21
if only you knew - Alexander Stewart
M um shoved us in here hours ago. She said to keep quiet, not to make a single noise, and then she locked the door. The room is dark, with only that little lamp in the corner giving off a small light.
We always leave the lamp on. Always.
Michael’s been crying for ages now, rubbing his tummy and sniffling, and I can’t hold it anymore. I gotta go toilet real bad. I bang on the door, softly at first. “Mum? Please? Michael’s hungry, and I gotta go to the toilet!” Nothing.
I bang louder, fist hitting the door harder, voice getting louder, too. “Hello!” Michael cries louder, clutching his belly. I shout again, banging hard that my fist starts to hurt.“LET US OUT!”
The door swings open so fast I stumble back.
Dad walks in and he looks angrier than ever. His eyes look dark and very mean lookin’. “Shut the fuck up. Can’t yer’ hear we got guests, you little shit?” He grabs my shirt, lifting me like I’m nothing. Michael keeps crying, curled up on the floor, holding his belly. I take a breath.
“Please, I gotta go to the loo, and Michael’s hungry.”
“Shut the fuck up, y’mum fed yer both. You don’t need nothin’,” he says, the cigarette in his mouth moving up and down. “Here, piss ‘n that,” he adds, shoving the empty glass bottle in his hand toward me.
But I don’t need to do a wee. I gulp, voice trembling, “Please, I gotta…”
He yanks me closer by my hair. “This’ll ought to shut you up.” He takes the cigarette from his mouth and ashes it on my arm. It’s hot—burning. I scream, loud, tears springing up before I can even hold them back. Michael screams with me, and Dad shoves me back so hard I hit the ground with an ‘oof’.
“Shut him up or he’s next,” he growls, slamming the door behind him. I can’t move for a second, the pain still burning, but then I’m next to Michael, arms around him, whispering in his ear.
“Shhh, shh. It’s okay. He’s just playing. Just a game.” Michael sniffles, his tiny fists clenched up against my chest, still breathing fast. “If you stop crying, Mum’ll bring food. Just wait, she’ll bring it soon.”
“Soon? You promise?”
I nod, ignoring the pain coming from my arm. “Yeah. But you gotta be quiet, ‘kay? If you stay quiet, you’ll get some food.” He hiccups, then nods, cuddling closer, and finally, finally stops crying.
A jolt wakes me, a touch on my arm that sends me straight up in bed, chest heaving like I’ve just run a marathon. My fists are locked in the sheets—tight, like I’m waiting for the next thing to hit, but it’s just Imogen. She’s standing there, all soft concern, her face pinched with worry.
“Harrison, w-what just happened?”
Shit. Did I wake her up? I rub my face, trying to get my bearings. “What time is it?”
“It’s two in the morning,” she says. Her voice is quiet but not quiet enough to hide the concern. “Are you okay? Were you… having a nightmare?”
“No, not a nightmare. Just some weird dream. Go back to bed, okay?”
I loosen my grip on the sheets, but I catch her eyes—there’s something there, something I can’t shake. She doesn’t believe me. She’s watching me too closely, like she’s trying to read me, and fuck, now I can’t stop thinking about it. She’s been up too, though. I can tell. She rubs her ribcage, like something’s bothering her.
“I can’t. I’ve been awake for hours. Your child has been moving and fluttering all night.” She winces, but doesn’t look at me.
My heart stalls for a second—your child. Her voice just says it so easily. Like it’s a given. And I swear, hearing her say it out loud hits me harder than I expected. It’s real now, isn’t it? Like we’re more than just two people sharing a space.
“Wait. You can feel it?” The words slip out before I can stop them. Of course she can. Idiot.
“Uh, yeah,” she says, her palm flat against her belly, giving me that look—like, really?
“Could I… feel?” I blurt before I can second-guess it.
She lifts her shirt, the fabric bunching just above her ribs, exposing the soft curve of her stomach. Her eyes meet mine, and without a word, she takes my hand, guiding it to a specific spot near her ribcage.
