugging her tightly. “I’ll visit when I’m ready.” He tapped her nose with his index finger. “But I want y’to promise me you’ll listen to your dad and to your grandma, and make sure you do your best in school. Can ya do that, Ames?”

Tearfully, she nodded. “I can.”

“That’s my girl.” He gave her another squeeze, sadness washing over him as she sobbed quietly. 

From the truck, you watched Rhett embrace his niece, and you couldn’t keep your own tears from falling. The saddest part of all was that she had to suffer in the midst of all this, too. The actions of the adults around her would affect her life forever. 

Rhett walked away from his niece that day, heart shattering as he listened to her sniffles while he moved toward the truck. Toward you. And when he climbed into the driver’s seat, you were there, reaching over to take his hand in yours.

There were no words that could lessen his grief. So you merely remained silent, offering him your unwavering love and support. 

He turned to you, and you rested your forehead against his, sharing a moment of raw pain. When you kissed him, it was delicate, sweet. The salt of your shared tears remained sharp against your lips even as you parted.

“I love you, Rhett Abbott. We’re in this together.”

That was what gave him the strength to turn the key in the ignition, and pull away from his childhood home. He still had so much pain to process, so much to resolve with his family. There were things he had to comes to terms with. Demons he had to face. This journey was far from over. 

But he wasn’t alone. You would be with him every step of the way. Rhett Abbott would come out on the other side, wounded and scarred, but stronger than he was before. And when the going got tough, when his strength inevitably failed him, you would be there to carry him through.

And that was enough.

-

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When I have to turn in the keys, I feel my heart ache a little. So much has changed in such a short amount of time. It's hard to wrap my head around it.

But, it's not like I can back out of this now. I have to keep going forward.

"This is it." Jake unlocks the door, pushing it open to reveal a small but neat apartment.

The furniture is simple, functional, all neutral colors. A worn leather couch sits against the wall, with simple coffee table in front of it, holding nothing on the surface. There are no throw pillows or blankets, no photos on the walls, just the basics.

The kitchen is the same. Spotless, but empty. The counters are clear, the fridge hums in the corner, and there's nothing on the shelves except for a coffee maker, a box of cereal, and a few mugs.

It feels quiet. Like a place that has only ever been lived in halfway.

Jake sets the keys on the counter, turning to look at me. "Not much to look at," he admits with a little shrug.

But it's clean. His shoes are lined up by the door, his jackets hung neatly on the back of a chair. The bed, when he shows me, is made with military precision, corners tucked tight enough to bounce a coin off.

It is not warm. It is not cozy. But it is Jake's.

And for now, it is mine too.

----

The first week felt like a learning curve. Neither of us had lived with someone else like this before and even though we were married for the baby, it was clear we were still figuring out each other's rhythms.

At first I wasn't sure how much of my stuff I should put out. His apartment was so bare, and I didn't know if he even wanted decorations on the walls. My picture frames and throw pillows sat in their boxes, and every time I thought about unpacking them, I hesitated. It felt like I was invading his space.

But Jake made it clear in little ways that he wanted me there. He cleared out a couple drawers in his dresser for my clothes, pushed some of his things aside in the closet, and even moved his bottles around in the shower so I had room for mine. He made space in the bathroom cabinet too, just enough for my stuff. He never said anything about it, he just quietly did it.

The place itself is small, just a one bedroom, one bath, which is why most of my bigger things ended up in storage. My mattress, a few pieces of furniture, and some extra boxes had to stay there. Jake insisted I take the bed, and that he would sleep on the leather couch. Even though I was nervous about sharing a bed with a man I still barely know, I couldn't let him do that. He needs to get good rest for his job, and he's not going to be able to get that if he's sleeping on a couch every night. We kept a large gap between us, neither of us wanting to accidentally make the other uncomfortable.

The morning after I moved in, I woke up to an empty apartment. Jake had already left for training at 5:30, just like he told me he would the night before. I didn't notice it at first. My picture frames, the ones I had unwrapped but hadn't hung up yet, were already on display. My throw pillows were sitting on the couch too, brightening up the worn leather.

On the counter, there was a note in his handwriting.

'We missed a few of the boxes last night. I'll put the rest up when I get home.'

I stared at it longer than I probably should have. It felt like his way of telling me it was okay to make the place mine too. That he wanted me to.

He wanted this to feel like my home now too.

That means a lot.

----

It's almost 6, earlier than my usual time off but Penny lets me go home early. Jake's not back yet, but I know he will be soon.

I barely finish setting the table when I hear the soft click of the front door unlocking. Jake steps inside, boots thudding against the wooden floor. His hair is a little messy like he's had a helmet on all day, and there's a worn-out edge to his eyes. He looks tired.

"Hey, smells great in here." He gives me one of his easy grins as he bends down to unlace his boots. He lines them up neatly against the wall next to mine, like he always does. Even exhausted, the man treats the entryway like inspection's coming any minute.

"Hi," I say, setting down a fork on the table. "It's almost ready. Ten more minutes."

