10. WADE
WADE
Fragile Frames and Stubborn Hearts
T he porch creaked beneath me as I sat, elbows on my knees, watching the scene unfold like something out of a goddamn movie. Wylie was down on one knee, a single black box held steady in his trembling hands. My heart stalled—just froze mid-beat—like it was trying to decide whether to catch up or crash through my ribs. I’d had moments like this before, moments when the world tilted on its axis and everything felt like it was happening in slow motion. But those moments had been battles, bruises, bad news. This one? This was different.
Ben stood there, hands over his mouth, eyes wide and shining like the candles and fairy lights strung across the old oak trees had caught in his tears. And then, as if the earth had yanked him down too, Ben crumpled to his knees in front of Wylie. His sobs tumbled out in a chorus of yes’s—over and over—like the word itself couldn’t escape fast enough.
A chorus of squeals erupted beside me. Tanya’s gasp was loud enough to shatter glass, while Tiffany clapped her hands together like the human embodiment of a seal. Tia had her phone out, already recording—typical—but I couldn’t even roll my eyes because, fuck, it was beautiful. Wylie and Ben, two souls so stitched together you’d think they were sewn from the same thread. The farmhand and the vineyard owner. Best friends turned lovers who’d spent more years than anyone should believing time was slipping through their fingers.
The big C tried to steal Ben, and there were days we thought it would. I’d seen Wylie crumble under that weight, his big shoulders shaking as he tried to be the rock when the man he loved more than life itself was fading in front of him. I’d sat there with Ben in those sterile hospital rooms, watching his laugh lose its vibrance and his smile turn faint.
He was the first person I ever told I was gay—told him how I too loved my best friend and was going to follow him to the army–I knew my family would be furious. But Ben? He listened, gave me the softest “I’m proud of you, I would follow Wylie too if the roles were reversed,” and looked at me like my secret made me stronger. He held that space for me because he understood secrets. He understood fear. And I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to hold that space for him too.
When Wylie came to me back then, desperate to save Ben, to fix him, I offered everything I could. Got my blood tested, hoping by some miracle I’d be the match Ben needed. I wasn’t. Neither was Wylie. And in those moments when all we could do was sit in the dark and hold the silence together, I thought, This isn’t fair . Love like that—love that raw, that unshakable—should never have to fight so hard to stay alive. I soon learnt that true love wasn’t fair.
But now, for them? They’d won. Ben was healthy. Wylie had finally asked. And here they were, surrounded by the glow of candlelight and family cheers, like some goddamn fairytale ending.
A sharp pang twisted deep in my chest, and I looked away. Because as much as I swore off love—locked the door and threw away the key—there was a part of me, a dark and bitter sliver, that whispered, You had this once . I’d fought for it, too, the way Wylie had fought for Ben.
I fought like my heart was a shield and my bones were the battlefield, but some wars can’t be won. Not with fists. Not with promises. Some loves slip through your fingers, no matter how tightly you try to hold on.
I rubbed the back of my neck, forcing a shaky breath into my lungs before the burn in my throat could turn to tears. Not now. Not tonight.
Ben’s laugh rang out, loud and full, like the weight of every cancer ward and every “What if” had been stripped clean from his chest.
“We’re getting married!” he screamed, holding his hand up so the ring caught the light
I hurried over, determined to be the first to congratulate them—partly out of genuine happiness, but mostly to escape the chaos. If I got in and out quickly, I could make a clean retreat before the inevitable smothering began. Wylie’s smile was infectious, the kind of grin that made his cheeks redder than the winter air already had. For a second, I almost forgot about the ache in my chest.
“I wouldn’t be here without you, brother,” he said, his voice thick with emotion as he yanked me into a hug so tight my joints crackled in protest. I grit my teeth through it because there was no chance in hell I was ruining the moment for him.
“Nonsense, Wy,” I muttered, half hoping he wouldn’t hear me. “You got through this yourself. You stuck by him when it mattered. And if I were a romantic man—which I’m not, so don’t start—but if I was , I’d say your love got him through it all.”
His shoulders shook as I felt the wetness of his tears hit my coat. “Wade,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “we all know that once you love someone, it’s stronger than all the love in this family combined.”