“Right here,” she whispers, pressing my palm firmly against her skin. The warmth beneath my hand is intimate, grounding.
“Hold on,” she murmurs, her hand over mine. “Sometimes he needs a little nudge.” She presses gently against her side, and I blink, confused.
“Doesn’t t-that—hurt him?” I’m suddenly stuttering my words.
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re worried about my finger, but not your oversized dick?”
My eyes widen, and she laughs. “Kidding. Relax. It’s fine. My midwife said it’s fine to do.”
I sigh in relief, but my mind races. What about sex? Have I been too rough on her? I start replaying every recent time we’ve fucked, questioning if I was too much.
“Harrison, your penis cannot harm the baby.”
God, how does she do that? It’s like she can hear my thoughts. I snort. “Phew.” Then, suddenly—boom—a soft nudge under my palm. “Oh, shit. Did you feel that?”
Her smile is soft, no sass, just pure warmth. “Yep. The baby’s saying hi.”
“Hi, little bean,” I whisper.
She watches me, her eyes full of quiet affection. Her hand stays over mine, pressing it gently against her belly. For a moment, everything else fades—the flutter beneath my palm, the rise and fall of her chest. She shifts, sighing softly. “I should… head back to bed.”
The thought of being alone again hits me hard. I don’t want to move. “Can you—can you stay?” I ask, softer than I mean it to be. “Stay here with me, just for tonight?”
She hesitates, her eyes searching mine. Then she nods and slides into my bed. The second she’s close, everything shifts. The second she’s close, everything feels different. She fits against me like she’s meant to be there, like maybe this could work. I wrap my arm around her, not sure if it’s enough, but needing it more than I want to admit. Her skin is warm, steadying, anchoring me to something real. The quiet settles in, soft and welcoming. Her warmth pulls me under, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself sink into it.
Imogen
Be Still - The Fray
The morning light’s cutting through the blinds, dragging me out of sleep, and I’m cosy as hell—pressed up against something warm and solid. I blink, trying to focus, and realise I’m draped across Harrison’s chest. His soft snores rumble beneath me. His head’s turned away, deep in sleep, and somehow, his shirt’s gone . When did that happen?
Without overthinking, I slide my fingers over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thump of his heart under my hand. My eyes trail down, scanning his body like I’ve never been this close. His skin is smooth, sun-kissed, covered in tattoos I’ve only ever seen from a distance. Up close, they’re even more beautiful—dark lines, bold lettering, and a whole lot of emotional baggage wrapped in ink. My gaze snags on the words under his collarbone.
What does not kill me makes me stronger .
A slight frown pulls at my lips—there’s a damn story there, and I’m not about to ask. I drag my eyes lower, catching Price tattooed across his chest in thick, bold letters, then—wait. What the hell?
I spot a raised bump just below the ink. My fingers graze over it, and my eyes widen when I see another one near his collarbone. And another on his arm. I squint at his bicep. Holy shit.
Those are scars .
Harrison stirs, head swivelling toward me, blinking like a damn sleepy puppy. “Morning,” he mumbles, voice gravelly, but his smile falters when he sees my expression. In a flash, he’s sitting up, snatching his shirt off the floor and yanking it over his head in a single motion.
“How long’ve you been awake?”
“Not long.” My voice comes out quiet. Too quiet. “Harrison, those marks—”
“Are nothing,” he finishes for me. His tone goes all hard, eyes dodging mine.
“They don’t look like just nothing…” I hesitate. “What happened?”
“Probably just a rash.” His jaw is tight, his words a low murmur.
I sit up further on the bed. “Are you sure? Maybe you should—” My own words trail off because I don’t even know what to say or what I’m asking. Harrison stays quiet, busying himself—tossing socks into the hamper by the door, picking at his shirt, crossing his arms like he’s trying to block me out. My eyes zero in on his arms, on the places where I know those marks are.