"Perfect. I'm starvin'. He stretches his neck like it's been stiff all day. "I'm gonna clean up real quick. Be back in a minute."

He disappears down the hall toward the bathroom, and I swear I hear him sigh as the door shuts. It makes me feel weirdly soft, knowing he's probably been running on fumes all day. Makes me glad I cooked.

While he showers, I finish cooking our dinner. I turn off the burner when I hear the bathroom door open.

Jake walks back into the kitchen, freshly showered, hair damp and pushed back with a comb. A small strand of hair hangs against his forehead.

It's kind of adorable. Is that weird to say about a grown man?

He's swapped his uniform for a soft gray t-shirt and a pair of worn sweatpants that sit low on his hips. He looks much more relaxed than when he arrived. Still tired, but less tense.

There is an ease to him like this, clean and comfortable, that makes it hard not to stare. I catch myself and look away.

Yeah, he's attractive. Obviously.

Don't make things awkward. I scold myself.

Jake doesn't seem to notice my staring or internal battle, thankfully. He pauses by the table, eyebrows lifting slightly as he takes in the setup. "Damn," he says with a low whistle. "This looks amazing."

"Thanks. I hope you like it."

We sit down across from each other around Jake's small dining table, plates in front of us. For a moment, it is quiet in a comfortable way, the kind that doesn't feel like silence, just calm.

"I thought you weren't supposed to be off until 12. Penny let you off early?" Jake asks, twirling his fork casually.

"Yeah, Penny let me go before the rush. Figured I'd actually make something for once instead of grabbing drive-thru on the way home."

He huffs a little laugh. "Well, remind me to thank her. Beats the protein bars I was about to call dinner."

I grin. "Long day?"

"The usual. Sim training in the mornin', then paperwork. I swear I spent more time starin' at a computer screen than actually flying these days." He leans back in his chair, rolling his neck with a small crack. "You?"

"Busy, but manageable." I shrug. "Washed a bunch of glasses, told three different guys we don't sell tequila shots before noon."

He snorts. "Menaces."

We fall into easy conversation. Nothing serious. Just little stories from our day, the kind you'd share with a friend. I find myself laughing more than I expected to.

There is a lull as he sets his fork down, almost like he remembers something.

"Actually," he says, wiping his hands on a napkin, "I meant to tell you earlier. I talked to Tricare today."

My head lifts. "Yeah?"

He nods. "Your enrollment went through. Since we're officially married now, you're covered under my plan. You can go to the doctor whenever now."

For a moment, I just blink at him. "Wait. So... I have insurance now?"

"Full coverage," he confirms. "Prenatal care included. You won't have to pay out of pocket."

The breath that leaves me is deeper than I expect. Weeks of quiet stress loosen all at once in my chest. "Jake, that's... that's huge. Thank you."

He shakes his head. "You don't have to thank me. It's how it's supposed to work."

I've been so worried about the baby, I'm glad we can go to the doctor now.

We.

Does Jake want to go to the appointment? Dad's usually do that, right? It's a big thing for me, so it's probably a big thing for him too. I mean, it's his baby. He cares about it. Why wouldn't he want to be there?

I swallow, deciding to ask him. "Would you... want to come with me? To the appointment, I mean. I should set one up soon."

Jake looks up from his plate, eyes warm. "Yeah, definitely." he says without hesitation. "I'd love to. If you're okay with that."

I smile. "Of course, I kinda don't want to go alone."

His tone is serious as he holds my gaze. "Then you won't be. Whatever you allow me to go to with you, I'll go. I was serious when I said I want to be there for you both."

I feel my heart flutter slightly. "I'll call tomorrow. See when they can take me."

"Let me know what they say," he replies. "I'll talk to my CO and get the time off."

"Alright, I will." I take a sip of water, then glance around. "So, what did you eat today? You didn't just run straight home, did you?"

"Ha, no. I grabbed a snack, nothing fancy. Just enough to keep me from fainting on the drive home," he says, leaning back in his chair. "You know, military cuisine... highly sophisticated."

I roll my eyes playfully. "Oh, absolutely. Nothing beats a soggy sandwich from the commissary."

He laughs and it feels easy, natural. "Exactly. I think your cooking just officially ruined every other meal for me this week."

I smile, feeling warmth spread through me. "Good. I'll take credit for that. Next time, maybe I'll add dessert just to make it even worse."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Please do. I think I could survive another week on pasta and that kind of temptation."

The conversation drifts on like that for a while, friendly and calm. We've come a long way since the beginning. I feel like we're actually starting to become friends.

When we finish dinner, Jake helps me clean up. We clear the table and put the left overs away. He washes while I dry the dishes. We chat a bit more about work and the chaotic situations his friends get involved in. After the last dish is put away, we decide to watch our first movie together.

We grab a couple of blankets and settle onto the couch, leaving a little space between us at first. I pick the movie, something light and funny, and hit play. Jake stretches out a bit, his arm brushing mine, and I don't pull away.

