Chapter 16
Channel woke to morning light and the weight of Reagan against his chest.
They'd made it to the bed eventually—somewhere around three in the morning, when the floor became too hard and the cold seeped through the satisfaction. She'd curled into him like she belonged there, one leg thrown over his, her hand resting over his heart.
He didn't move. Didn't want to break whatever spell had settled over the cabin, the quiet peace that felt fragile in the aftermath of everything.
Instead, he watched her sleep.
Her face was softer like this. The wariness that lived behind her eyes had retreated, replaced by something young and unguarded. She breathed slow and deep, her lips slightly parted, her hair a dark tangle across his shoulder.
Beautiful. That had been his first thought when he walked into her store—deployment eyes still adjusting to civilian life, no clothes that weren't military surplus or hand-me-downs, looking for a jacket because he'd forgotten how to dress like a normal person.
He'd walked in looking for leather and found her instead.
Standing behind that counter with bruises on her arms and fire in her eyes. Ready to tell him to mind his own business, ready to fight the whole world alone if that's what it took.
Something in him had recognized something in her. Two people who'd learned that home was temporary and safety was earned, not given.
Reagan stirred against him, making a soft sound, and he pressed a kiss to her hair without thinking.
"Morning," she mumbled.
"Morning."
"What time is it?"
"Early. You can sleep more."
"Can't." She shifted, propping herself up on his chest to look at him. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, but the wariness was already creeping back in. "My brain won't stop."
"Know the feeling."
She studied his face, something searching in her expression. "You were watching me sleep."
"Guilty."
"That's creepy, you know."
"Probably." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Couldn't help it. You looked peaceful."
"I don't feel peaceful." She settled her chin on her hands, still watching him. "I feel like we survived something huge and I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"The other shoe is Farris. And he'll drop eventually." Channel's hand found her back, tracing lazy patterns on her skin. "But not today. Today we breathe."
"You said that last time."
"And we breathed until they attacked. Now we breathe again." He smiled slightly. "It's a cycle."
Reagan was quiet for a moment. Then: "Tell me something."
"Like what?"
"Like anything. Something about you that I don't know.
" Her fingers traced the edge of a scar on his shoulder, one of several souvenirs he'd brought home from overseas.
"You know everything about me. I've told you about my store, my stepfather, leaving home.
But I don't know anything about Tyler Skaggs before he became Channel. "
The name sounded different in her mouth. Intimate. A secret they shared that no one else got to hear.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything." She pressed a kiss to the scar she'd been tracing. "Start wherever you want."
Channel stared at the ceiling. The memories were there, always there, but he didn't take them out often. Didn't see the point in examining wounds that wouldn't heal.
But for her, he could try.
"I grew up on Table Rock," he said slowly. "Little house on the water, nothing fancy. My dad built the dock himself. Taught me to swim by throwing me off the end of it when I was five."
"He threw you in?"
"Sink or swim, Ozark style." Channel smiled at the memory. "I swam. Barely. Came up sputtering and he was laughing so hard he could barely pull me out."
Reagan's hand moved to his chest, resting over his heart. Listening.
"I enlisted at eighteen. Seemed like the right thing—my grandfather served, my dad served. Skaggs men went to war. It was just what we did." He paused. "Did two tours. Made friends. Lost some of them."
"In combat?"
"Yeah." The word came out rougher than he intended. "Some of them. Others made it home but couldn't... adjust. Ate their guns in parking lots or drank themselves to death. The ones who survived overseas didn't always survive coming back."
Reagan's grip tightened on his chest. She didn't say anything. Didn't offer platitudes or empty comfort. Just held on.
"I was one of the lucky ones. Or I thought I was." Channel's voice went flat. "Finished my second tour, got my discharge papers, flew home expecting... I don't know. My mom's cooking. My dad's bad jokes. The house on the lake."
"What did you find?"
"A for-sale sign." The old anger flickered, then faded.
He was too tired for anger now. "My parents divorced while I was overseas.
Sold the house, split the money, moved to opposite ends of the state.
Nobody told me until I was standing in the driveway looking at strangers' furniture through the window. "
"Tyler..." Reagan's voice cracked on his name.
"The dock my dad built was gone. New owners put in one of those aluminum jobs.
Floating platform, no character." He laughed, but it wasn't funny.
"I stood there for twenty minutes trying to figure out where I was supposed to go.
No home. No unit. No mission. Just a duffel bag and a rental car and a whole country that didn't make sense anymore. "
Reagan pulled herself up and kissed him. Soft, slow, an apology for pain she hadn't caused.
"How did you find the club?" she asked when she pulled back.
"Cottonmouth." Channel's mouth quirked. "I was drinking at a lake bar, trying to figure out my next move. He came in looking like exactly what he is—dangerous, tattooed, the kind of guy civilians cross the street to avoid. And he sat down next to me and said, 'You've got the look. Marine?'"