“That doesn’t look like a rash,” I try again, quieter this time. He doesn’t answer. Maybe I’m crossing a line. But those aren’t just marks—they’re scars. Scars from something. Am I prying? Probably. But we’re past that, aren’t we? We’ve been intimate many times. I’m carrying his child, for Christ’s sake—shouldn’t we really know each other by now?
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to push. I just want to understand you, to—”
“They’re from my father.” His words cut through the air, sharp and sudden, leaving me frozen. Completely caught off guard. “They came from him.”
“You mean… J-Joe?”
“No.” His voice is coarse. “Not Joe. My biological father.”
“What? Why… would he do that?”
“Because he’s a sadistic fuck,” he snaps, his body locking up like a coiled spring. “A weak, pathetic piece of shit who got off on hurting his own kids. Like it made him feel powerful or something.” I want to say something—anything—but the words stick in my throat, choked by the heaviness hanging between us. The air feels suffocating, thick with the weight of what he’s just admitted.
“Harrison, I—”
“I don’t need your pity, Imogen.” His darkened gaze holds mine. “I’ve done enough of that myself. I don’t need anyone else adding to it.”
I swallow hard, holding his stare. “I never said I pity you, Harrison. I just… I’m trying to understand you. To know you. The real you. Not just the parts you think are easy to show.”
The rawness in his voice hits like a gut punch. He doesn’t want sympathy, fine. But it sure as hell doesn’t stop the ache spreading like fire in my chest. I inhale a shaky breath, steady myself, then pat the empty space on the bed beside me.
“Come here.”
For a moment, I think he won’t move, but then he does. His shoulders are tense, like he’s been carrying the weight of the world on them, but he sits beside me. Without thinking, I pull him close, wrapping my arms around him. He stiffens at first—every muscle in his body fighting the embrace, like he’s never been held like this before. His heart races against mine, fast, unsure. After a few seconds, his body softens, and I feel him give in just a little. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer.
We stay like that for a while, just breathing together, until I finally pull him down beside me on the bed, his head resting near mine. “You don’t have to say more,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for asking. I didn’t mean to piss you off.”
“You didn’t piss me off, Immy,” he answers quickly. “You could never piss me off. Don’t apologise, please.”
Silence falls between us, thick and heavy, like we’re both trying to breathe through something unspoken. Then, in the quiet, Harrison’s soft voice breaks the tension. “My mum… growing up, she wasn’t always like this. The way she is now. Gary, my biological father, got her hooked on drugs. Alcohol. Once he had her, she’d leave me and Michael alone for days just to be with him. And when he was around, he’d take his anger out on me. Mostly,” he pauses. “I was seven the first time he hit me.”
The words hit me like a slap, and I can’t stop the gasp that escapes. My hand flies to my mouth, my mind spiraling. A seven-year-old Harrison—there’s no way. My stomach twists at the thought of him being so small, so helpless, against a grown man. “I think he liked it when I fought back. When I’d tell him to stop.” He releases a shaky breath. “Like it made him feel better. Made him… stronger. Sometimes, he’d make me stand against a door, and throw knives at me—like a fucking game. Told me it was to ‘toughen me up.’ Said one day I’d thank him.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “His mates would watch, too. They’d laugh, like it was all just a fucking game. I didn’t know I had ADHD back then. I just knew I wasn’t like other boys… or like Michael.”
My hand reaches out, lightly brushing his arm, pushing the sleeve up. Beneath the tattoos, faint marks—tiny, almost lost—are carved into his skin. I focus on one, a round scar, and then a few more scattered across his shoulder and bicep. “And these?” I ask, voice shaking.
“Cigarettes.”
Disgust crawls its way up my throat. “Oh, God.”
“A few years later, I found some older kids. They taught me how to fight, how to handle myself. Street fights became my way of blowing off steam.” His jaw tightens. “Then one night… Gary hit Michael. Smacked him just because he didn’t make it to the toilet on time. It was the first time he laid a hand on Michael. I... I just snapped. Beat the shit out of him.”