We end up laughing at the same parts, making small comments to each other about the characters. At one point, he nudges me slightly with his shoulder and I nudge back. It's awkward at first, but in a comfortable way, like we're learning how to exist around each other without stepping on toes.

By the time the credits start rolling, he's dozed off. One of my throw pillows rests across his lap, his hands loosely draped over it, and his head tilts slightly against the couch. His hair is now completely dry, strands falling softly across his forehead. His breathing steady.

For a moment, I just watch him. His face is completely relaxed, softer than I've ever seen it, the usual tension gone. There's a quiet peace in his expression, like the weight of the day has melted away.

He looks at home here, vulnerable in a way he rarely lets anyone see. And in the soft glow of the lamp and the fading light from the TV, he seems almost impossibly… real. The curve of his jaw, the slight lift of his lips, the way his lashes brush against his cheeks... even in his sleep, Jake's a handsome man.

I reach over and carefully turn off the TV, not wanting to wake him. I grab blanket and gently drape it over his shoulders so he doesn't wake up cold. He stirs a little but doesn't wake, just lets out a soft sigh.

I take one last look at him before turning off the light and heading to bed.

Tonight was a good night.

----

Jake drives us to the appointment.

He insisted. I offered to take my own car, said I could meet him there after work, but he shut that down immediately with a simple, firm, "I'm takin' you."

Now we're sitting in the waiting room of the doctors office, surrounded by pastel walls and soft instrumental music that doesn't match the nerves in my stomach. I fill out paperwork while Jake sits beside me, flicking through a random pamphlet he found.

His leg bounces. Subtle, but enough for me to notice.

Is he nervous too?

He catches me looking and smirks. "What? You think I get jittery in a doctor's office?"

"A little," I tease, trying to distract myself from my own nerves.

He scoffs. "Darlin', I pull nine Gs on the regular. I think I can handle a couple pamphlets on prenatal vitamins." His tone is playful, but I can tell he's trying to keep it light for my sake too. His eyes betray his confidence, a glimmer of uncertainty reflecting off of them.

They finally call my name, and we both stand up at the same time. Jake follows me without being asked. When the nurse leads us into the room, he pauses at the doorway like he's waiting for her permission.

"You're dad, right? You can come in," she says with a polite smile.

Jake nods and steps in, standing close but not crowding me. I lie back on the exam table, heart pounding as the doctor comes in and introduces herself. She asks a few questions, types notes into the computer, then wheels over the ultrasound machine.

"Ready to see your little one?" she asks gently.

I nod. My mouth is dry. Jake moves closer, standing at my side. His hand hovers for a moment like he's not sure if he should offer it up for support or not.

I grab it before he can pull it back. He lets me hold onto him. His fingers firmly curl around mine instantly.

The gel is cold on my stomach and I flinch.

"Sorry, it's a bit cold" the doctor says with a small chuckle. "Always is." She presses the wand against my skin, moving it slowly, searching.

The room falls quiet except for the hum of the machine.

Then it happens.

A flicker on the screen. A tiny lime sized blobish shape. The image moves as the doctor rubs the wand around my stomach slowly. It's fast and steady, a beautiful song I could listen to for hours. It's unlike anything I've ever heard before.

"There's your baby," the doctor says softly. "The heartbeat looks strong."

My vision blurs. I don't even realize a few tears have fallen until Jake squeezes my hand.

The sight of our baby fills me with more love than I ever knew I could be capable of having. I feel all my anxiety float away as my mind focuses on the tiny human on the screen. I can't believe how small it is!

Jake lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, almost like disbelief. His eyes are trained on the monitor, wide and completely entranced by our little baby. "Damn," he whispers under his breath, shaking his head slightly. "That's really... our baby."

"Yeah... yeah it is." My voice cracks in the middle, but I don't care. I can't look away from the screen.

The doctor prints a few pictures, wiping the gel from my stomach before stepping away to grab the images.

I sit there, still holding Jake's hand. He hasn't let go. His thumb brushes once, slow and soft across my knuckles like he's not even aware he's doing it.

The doctor steps back over and hands him a small strip of ultrasound photos. Jake's hand gently pulls away from mine as he takes them carefully and his eyes scan over the images.

"Can I get an extra copy?" he asks suddenly, glancing up at the doctor.

She smiles. "Of course."

"One for my wallet," he says quietly, mostly to himself.

The doctor grabs another copy for Jake who immediately sticks it into his wallet while I have a turn looking at the first copy. Before we leave I'm given a few pamphlets, prenatal vitamins and a list of things we should do to prepare for the baby and birth. It's a little overwhelming, but we leave feeling more confident and excited than when we arrived.

The hum of the engine fills most of the silence as we pull out of the parking lot. I watch the world blur past the window while my hand rests over my stomach.

Jake keeps one hand on the wheel, the other drumming lightly against his thigh like he needs to release some of the energy buzzing through him.

After a while, he speaks.

"You good?"