"The look?"
"Deployment eyes. The thousand-yard stare they write about in magazines." Channel shrugged. "He saw it. Said he knew a place where skills like mine were useful. A unit that stayed together."
"And you said yes."
"I said I'd think about it. Thought about it for three days, realized I had nothing else, and showed up at the compound asking if they still needed a prospect." He met her eyes. "That was three months ago. I've been proving myself ever since."
Reagan was quiet, processing. Her fingers traced patterns on his chest while she thought.
"Your turn," he said.
"My turn for what?"
"You said I know everything about you. But I don't know the details." He pulled her closer, settling her against his side. "Tell me about the night you left."
She went still. He felt the tension ripple through her, the reflexive urge to deflect or change the subject.
"You don't have to," he added. "If it's too—"
"No." She exhaled slowly. "No, you told me yours. Fair is fair."
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling the way he had. Creating distance from the words she was about to say.
"My stepfather was charming when he wanted to be.
That's how they get you. Charming and attentive and everything my mom had been missing since my dad left.
" Reagan's voice was flat, clinical. "I was twelve when they got married.
Fourteen when the charm started slipping.
Sixteen when I realized the way he looked at me wasn't how fathers are supposed to look at their daughters. "
Channel's blood went cold. His hand found hers, gripping tight.
"He never touched me. Not like that." She must have felt him tense because she squeezed his fingers back. "But it was coming. I could feel it. The way he'd brush past me in the hallway. Stand too close in the kitchen. Find excuses to be alone with me."
"What did your mom do?"
"Nothing. She didn't want to see it, so she didn't." Reagan's laugh was bitter. "I told her once. Said I felt uncomfortable around him. She told me I was being dramatic. That he was a good man and I should be grateful."
"Jesus."
"So I stopped asking for help. And the night I turned seventeen, I packed a bag, took forty dollars from my mom's purse, and walked out the front door." She turned her head to look at him. "Never went back."
"Where did you go?"
"Everywhere. Nowhere." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Slept in my car when I could afford gas for the heater.
Shelters when I couldn't. Worked every shit job that would hire a teenager with no diploma—dishwasher, cashier, stock clerk.
Saved every penny. Learned how to survive on nothing because nothing was all I had. "
Channel brought her hand to his mouth, kissed her knuckles.
"The flea market was accident," she continued.
"Found a box of vintage clothes at an estate sale, paid ten dollars, sold them for fifty.
Did it again. And again. Eventually scraped together enough for a folding table and a spot at the market.
" Her voice softened. "That table became a booth.
The booth became a storefront. The storefront became Second Chances. "
"And you did it all alone."
"Had to. Nobody else was going to do it for me." She rolled to face him, her eyes fierce. "I swore when I left that house that I would never depend on anyone again. Never need anyone so badly that losing them could break me."
"And now?"
The fierceness flickered, replaced by something vulnerable. Something scared.
"Now I'm lying in bed with a man who killed for me. Who stood between me and danger without being asked. Who looks at me like I'm worth something." Her voice cracked. "And I don't know how to be the person who lets someone in without being terrified of what happens when they leave."
Channel pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her tight.
"I'm not leaving."
"Everyone leaves."
"I won't." He kissed her hair, her forehead, the tears she was trying to hide.
"Listen to me. I spent two years looking for something worth fighting for.
A unit that stays together. A home that doesn't get sold while I'm gone.
" He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.
"You're what I was looking for. You and this compound and the life we're building. I'm not walking away from that."
"You don't know that. You can't promise—"
"I can promise to try." He cupped her face in his hands. "I can promise that every day I wake up, I'll choose to stay. Choose you. Choose this." His thumbs brushed away her tears. "That's all any of us can do. Choose each other, over and over, until choosing becomes staying."
Reagan stared at him. The tears were still falling, but something else was breaking through—hope, maybe, or the beginning of trust.
"I'm looking for someone who stays," she whispered.
"Then stop looking." He kissed her, soft and slow and full of promise. "I'm right here."
She melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her body pressing against his like she was trying to climb inside his skin. The kiss deepened, turned hungry, and for a while they didn't talk at all.
Later—much later—she lay against his chest again, her breathing evening out toward sleep.
"Tyler?" Her voice was drowsy, muffled against his skin.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For telling me."
"Thank you for listening."
She was quiet for so long he thought she'd fallen asleep. Then, barely audible:
"I think this might be home. Here. With you."
Channel's throat tightened. He pressed a kiss to her hair and held her closer.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I think it might be."
Outside the cabin, the compound stirred to life—bikes starting, brothers calling out, the sounds of a community that kept moving no matter what tried to stop it.
But inside, in the quiet space they'd carved out together, two people who'd spent their lives running finally let themselves stop.