The anger in his voice is raw, full of rage that still burns deep. “The police showed up, saw the bruises, the cuts. They ruled it self-defense. I spent a day at the station, no juvie, but Gary was locked up after some investigation. Things didn’t get better, though. Not right away. After that, Mum met Joe. She’d been sober for a bit—luckily for her—but we were taken off her, thrown into foster care. That’s when Joe stepped in. He’d been friends with Mum for a while, and he offered to take us in.
Mum had to prove she was fit to look after us again, and somehow, she got custody back, which... feels like bullshit. Things were better when Michael and I were with Joe.”
“Did things get better after that? What happened?” My voice is quiet.
“For a while they did. Mum ‘tried’ to stay clean, but she fell back. Hard.” He shakes his head. “Joe put her into rehab. He actually took care of us—better than anyone ever had.” His voice cracks, the rawness of it hitting me hard.
“Didn’t she—did she ever try to protect you? Your mother. Whilst all… that was happening.”
“Maybe, in her own way,” he mutters finally. “She’d shove us in cupboards or our wardrobe sometimes, tell us to stay quiet. It felt more like she was obeying him, but maybe it was her way of warning us.” His voice drops, barely audible. “Doesn’t change the fact she wasn’t a mother to us. I took care of Michael. Not her.”
All I hear is the hurt in his voice, the years of responsibility he carried. “All I ever wanted was to protect Michael. Keep him from going through the same shit I did. That night when Gary hit him…” His voice cracks, and without thinking, I grab his hand.
“What about you, Harrison?” My voice shakes. “Who looked out for you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” His hand pulls back slightly. “I was the oldest. It was my job to cop it, so he didn’t have to.” It doesn’t matter . How can he think that?
“It does matter.” I pause. “ You matter, too, Harrison.”
His eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, I see everything—the hurt, the weight of it all. His expression is unreadable, but I can feel the pain in the way he looks at me.
“You didn’t deserve that. No one does.”
His jaw works. “It’s too late now. It’s what I had to do. Michael is my brother. I’d take anything if it meant he didn’t have to.” The tension in his face is impossible to ignore. His shoulders are stiff, like he’s bracing for something, but his arms hang loose now, not folded tight like usual. For a moment, he looks… vulnerable. Exposed.
“Is that why you sleep with the lamp on?” His face reddens slightly.
“Yeah,” he hesitates. “Back then, at night, we’d hear our father. The yelling, smashing shit around, hitting Mum. She’d scream, even cry sometimes—just one room over. I’d lie there, waiting. Wondering if he’d come for us next. The light… it made it feel like we had control over something . Like it was safer.” He shrugs, the movement stiff. “I don’t know if Michael still does it, but I never stopped. I need it.”
I let the silence stretch before I ask. “And the granny flat? Why the separate place?”
He sighs, his voice heavy. “Back then, they’d happen almost every night. I got used to it, grew to expect them. But now, as an adult, they hit me randomly—depending on how stressed or tired I am. Sometimes it’s like I get this gut feeling, like a storm rolling in. You just know when the thunder is about to crack.” He pauses, his gaze distant. “I needed space. Privacy. My room was next door to Michael’s, and I kept waking him up. Mum and Joe’s room was too far to matter.”
“Do they know about the nightmares? Joe and your mum?”
“Joe does—he’s seen it happen a couple of times. But Mum?” He snorts, shaking his head. “Never. And she probably wouldn’t care even if she did.”
He runs a hand through his hair, the strands falling messily over his face, and for a second, his guard drops. Just enough for me to see it. Beneath all the layers—his tattoos, his cocky grin, that endless energy—there’s a man holding himself together with scars, built from everything he’s survived. A quiet, aching strength that tells me he’s carried too much for too long.
“Have you ever thought about seeing a psychologist? Or a counsellor?”