I nod. "Yeah. You?"

He lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh. "Not sure yet."

I glance at him. "In a bad way?"

He shakes his head. "No. Just… feels different now. I don't know how to explain it... more real?" He pauses, eyes fixed on the road. "Kinda hit me in the chest."

I smile softly. "Me too."

He nods slowly.

Another beat passes.

Jake gently without looking, pats the pocket his wallet is in, the ultrasound photo tucked away inside. "Hey… do you think the baby will like planes?"

I turn toward him, smiling. "With a dad like you? It's probably gonna come out doing barrel rolls."

"Damn right."

----

A/N: Sorry this has taken me forever to get out. I've been really stressed the past few weeks. I'm attending 2 colleges simultaneously while also dealing with a bunch of personal stuff and it's just been a lot. Because of it all I haven't really had the mental energy to write. I've been working on this chapter since the day after the last one came out but I've been struggling to finish it (hence the switching POV's to move things along). This is kinda the in between chapter between the big ideas I've had for this story so that's also why I've struggled with writing it. Iykyk. I hope you guys still like it! There will be one or two more chapters to come. They're going to be longer ones so be prepared. Have a great day guys! Thanks for reading.

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Bradley’s apartment is in the block of new, modern houses close to the shore. If he gave you the right address and this is all not just a weird prank. He had apologized in a text message that he wouldn’t be able to get you at the city airport, so here you are, getting out of the taxi, wheeling along a decent-sized suitcase, Google Maps on the screen of your phone in your other hand.

When you reach the wooden door with number 1004, your heart is ready to beat out of your chest. And it’s not from the heavy pulling. The reason is different - you haven’t seen Bradley, your best childhood friend (and long past your childhoods) in four years. Obviously, you’re not dumb enough to think that this guy, who has only one dream and one goal - flying fighter planes - would afford any distractions. And the only conclusion you’ve come to after he stopped contacting you from various Naval bases around the USA is that he was strictly focusing on his goal. You could live with that.

The doorbell is the modern type, with fancy buttons, a speaker, and a camera. You try to look super self-composed and cool as you ring it, in case Bradley’s watching.

“Come on in! It’s the top floor,” comes from the intercom. The sound is pretty distorted, but the low octave of Bradley’s voice you immediately recognize. Nodding to the camera, you push the door open.

Seeing Bradley for the first time after such a long time is - you can’t even comprehend it, because he pulls you into a hug as soon as he opens the door of his apartment.

You freeze for a split second, caught off guard by how naturally his arms find yours, how solid he feels. You’re not focused enough to register his scent, except deodorant when you squeeze him briefly before stepping back.

“I wasn’t sure you would really come,” he says with a small smile, hands on his hips. There’s only one thing you notice now - the mustache.

You blink slowly before answering: “I texted you when I was getting on the plane in Baltimore, then again ten minutes from the taxi.”

“Yeah,” he laughs shortly, giving your upper arm a playful, light smack. “But still -- ” Bradley stalls a bit awkwardly, eyes fleeting around the entryway.

You don’t know awkward Bradley. You know the entertainer Bradley, the funny Bradley, the chatty Bradley, and the Bradley who makes everyone around him at ease. This doesn’t feel particularly easy, and you can only rely on him to make this reunion a nice experience for both of you.

“And you’re gonna invite me in, or what?”

That seems to break the ice, as Bradley immediately steps aside, his arm showing you in. He moves smoothly behind you, taking care of your luggage.

The apartment smells faintly of salt air and coffee, a little too clean, a little too new. It’s apparent that this is another temporary home, and there are too many of them for the top Navy aviators. Still, you admire the wide, floor-to-ceiling windows and the small touches that try to make it feel lived-in: a stack of well-thumbed books, a single framed photo leaning against the wall, a guitar in the corner.

Bradley notices you looking around and shrugs, a little self-conscious. “I try,” he says, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Not much time for decorating when you’re hopping between bases, but… it’s home for now.”

You nod. “It’s nice.”

Bradley moves toward the kitchen area, eyes on you. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee,” you answer automatically, and he seems satisfied with the choice.

“I made a late lunch. Or early dinner,” he explains as he putters around the counter, opening the fridge and fishing for something inside.

“Both sound great,” you smile at him easily when he resurfaces, a couple of containers in his large hands.

God, he - he’s all - large. Sturdy. His physique has changed a lot, and you’re not sure how much you’re allowed to stare. His back is wider, and his hips narrower. You’re not yet familiar with the bulging biceps that come into clear view as Bradley finishes the meal, focused on the task while you sip your coffee.

You wrap both hands around the mug, letting the warmth anchor you while you sneak glances at him over the rim. It feels a little surreal - the boy you grew up with is gone, replaced by this version of Bradley who seems carved from discipline and long hours in the cockpit. The mustache is ridiculous and perfect all at once, complimenting his face the same way it had been his father’s in all the photos you’ve seen.