I swallowed, the words cutting me deeper than I wanted to admit. I gave his back a few firm pats, maybe a little harder than I meant to—because what was I supposed to say to that? He was wrong. My love hadn’t been enough before, and I didn’t see that changing anytime soon.
Wylie pulled back, wiping his face like it was nothing, and I turned to Ben, who was already grinning at me. I knew that look. It was the “ don’t even try to argue” look.
“You better be coming to this wedding, Wade,” Ben said, his grin wide enough to rival Wylie’s. “Or I swear I’ll march down to that little alley bar of yours and get married there . I can’t do this without my best man. I’ve already shotgunned you from Wylie.”
My heart betrayed me with a treacherous thud, and I forced a smirk, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep them from fidgeting.
“Benny, come on. You can find someone better than me.” The words were casual, but my voice felt too small, too raw. I hoped he’d take the hint and let me off the hook. The brother who’d sworn off love had no place standing at the altar, watching two people live out a fairytale he no longer believed in.
Ben wasn’t having any of it.
“Nope. You, and only you,” he said with that unshakeable determination that had probably gotten him through eight years of fighting for his life. “You can’t say no to a man who was almost dead.”
I shot him a glare. “That’s not fair, and you know it. First your fiancé tricks me into coming here with that fake heart attack scare about Dad, and now you’re pulling the cancer card.”
He shrugged unapologetically, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Your brother’s got hell coming for that one. But me ? I’ve got eight years of suffering under my belt, and I intend to use every one of those cancer-card privileges.”
I let out a long-suffering sigh that didn’t quite mask the affection I felt. “Fine. Okay,” I relented, which earned me another bear hug—this one gentle, like he knew I was already teetering on the edge of being overwhelmed.
Ben patted my back as if he could read me better than I liked. “Your cabin’s ready,” he whispered. “Cleaned, stocked, and waiting. Peace and quiet awaits.”
“Thank God,” I muttered under my breath. “One more second of people asking about my life, and I might actually drop dead.” I pulled back, meeting his eyes. “Congratulations, Benny. You two deserve this more than anyone.”
His lips trembled slightly, and the glisten in his eyes spoke volumes, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
That was my cue to leave.
I slipped away through the crowd as quietly as I could, pausing only for a second to take it all in. My sprawling family—partners, kids, and chaos—stood huddled together under the blanket of fairy lights, their laughter soft and golden in the cold night air. It was a perfect snapshot of everything they’d built together here.
And me? I was the missing piece. Always was.
Wylie’s voice carried over the crowd, and I froze mid-step, catching the flicker of his head turning as if he were scanning the scene. Counting heads, counting bodies—noticing one was missing… me. I ducked behind the vineyard archway, my boots crunching quietly over the frosted gravel as I waited.
Ben grabbed Wylie’s arm before he could look too hard, his voice low and soothing as they exchanged words I couldn’t hear. I didn’t need to. Wylie let go of whatever thought he’d had and turned back toward the group, pulled once more into the celebration.
I exhaled, tension draining from my body as I finally made my escape toward the cabin. Out of sight, out of mind. And I told myself that was how it needed to be—how it always needed to be.
I hated that I was like this—so easily overwhelmed by the people who loved me. It wasn’t their fault, not really. They just had this relentless way of folding me into their arms, smothering me with love that, at times, felt too heavy to carry. Love I didn’t always know what to do with.
I walked slowly toward my little cabin on the outskirts of the vineyard, the path lit faintly by the moon and the soft glow of the distant house. My boots crunched against the frost-covered gravel, each step grounding me, letting me breathe again. The air was sharp and clean, biting at my lungs in a way that felt… good. Cleansing.
I’d half-expected my parents to turn the place into a rental for customers—some rustic "vineyard getaway" to cash in on the charm. But they hadn’t. This cabin was different. Special.
My father and brothers had built it while I was off at war, nailing down the walls and framing the windows like they were stitching together a safe haven. Like they knew—they knew—that I’d come back needing somewhere quiet to retreat. Somewhere away from the noise. From the expectations. From them.