“What, because I’m fucking psycho? Nah, I’m good.”
“Christ, Harrison, that’s not what I’m saying.” I huff, rolling my eyes. “A psychologist isn’t for ‘psychos.’ They’re trained to help people deal with stuff—feelings, reactions, shit like that. Or even a counsellor. Just… someone who knows what they’re doing.”
He clenches and unclenches his jaw. “Michael’s been on my ass about it, too. Says I should talk to someone. But I don’t see how some stranger is supposed to fix anything.
“I don’t know if I can just… open up to someone I don’t know.” His fingers find the hem of his sleeve, twisting it, fidgeting. It’s a nervous tic I’ve noticed before.
“You’ve just opened up to me.”
“But you’re not just anyone, Immy. You’re…” He trails off, like he can’t find the right words.
“I’m what?”
He shakes his head, clearly fighting with himself. “I trust you, alright? When I’m around you, I don’t have to pretend. I guess I can just… be.”
His honesty hits me like a punch in the gut, but I try to keep my voice steady. “Okay. But I really think you should consider what I said—and what Michael said, too. You’re carrying too much on your own. For our baby. You can’t keep letting this fester, Harrison. It’s going to consume you if you don’t let someone help.”
“Maybe,” he mutters, the word heavy with reluctance.
Before I can say more, he stands abruptly, raking a hand through his hair, like the motion will make everything he just said disappear. “Anyway, enough about that,” he says, louder now, as if he can erase the vulnerability with a change in tone. I watch him, disbelief gnawing at me. How does he do that? Brush it all off like it’s nothing? He’s carrying so much, and yet he just buries it again, as if it’s no more than an inconvenience.
I get it now—the fidgeting, the restless energy, the sudden shifts in mood. It’s not just ADHD. It’s something deeper. Something heavier. What he went through, what he’s still carrying—it’s trauma. His scars run deeper than anyone can see. He’s so used to locking it all away, pretending he doesn’t need anyone, like it’s easier to shove it down than face it. I don’t know if I want to hug him or shake him. But he’s already moving, and I’m left sitting there, a thousand thoughts crashing through my head. His pain, his strength, his fucking stubbornness—it all knots together in a way that makes my chest ache.
Harrison’s phone buzzes, shattering the awkward quiet that’s been hanging between us since earlier this morning. He pulls it out, frowns at the screen, and answers.
“Yeah? What’s up?” There’s a pause, then a sigh. “Alright, I’ll come grab it. Stay put.” He ends the call and turns to me, rubbing the back of his neck.
“What’s up?”
“Customer’s Camry broke down. They need a tow,” he says, his voice clipped. “I’ll be awhile.”
“That’s fine, you go,” I say, but he just stands there, shifting his weight like he’s debating something.
“Do you… want to come with me?” he finally asks. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, and—”
“I’ll come,” I interrupt, unsure why, but the thought of being left here alone feels worse than whatever might happen while he’s gone. The way his face softens when I agree almost makes it worth it.
“Alright,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
“Just no speeding, or I can’t guarantee I’ll keep my breakfast down.” I mutter as we walk to his car. I can’t help but notice the smile—it’s familiar, that cocky, playful side of him. Back to his usual self, I see. But there’s something different now. The air between us is charged, yes, but it’s softer, like there’s a shared understanding lingering between us that wasn’t there before.
“Sure thing, mama.”
I narrow my eyes on him.
“Alright, alright,” he laughs, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “No speeding, no running red lights. Happy?” Not entirely. I roll my eyes as I climb into the passenger seat.
Are all mechanics rev heads? Or is it just the Price brothers?
By the time we get back to Joe’s Auto Shop with the Camry, one of the boys has already dropped off the tow truck, making things easier. Now it’s just me, Harrison, and the quiet hum of the shop. I lean against a toolbox and watch as he pops the hood, sleeves rolled up, grease already smudging his forearms. He moves like he’s done this a thousand times before, each motion quick, confident. I don’t know why, but I’m drawn in, watching him work. Sure, I can handle basic car stuff—coolant, tyres, wiper fluid—but this? This is something else entirely.