He sets plates on the table - grilled chicken, some kind of roasted vegetables, rice - simple but solid, the kind of meal you imagine he makes out of routine rather than pleasure. “It’s nothing fancy,” he mutters, sliding into the chair opposite you.

“Better than airport food,” you reply, and the corner of his mouth lifts. You’ve missed this - the comfortable act of sharing space with him.

It’s just after 5 pm when you finish the food, and you help put the dishes away.

“Is it okay if I take a shower and change my clothes?” you check with Bradley, dying to refresh after the flight.

“Sure,” he says, hurrying to show you the bathroom, the towels and toiletries. “Actually,” he stalls a bit, hand rubbing the nape of his neck, “I’m not sure where you are supposed to stay, but I was thinking that you could just crash here?”

You falter for a second, trying to make sense of Bradley’s words. You haven’t booked a hotel yet, wanting to spend as much time as possible with him today and knowing that hotel rooms weren’t an issue in San Diego.

“A hotel? I’m - I don’t want to bother you,” you stutter out, and the weirdness between you is back, the four years of silence obvious in the moment.

“You don’t bother me,” Bradley clarifies quickly. “I should’ve told you when I invited you over. I should’ve thought of it.”

You hug your arms loosely around yourself, watching him shift his weight in the doorway, the big frame of him looking strangely unsure. That’s not the Bradley you know, and it makes something twist in your chest.

“It’s fine,” you say gently, hoping to ease the tension. “I just didn’t want to assume.”

Bradley exhales, shoulders lowering, as if your words cut through the stiffness. “Well, assume it. You’re staying here. I want you here.”

The last part slips out a little too quickly, a little too honest, and he clears his throat before continuing, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. “Bedroom’s yours. I’ll take the couch.”

You frown. “Bradley, this is your place. I can take the couch.”

His mouth curves into that familiar stubborn smile, the one that always meant you were about to lose an argument. “Not happening. End of discussion.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head, the tension easing again. “Still bossy.”

“Still right,” he shoots back, but the warmth in his tone makes it less of a jab and more of a comfort.

He steps aside, giving you space to slip into the bathroom. “Towels are fresh. Take your time.”

And just before you close the door, you catch him looking at you - not awkward this time, not forced - just… looking. Like he’s still catching up to the fact that you’re really here.

---

How foolish of you to think that he wouldn’t drag you to The Hard Deck on your first day. The legendary place that you’ve been only once to. With him, actually, to be precise. You were about nine and twelve, and little Bradley decided that it was time to visit the navy’s favourite spot in San Diego while you and your mum were visiting the Bradshaws.

You don’t remember the interior clearly, but you sense that it hasn’t changed one bit. Given it’s not the weekend, the place isn’t too busy, which you prefer. On the other hand, you could hide in the crowd more comfortably.

During the walk to the bar, you notice Bradley nodding to a couple of people sitting at tables, and when you reach the destination, he leans over the bartop, pecking the bartender’s cheek.

“This is Penny,” he tells you, then turns to Penny again to introduce you. “She’s my East Coast friend,” he adds, leaning against the counter.

“Nice to meet you,” Penny smiles at you, and gosh, she’s so beautiful. “A friend?” she smiles mischievously at Bradley.

“Yeah, a friend, Penny,” he clarifies. She doesn’t seem very convinced, and you’re absolutely not shocked to discover that Bradley’s popularity with ladies is well-known here. He’s always been flirty with girls, sometimes boys too. Easygoing and happy to have some casual fun. None of his advances were ever directed at you; your friendship sacred somehow.

The need for drama bubbles up in you.

“Oh my god, have you been fucking through San Diego, Bradshaw?” you ask, overdoing the shock and surprise by a mile, laying a palm on your chest, mocking.

Bradley almost chokes on the sip of the beer Penny just slid across the bar to him. His head jerks toward you, eyes wide before narrowing in that familiar half-annoyed, half-amused glare.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Penny laughs, full and bright, clearly entertained. “Oh, I like her,” she says, giving you a conspiratorial grin before turning away to pour another drink for someone down the bar.

Bradley leans closer to you, voice dropping low, but there’s no heat behind it — just exasperated fondness. “You’re trying to get me killed, huh? Gonna ruin my rep before you’ve even been here a full day?”

You take a sip of your beer and shrug with mock innocence. “What rep? Everyone here already knows, Bradley.”

He groans, throwing his head back, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. That boyish grin that’s always given him away.

That night, you meet more people from Bradley’s life - coworkers from the base, two other pilots too. Everyone is friendly and nice to you, which you appreciate, since social situations aren’t your strong suit. That’s why having Bradley by your side while growing up meant so much to you.

Bradley seems to sense that about you even now. He doesn’t let you drift too far, always pulling you into the circle of conversation with an easy gesture or a subtle nudge of his shoulder against yours. When one of the pilots cracks a joke you don’t quite catch, Bradley repeats it quietly in your ear, the warmth of his breath brushing your skin before you laugh along with the rest.

It’s not the kind of spotlight you’d normally survive, but with him there, it feels manageable — even almost fun.