And even though I wasn’t supposed to know it, Wylie had told me they’d worked late into the night after the news of my injury came. That bullet to the knee had shifted everything in my life, but to them, it was just another reason to keep going. To give me a place to rest. A place where no one would ask for more than I could give.
The cabin came into view, its outline dark and familiar against the starlit sky. The wooden steps creaked beneath my weight as I climbed them, and when I reached the door, I hesitated. My hand rested on the knob, the cold seeping into my skin, holding me there for just a moment longer.
It had been months—years, even—since I’d been back. The cabin was simple, but it was mine. My brothers’ handiwork in the beams, my father’s craftsmanship in the old stone fireplace, even my mother’s insistence on leaving a ridiculous handmade quilt at the end of the bed. Just in case, Wade. It gets cold out there.
As I opened the door to my cabin, the warmth of the fire washed over me, but it did nothing to soothe the chill under my skin. It crackled softly in the hearth, flames licking at the logs as if nothing had disturbed this room in months. The furniture—those sturdy, hand-me-down relics of a past life—sat perfectly in place, freshly dusted and cleaned like a scene set just for me. And yet, the air felt off, like someone had been here, poking around in places they shouldn’t.
It didn’t take long to spot them. The photos.
My stomach dropped, bile creeping up the back of my throat. I knew I’d taken them down. I’d packed them away, every frame wrapped and buried in storage before I left last time. But there they were, staring back at me from the mantel and walls, like ghosts invited to haunt me again. I didn’t even need to guess. This had Mom written all over it—her idea of “helping,” of forcing me to face what I’d spent years burying.
And there he was. Sam.
One photo in particular pulled me in, like a moth to flame. Sam and I, both in our uniforms, standing at the back of my family home on the day we deployed. My hand hovered over his shoulder in the picture, our grins crooked, our faces sunburned from a day spent pretending we weren’t about to leave everything behind. His light brown hair caught the sun, and his hazel eyes—the kind of soft that always made him seem so open—stared back at me. The details in the photo were muted now, blurred with age, but my memory had every inch of his face etched like it was yesterday.
The lake shimmered under the late afternoon sun, its surface glittering like scattered diamonds. Sam floated on his back in the shallows, his arms stretched wide as if he were trying to soak up the entire day. His light brown hair was wet and clinging to his forehead, and every now and then he’d tilt his head just enough to catch my eye, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.
"You're burning," I called from the shore, watching his pale skin already beginning to blush under the relentless sun.
"So are you," he shot back, laughing as he flicked water in my direction. "Come on, Wade, live a little. You can't let me have all the fun."
I shook my head, sitting down on the cool sand with a bottle of sunscreen in my hand. "One of us has to be responsible," I muttered, though my lips twitched in a smile.
"Responsible? You? The guy who dared me to skinny dip last month?" Sam teased, splashing toward me. He crouched in the water, resting his chin on his arms as he grinned up at me. "Admit it. You wanna get out here and forget tomorrow exists."
He wasn’t wrong. Tomorrow loomed like a storm cloud, dark and inevitable. We both knew it. But today—today felt golden, eternal, as if we could hold onto this light forever.
I sighed, shaking my head as I stood and stripped off my shirt. "Fine," I said, trying to sound reluctant as I waded into the water. "But only because you'll whine about it if I don't."
He whooped in triumph, dragging me into the deeper water with a laugh that echoed across the lake. We splashed and dunked each other like kids, the tension in our chests momentarily forgotten. The sun dipped lower, painting the horizon in hues of gold and pink as we floated side by side, our shoulders brushing.
Sam tilted his head toward me, his voice soft now. "You ever think about what home really means?"
I glanced at him, his hazel eyes catching the last light of the day. "I think it's... people," I said after a pause. "The ones who make you feel like you belong."
He hummed, a thoughtful sound that rippled through the quiet. "You’re my home, Wade," he said, so casually it felt like breathing. "Wherever we end up, as long as we’re together, I think I’ll be okay."
I turned my head to look at him, my chest tightening at the raw honesty in his expression. "You’re mine too," I admitted, the words heavy and light all at once. "No matter what happens, Sam. You’re my family."