“What’s with the sparks?” I ask, nodding toward the battery cables.
He glances up, grinning like I just asked the most brilliant question in the world. “That’s the charge kicking in. Normal stuff.” I edge closer.
“And the wires? How do you know which ones go where?”
“The red’s positive, black’s negative,” he says, like it’s obvious. I keep firing off questions, and he answers each one, patient and almost... happy? I can’t tell if it’s the car talk or the attention, but the cocky grin hasn’t left his face. I reach for a wrench, but before I can even lift it, Harrison steps in, plucking it from my hand.
“Nuh-uh. You just stand there and look pretty. I don’t need you straining yourself.”
I stare at him, my jaw practically unhinged. “Harrison, I’m pregnant, not a fucking invalid. I can still function, you know.”
He chuckles. “You’re fucking sexy as fuck when you’re mad, you know that?”
“Careful, Price,” I snap, snatching a clean rag from the bench beside us. “Keep talking like that and I’ll throw this spanner at your head.”
His laugh is low, warm, as he steps back and nods toward the open hood. “Alright, Immy-girl. Show me what you’ve got.”
Rolling my eyes, I step toward the car, but before I can touch anything, he’s right there, too close, his chest almost brushing my back. “No, no. Let me show you first.” Harrison’s hands are rough but steady, guiding mine to the battery cables, his touch firm but not overbearing.
He positions himself behind me, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of every breath, every shift. His hips press lightly against me as he leans in, the unmistakable hardness of him making me freeze. “Are you serious? What part of changing a bloody battery is turning you on right now?”
“You, Immy.” His voice drops low. “Always you.”
Heat coils in my stomach as his breath ghosts over my neck. He brushes his lips against my skin, and a shiver races down my spine, traitorous goosebumps prickling. His mouth finds the curve of my neck, nipping lightly before trailing to my earlobe.
“You look so good like this,” he murmurs. “Grease on your hands, bent over this hood... It’s driving me insane.”
My grip on the car frame tightens as his words unravel me. He nips again, his teeth grazing just enough to pull a quiet, involuntary sound from my throat. “What do you say, sugar?” His lips brush my ear, his voice a low rasp. “Shall I bend you over and fuck you right here? Make you come all over my cock?”
A sharp exhale escapes me, my pulse pounding in my ears. My thighs clench instinctively, a futile attempt to keep the ache at bay, but it’s no use. Every nerve is wired to him, every inch of me on edge and ready to snap. Temptation wraps around me tight, pulling me under. Of course, I’m soaked—he’s got me like clockwork, always has.
The corner of my mouth tugs upward. “Hm. Big promises like that mean you’d better deliver.”
“I always deliver.” His hand slides down, catching the waistband of my leggings. No hesitation, no second-guessing, and I let him. They’re gone in one smooth motion, and the cool air kisses my bare skin just before his mouth does. He’s on his knees like he belongs there, and fuck, maybe he does. The first touch of his tongue sparks a jolt so fast it buckles my knees.
“Fuck,” I bite out, my hands gripping the edge of the engine bay, knuckles white. My legs threaten to give way, but he holds me firm, dragging me deeper into the kind of pleasure that burns hot and fast, leaving nothing but wreckage. When Harrison finally stands, the unmistakable sound of his zipper fills the air and his body presses tightly against mine. His cock slides slowly against my slick pussy—teasing, taunting, claiming. His hands firmly grip my hips, steadying me as he pushes into me, causing my gasp to shift into a ragged moan.
“Jesus, Harrison,” I gasp, his piercings sending an addictive wave of pleasure with every thrust, the hard metal teasing me just right. There’s no thought of where we are or who might see. Just him filling me, the rhythm of skin slapping—breaking me apart and putting me back together with every thrust.