Later, when the crowd thins and the jukebox hums low in the background, Bradley seddles down in a chair, watching the last of his friends file out. “So,” he says, eyes finding yours, “was it as bad as you thought?”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider. “Nope. Didn’t even break out in hives.”

He chuckles, that low, easy sound that always used to make you feel safe. “Good. You did great.”

The words are simple, but the way he says them - steady, reassuring - makes your chest tighten, and you realize that you’re in dangerous territory.

---

Bradley shows you into his bedroom and leaves you there with “good night.” You move around gingerly, untying the knot on your thin, linen bathrobe before getting under the soft sheets. The window drapes are half-shut, and you enjoy the soft lamplight coming in from the street below. For a long moment, you lie stiffly on your back, trying to get accustomed to the new surroundings, to everything that’s happened this afternoon and evening. You wiggle in the sheets, catching their clean smell - Bradley must have washed them recently, put on a fresh set. He wasn’t lying earlier when he said he had meant to offer you staying at his place.

Sighing, you turn to your right side, finding a more comfortable position. You’re in Bradley Bradshaw's bed, in his sheets, in his bedroom. Where he rests every night and probably where he takes girls. The feeling of invading his privacy is strong and makes you squirm.

It makes you question your own intentions when agreeing to this “back to the future” trip. There are things that need to be set right, things that you need to say.

---

You wake earlier than you expect, and for a moment you don’t remember where you are - the ceiling is unfamiliar, the sheets softer, and then it hits you all over again. Bradley’s room. Bradley’s bed.

Your heart kicks up, but the calm morning light softens the edges of your nerves. You stretch carefully, listening - the muted clatter of pans from the kitchen, the low murmur of the radio. He’s up. Of course he is. When you reach for your phone, it says 8:17, and you can imagine that it’s already midday for Bradley, whilst you would probably manage to fall asleep for another hour.

Pulling on your robe, you step out into the hall. The smell of coffee reaches you first, warm and grounding. You follow it to the kitchen where Bradley stands, broad back to you, T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. His hair is mussed, a little wilder than last night, and there’s something almost domestic - almost dangerous - about seeing him like this.

“Morning,” you say, voice scratchy with sleep.

He glances over his shoulder, putting down his phone, face breaking into a grin that looks like pure relief. “Hey. You sleep alright?”

“Your bed is really comfy,” you nod, and it’s not a lie.

“Good.” He gestures toward the table. “Sit. Coffee’s ready.”

“Oh, coffee again? Is it even allowed for Top Gun pilots to drink it so often?” you tease lightly with a smile, taking a seat at the round table you had your dinner at yesterday.

Bradley shoots you a grin over his shoulder, getting the carafe.

“I’m not the one addicted to it,” and he pours the black filtered coffee into a plain white mug in front of you. Your eyes meet, and you don’t reply straight away.

“Oh - you don’t drink coffee first thing in the morning anymore?” Bradley hesitates, his hand with the carafe hovering.

You tilt your head, watching him as steam curls from the spout of the carafe. “I do,” you admit. “But I thought you might’ve forgotten.”

Bradley’s brow furrows, then smooths out into something softer. “I don’t forget things like that.” He sets the carafe down, still looking at you.

The words hang in the space between you. For a second, you don’t know where to look - at the gleaming surface of the coffee, at the window lit gold with morning, or at him.

You clear your throat, forcing a smile. “Well… good to know my coffee addiction left a lasting impression.”

Bradley huffs out a laugh and turns back to the kitchen. “Let me just finish here, then you okay to go for breakfast?”

“Oh, you’re not making it yourself?” you raise one eyebrow teasingly.

“These are my two weeks off. I wanna have some fucking delicious unhealthy food before I need to start watching it again.”

---

And that’s what happens. You walk side by side to the Broken Yolk Café, the residential streets lined with sidewalks and swaying palm trees. The California sun feels warm on your skin, a sharp reminder of how much you’ve missed this place. After Nick’s death, once you were old enough, you’d fly out to visit Carole with Bradley. Your moms had been close friends since high school in Baltimore, and those connections carried through the years - Carole met Nick at the Academy, they moved to San Diego, while your parents settled in Wilmington for a quieter life.

At the café, Bradley rattles off an order that could feed a small army - at least three different dishes and every side imaginable. You pick the Golden State Benedict, hoping he’ll let you sneak a bite of his mountain of food, the way he used to sneak extra syrup onto yours when you were kids.

The waitress scribbles everything down with a smile, clearly used to Bradley’s appetite. He leans back in the booth, arms stretched across the top like he owns the place, sunglasses hooked in the collar of his T-shirt.

“You always did like the fancy stuff,” he teases, nodding at your choice.

“Excuse me, it has avocado and tomatoes. That’s hardly fancy,” you reply. “Besides, you basically ordered half the kitchen.”

Bradley shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I burn it off.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help noticing how his broad shoulders fill the space, how at ease he looks here, as though this sun-soaked coast has always belonged to him. It tugs at your chest - not envy exactly, but a sharp awareness of how different your paths have been.