The next morning felt like a different world. The light was colder, sharper, as it filtered through my mom’s backyard where she’d set up for the photo. Sam stood next to me in his freshly pressed uniform, the sharp angles of his jawline and collar making him look older, more serious. But there was still that smirk, that irreverent glint in his eye as he nudged me with his elbow.
"You think we’ll be any good at this soldier thing?" he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.
I chuckled softly, keeping my gaze forward as my mom fiddled with the camera. "I think you'll be fine as long as you don't start cracking jokes in basic."
He laughed, a quiet huff that made his shoulders shake. "Can’t make any promises, Rossler."
Mom cleared her throat, gesturing for us to stand straighter. “Wade, hand on his shoulder. Sam, stop looking like you’re planning mischief. This is serious.”
Sam rolled his eyes but straightened up, his grin softening into something gentler. My hand hovered over his shoulder, hesitant for just a second before settling there. The fabric of his uniform felt stiff under my palm, a stark contrast to the sunburned skin I’d touched the day before.
The camera clicked, freezing that moment in time—the two of us side by side, trying to hold onto the fragments of light we’d gathered from the lake.
After Mom lowered the camera, she pulled me into a hug, whispering through tears, “You come back to me, Wade. You come back whole.”
I nodded against her shoulder, my throat too tight to speak. Sam, ever the charmer, wrapped an arm around us both and murmured, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Rossler. I’ve got your boy.”
The weight of his words settled over me as we walked toward the car that would take us away. I glanced at him one last time, his crooked grin a reminder of the home we’d built together.
Even now, years later, I could feel the warmth of that sunburn on my skin and hear the echo of his laugh. That day at the lake, that picture in my mom’s backyard—it was all a part of us. A part of me.
My chest tightened. The air felt thin, pressing in on me like a weight I couldn’t throw off. I reached out, my hands shaking as I grabbed the frame, the glass cold and sharp against my palms. It felt heavier than it should’ve, like it carried the years of grief that sat on my shoulders. My vision blurred as tears filled my eyes, threatening to fall before I could stop them.
“You still can’t look at him, huh?”
The voice froze me. The photo slipped from my grip, thudding softly onto the table. I turned toward the door, my heart slamming in my chest. And there he was, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place.
Danton.
Of course.
“I see your mom put that picture back up,” he said, his voice laced with faux sympathy. “Were you planning on taking it down again?”
I straightened, fury bubbling under the surface of my already fragile calm.
“Danton, what the hell are you doing here” My voice came out sharp, edged with the kind of exhaustion only he could drag out of me.
He shrugged like this was just a friendly visit. “You weren’t at the house with Wylie and Ben. I figured you’d be here.”
I crossed my arms, more to hold myself together than anything else. Danton’s eyes, always too damn observant, tracked my movements. And, as always, he didn’t bother hiding it when his gaze lingered—like he was still entitled to look. It made my skin crawl, but worse, it reminded me of someone else. Pretty Boy.
“Well, you’ve wandered,” I said coolly. “Now you can wander back.”
Instead of taking the hint, he stepped further into the cabin, closing the door softly behind him, like he had all the time in the world. “You know, I regret what happened,” he said, his tone practiced. “Every day. It was a slip. Just a stupid, meaningless mistake. Don’t you get it, Wade? I was living in the shadow of a dead man for years. You never gave me what you gave him—how could I ever measure up?”
I bristled, his words hitting their mark far too easily.
“A slip?” My voice cracked on the edge of the word. “You let some asshole bend you over a bar stool after four years of being with me. Don’t dress it up like it’s some misunderstanding. You wanted to feel something? You could’ve talked to me.”
His hands lifted, palms out like he was placating me, taking a step forward. “I know I fucked up. But, Wade, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you. No one compares. No one will compare.”
“Stop.” I stepped back, the fire crackling louder than the space between us. “You don’t get to stand here and say that to me—not after everything.” I took a breath, the next words coming out sharp, a little too loud. “I’m with someone else now. And for once, it feels right.”
That froze him. His face shifted, searching mine for the lie. I swallowed, praying he couldn’t read me as well as he thought he could. Finally, after a beat too long, he nodded stiffly. “I see,” he said quietly. “Well, I guess I’ll see you—both—at the wedding.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence rushed back in, pressing on my ears. The fire popped in the hearth, and I stood there for a moment, waiting for the familiar ache to settle back into my chest. Then I turned, eyes landing on that photo again—the one I’d set down.
Sam. Always Sam.
Before I could stop myself, I grabbed the frame and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a crash, glass shattering, splintering out across the floor. The sound echoed in my head, louder than it should’ve been, and I couldn’t stop the noise that left me—something raw, something that ripped out of me like it had been clawing its way free for years.
It wasn’t just about Sam. It wasn’t just about Danton. It was about everything. Every part of myself I’d buried on that battlefield, every version of me I couldn’t piece back together. My past, my present, my failure to love and be loved in the way I wanted.
Before I realized it, I was on my knees in the mess of broken frames, glass biting into my palms as I scrambled to collect the photos. Sam’s face stared back at me, the scratch from where broken glass cut at his beautiful features. “Fucking fool,” I muttered, my voice cracking as tears ran down my face. “You’re a fucking fool, Wade.”
I placed the photos gently into the hallway cupboard, hands trembling. I couldn’t stay there. Not in the cabin that suddenly felt more like a graveyard than a home. My coat was on and my phone was in my hand before I even realized it, the cold air searing my lungs as I called for a taxi.
At the back gate—the one reserved for customers—I hesitated, glancing back at the vineyard stretching out behind me. The windows of the main house glowed warmly in the distance, and I felt the guilt hit, a familiar companion. They’d wake up tomorrow and realize I was gone. Another disappearing act. Another goodbye without a word.
But that was the only way I knew how to leave.
The moment I stepped into my bar, the familiar mix of wood, wine, and whisky wrapped around me like a favorite coat. The weight that had been sitting on my chest for days seemed to melt into the floorboards beneath me. I let out a slow breath, taking in the space—everything looked in order. Perfect, even. For a brief moment, I let myself smile.
Then I saw Taron.
They were buzzing around the bar like a hummingbird hopped up on caffeine, shuffling papers, checking taps, eyes darting everywhere. Their movements were quick—too quick—and when they spotted me, they froze. A deer in headlights. My sense of calm vanished instantly. That look never meant good news.
“Taron…” My voice held just enough warning to make them straighten up.
“Hi! Hello! It’s good to see you—oh shoot, how’s your dad?” The words tumbled out of them like they were trying to fill all the space in the room.
I felt my back stiffen. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Taron blinked, too fast, too much, and immediately deflected. “Why are you asking me that? What about your dad?”
I raised an eyebrow, waiting. “He’s fine. False alarm. Now, why are you acting skittish? Did something happen?”
“What? No, no, no. Nothing happened!”
Taron’s voice pitched higher, their hands flying to smooth a stray lock of hair. “It’s just been, you know, super busy, and I thought I’d have more done before you got back. That’s all. I’m still working on the specials and sorting out the marketing for the MMA fight tonight. I wanted it perfect so you didn’t have to stress. You know, considering… family matters.”
I studied them for a beat, trying to decide if they were full of shit or not. Their shoulders sagged a little under my gaze, but the fatigue in their smile looked genuine. I exhaled, letting it slide. “Taron, really—you holding the fort is more than I could’ve asked for, especially on short notice. I hope you got some rest?”
Their smile wobbled before landing. “Yeah, I did. Thanks to Cal, actually. He showed up last night and helped in the kitchen. Total lifesaver. Three sets of hands on a busy night… it’s definitely a must.”
Cal.
His name jolted through me like a spark, too sharp and too sudden. My chest tightened, but I tamped it down fast. I was not going to get flustered over this. My family’s meddling was still too fresh—too raw—for me to let my mind wander to him. I told myself it was the guilt, the lie I’d spun so easily to my siblings about him being my boyfriend. Meanwhile, the man was out here working for free, like a damn saint.
“He helped?” I heard myself ask, too casually. “Till what time?”
Taron’s face lit up in genuine appreciation. “Till two. I honestly don’t know how I would’ve managed without him.”
Till two.