The food arrives quickly, plates covering nearly every inch of the small table. Bradley digs in without hesitation, sliding a plate of hash browns closer to you. “Here. You’re not leaving without trying these.”

“Yes, sir,” you salute and take a big bite of one. He’s watching you closely while starting with his waffles, checking for your reaction.

“Hmm, really good,” you admit with a groan.

Bradley smirks, clearly satisfied. “Told you. Some things don’t change.”

“Except you,” you shoot back, half teasing, half serious. “You’ve changed a lot.”

He pauses mid-bite, brows lifting. “Yeah?”

You gesture vaguely at him. “I mean, look at you. You were the lanky kid who used to trip over his own feet. Now you’re… well. Navy poster boy.”

Bradley laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, like it’s more the way people expect him to react. “Took me a while to get there.”

You spear a forkful of egg with avocado, watching him. He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t press - not yet. You know the broad strokes anyway: the gap years, the silence, the times you’d text and get nothing but a short reply days later.

Instead, you say lightly, “Well, I guess someone had to live up to the Bradshaw name.”

His grin falters just slightly, softening. “Yeah. Guess so.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when Carole passed,” you say earnestly, almost reaching to touch his hand, unsure how to make him understand that you care, that you’ve always cared.

Bradley hesitates before answering. “We didn’t want to make it all big and dramatic,” he explains slowly, taking a long gulp of his fresh grapefruit juice. “It was just me and a few people from the base here. She wanted it like that. Hated people all fucking sad and sobbing.”

You nod, throat tight. You can picture it easily: Carole, refusing to let grief take center stage, insisting on dignity and lightness even at the end. That had been her way.

“I still wish I’d been there,” you murmur.

Bradley studies you for a beat, his fork idle on the plate. His expression softens into something open and unguarded. “She knew you cared,” he says finally. “She always asked about you. Even when we weren’t… y’know. Talking much.”

The words land heavier than you expect. Your chest squeezes.

“She really loved you,” Bradley adds, quieter now, almost embarrassed to admit it. “Said you were the little sister I never had.”

Your eyes sting, and you busy yourself with another bite of your Benedict to keep from crying in the middle of the Broken Yolk. You cried a lot over it with your parents already, so it’s not a fresh wound. However, the matter feels so different when it’s Bradley you talk about it with.

You clear your throat, aiming for lightness. “She loved feeding me pancakes and then blaming you for eating all the syrup.”

Bradley chuckles, the sound easing the ache between you. “That tracks.” He stabs another piece of bacon, shaking his head. “She was probably right, though. I did eat all the syrup.”

The silence stretches for a beat too long, broken only when the waitress swoops in to refill your coffee. You thank her, and Bradley shakes it off, turning the moment back into easy banter.

“So,” he says, pointing his fork at you. “London. Baltimore. All those places. You gonna tell me about your jet-setting academic life, or do I have to drag it out of you?”

So you do. You tell him about your bachelor’s degree from Chatham University and your life in Pittsburgh, intentionally not staying in Delaware or the neighboring states. Then carrying on with Arts Management in London, falling in love with Europe. And coming back after graduation and one short but serious relationship.

Bradley listens, cutting into an omelet this time, but not looking away from you. There’s a faint crease between his brows, the kind he always got when concentrating - on a test, on a video game, on you.

“Arts Management,” he repeats, nodding slowly. “That… sounds very you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grins, boyish this time, like you’ve caught him. “Just - you always wanted to be around music, around theater, the big ideas. You wanted to make things happen without having to be in the spotlight.”

You blink at him, clearly remembering all the summer music classes and theatre camps you attended together, being in Wilmington or San Diego. “Oh my god, that was aaaaages ago.”

“Yeah, but you’re still you,” he says simply, shrugging like it’s obvious. He takes a sip of his juice before adding, “I like picturing you in London though. Running in the rain, bossing everyone around.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “It wasn’t exactly like that. But… yeah, I did seriously like it there.” For a moment, the memory of foggy mornings and crowded galleries presses against your chest. You let it go with a sigh. “And then I came back. Baltimore feels like home.”

Bradley hums, as if filing that away. His fork pushes through the last of his bacon, and he lifts his eyes to you, a flicker of curiosity there. “And the London boyfriend?”

You snort. “Oh, so you were listening.”

“Always listening.” His smirk is quick, but there’s something else in his gaze now - sharper, maybe protective. “So what happened?”

You tilt your head, playing it off, though your pulse jumps at the question. “He was nice. Just - married.”

“You’re joking,” Bradley’s eyes narrow, and he straightens up in his seat.

“I found out after like - six months. We "lived" together for four of those.”

“Fuck,” Bradley breathes out. “What a dickhead.”

“Yeah… It’s been a couple of years. I’m much smarter now,” you laugh self-deprecatingly, the sound as fake as it can get.