My stomach twisted, an angry knot forming at the thought of him on his feet that late after everything I’d seen—the exhaustion on his face, the cracks he tried to cover up with a smile. I felt the heat crawl up the back of my neck, my jaw tightening as Taron prattled on about suggesting a couple of people looking for work.
“Three sets of hands make all the difference, Jack. If you want backup, I’ve got names.”
I barely registered their words as I nodded stiffly, already lost in my own head. I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do, but one thing was clear: Cal needed to stop working here. I didn’t care what his intentions were, or how damn helpful he was being—he was pushing boundaries.
And that was not happening.
Like clockwork, the bar was packed, and—right on cue—Pretty Boy strolled in. I watched him weave through the crowd like he owned the damn place, a wave here, a wink there, as if he were greeting old friends. And, of course, he made a beeline for the office, straight for where I’d left his jersey. Unbelievable. My hands were still damp from closing out a round of food orders, but I dried them off quickly, heart drumming a little too fast as I slipped out of the kitchen.
The door swung shut behind me, and there he was, already behind my desk, slipping the jersey over his head like he belonged here.
“You, out.” I barked, sharper than I’d meant.
The words hung in the air like a slap, and for once, his smile faltered. No quip, no easy charm. Just a quiet, surprised look that gave me a split second to notice the rest—his pale face, the purplish bruises beneath his eyes, the redness smudging his nose.
He was sick. Really sick.
The sight of him standing there, too stubborn for his own good, made me want to curse. I bit back the instinct, though—because, somehow, I still needed him on my side. My ridiculous plan to have him fake being my boyfriend at my brother’s wedding wasn’t going to work if he hated me.
“And why should I do that, Jack?” he countered, sniffling, though his voice held just enough edge to pretend he wasn’t barely holding himself upright. “It’s busy out there.”
“It’s handled. I’ve got more staff coming in.” I reached into my jacket, pulling out the envelope I’d been carrying, and leaned over the desk. Too close. The scent of him hit me—something earthy and floral, fresh but warm. On anyone else, I’d probably think it was obnoxious, but on him… it worked. I shoved the thought away and pushed the envelope toward him. “This covers your hours. I’ll send the rest for the window and jerseys.”
He looked at me like I’d kicked his puppy.
“I’m not accepting that,” he said, trying for venom, but with his stuffy nose, it came out more petulant than threatening.
“Well, tough shit, Pretty Boy. I pay my debts.”
He crossed his arms, and I watched him debate—hold his ground, or wipe the snot threatening to make its grand entrance. Pride cracked first. He sniffed and wiped his nose, and damn it, I had to look away to keep from smirking.
“I didn’t help you for the money, Jack,” he said, voice scratchy and quieter now. “I did it because I wanted to.”
“I don’t care,” I shot back, my patience unraveling. “I didn’t ask for your help, and I sure as hell didn’t want it!”
He flinched, just barely, but it was enough to make me pause.
“You didn’t ask, and I’m sorry if I was a burden,” he said softly. He pulled the jersey back over his head with slow, deliberate movements. For a second, it looked like he might fold it neatly—like I’d done for him—but instead, he balled it up and clutched it to his chest.
My anger faltered, cooling just enough for my voice to soften. “Look, Pretty Boy. I do appreciate your help. I really do. But where I come from, you don’t do work for free. You’ve got a job, a career. I don’t know what you’re getting out of spending all this time here, but it stops now. You’re sick as hell, working yourself into the ground, and I can’t have that on my conscience.”
He didn’t look at me as I spoke, just nodded faintly. For a beat, he seemed so… small. Like all the fight had drained out of him. But then—just like that—he straightened, shaking it off with a sniff and a spark of defiance flaring back to life in his eyes.
“What I get out of being here,” he said, lips curling into something that was almost a smirk, “is purely selfish, as much as I hate to admit it. So use that money for your bar. Where I come from, morals and ethics are flexible, but I dance to my own beat. So, I may not work here anymore, but trust me—this isn’t the last you’ll see of me.”
He turned on his heel, the jersey still clutched like a lifeline as he strode out the door, back into the cold Canadian air in whatever too-thin shirt he’d come in wearing.