The look on Bradley’s face is a familiar one — he’s being the big brother now, and you remember as clearly as yesterday when he gave you the birds and bees talk, instructing you how to fight off any duches.

You raise your coffee cup like a toast. “Don’t worry, Bradshaw. Lesson learned.”

Bradley doesn’t look entirely convinced. He leans forward, forearms braced against the table, his tone low but firm. “Seriously though. Six months? That’s… that’s not on you. That’s on him being a coward.”

Something in your chest loosens at his words, though you try to shrug it off. “Well, I did miss all the warning signs. Guess I was blinded by the accent.”

Bradley snorts, but his jaw is still tight. “You deserve better than that shit.”

For a moment, you don’t know how to answer. So you steal a bite of his waffles instead, earning an outraged, “Hey!” that breaks the heaviness wide open again.

---

The day is as lovely as the previous one, and you go to Famosa Slough, the location of Bradley's morning runs, to watch birds, all the while filling each other in on how life’s been treating you. Without being too exact, Bradley talks and talks about his missions in the Pacific and Asia, telling you crazy stories that are worth filming, and you recognise the entertainer in him, because you could honestly listen to him for days. It’s not just the content - it’s his deep, gravelly voice that you’ve missed so much.

“Do you really run around this place every day?” you ask, taking in the large body of water while shielding your eyes from the sunlight.

“Yep.”

“Even today?” you eye him suspiciously.

“I got up at six, princess,” he laughs at your incredulous face. “I went for a run, then to the gym, then back home.”

You can only shake your head in disbelief and secret admiration. Bradley’s always been your best boy.

He smirks, but there’s warmth in it, not mockery. “That’s always been the difference between us. You’re the night owl; I’m the early bird.”

“And yet somehow you always managed to keep me up past midnight back in Wilmington.”

He grins at the memory, his mustache twitching with it. “Because you couldn’t stand to lose at Mario Kart. You’d demand a rematch until you won.”

“Correction: I did win. Every time.”

“Uh-huh,” Bradley drawls, clearly unconvinced. “Selective memory.”

You bump your shoulder into his arm as you walk, but the contact lingers just a fraction too long - enough for your heart to thump once, hard. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even seem to notice, just keeps talking about the herons by the water and some ridiculous story about a fellow pilot trying to impress a date by pretending he knew everything about birds.

It’s easy - dangerously easy - to slip back into this. The banter, the little nudges, the way he makes you laugh without even trying. But he’s not the lean boy next door anymore, and you’re not just the tag-along little-sister figure. The space between you hums differently now.

Going to the Sunset Cliffs in the evening is a silent agreement between the two of you. The wind is stronger and the air colder here, and it feels almost obvious to be returning to this place with Bradley. You spent endless days here with your parents, playing in the small caves and rocky tide pools. On your walk along the trail, you meet a painter, some people fishing from the low cliffs, and an odd couple here and there. At some point, Bradley stops where the path grows wider, sand crunching under your feet as you turn towards the ocean, staring as the sun slowly descends.

Bradley’s put on a black windbreaker and a black cap, and the jacket rustles in time with the strong gusts of wind. You bury your face deeper in your fleece sweatshirt as you watch the spectacle. It’s something you don’t get to experience in Baltimore.

“They don’t have this in Baltimore, huh?” Bradley’s voice startles you from your musings, and you shake your head amusedly. God, he can already read your thoughts again.

“My parents loved it here, you know. It was their spot.”

“I know… I loved it here too.”

Bradley glances at you, just briefly, then returns his gaze to the horizon. “Yeah. Me too.”

You shift slightly, trying to find a comfortable distance without actually creating one. “It’s… different now, seeing it with you when we’re so much older than the last time.”

The sun dips lower, casting gold across the water, and you realize the sky is bleeding into shades you’ve never noticed before. Bradley’s presence beside you makes the world feel sharper, more immediate.

“I never got to tell you,” you say finally, your voice almost swallowed by the wind - and maybe that’s what makes you bolder. “I missed you.”

He doesn’t move right away, just watches the ocean, and for a moment you think the wind will carry your words away. Then he exhales, low and steady. “I missed you too,” he says, finally turning toward you. His eyes, in the fading light, are serious, unguarded. Then he offers his hand, and you don’t understand why, but you take it. As your palms press together, a warmth spreads through your whole body.

Bradley leads you to the other side of the path, away from the ocean, to the row of wooden benches. You’re briefly distracted by a flock of seagulls screeching loudly above your heads. Then, when you turn back to Bradley, he’s hovering over the backrest of the bench closest to you. It takes you a second to understand what’s going on - there’s a silver metal plaque under his palm, and it’s slowly revealed to you as he strokes it softly.

In loving memory of Carole and Nick 'Goose' Bradshaw.

Your breath catches. The plaque gleams faintly in the last threads of sunlight, simple and understated - exactly the way Carole would have wanted.

Bradley lowers himself slowly to the bench, and you sit down next to him. His elbows rest on his spread thighs, head bowed for a moment.