Chapter Ten #2
Silly squeezed his hand, her eyes knowing. “We’ll handle it. Like we handle everything.”
Back home, Jock sat on the porch while watching Maynard chasing a leaf in the backyard without pain while Tank ambled happily behind.
After a while spent decompressing from the vet visit, Jock got busy and resumed training.
They worked on heel and down, each command a step towards strength.
Jock’s mind wandered to his recovery again, Dr. Jaagr’s lessons weaving through: It’s not about being unbroken; it’s about rebuilding stronger.
Maynard embodied that, his playful tugs at Tank’s ears a testament to survival.
That evening, as Silly sketched new designs inspired by the dogs, Jock joined her, seated on the floor at her feet. “Baby?”
“Hmmm?” Her response sounded distracted, but he knew she’d be fully present as soon as he brought up the topics that had been whirling around in his mind.
“What do you think about fostering other dogs? Not that Maynard is a foster. He’s ours, full stop. But there are so many dogs that don’t do well in the shelter. They wind up sitting at the back of their kennel and are passed up time and time again.”
“How many are we thinking?” She didn’t lift her head, but as her hand paused in its sketching, he knew he’d captured her full attention.
“I thought one at a time might be good. We’d take time off between fosters, so we could focus on Tanker and Maynard. I haven’t talked to the director yet, but I know she’d probably jump at the idea. We’ll have to set boundaries upfront so she doesn’t steamroll us.”
“You.” Silly lifted her head and looked at him with a grin. “So she doesn’t steamroll you.”
“Okay, fine. Me. I’m the softie in this relationship.”
“You really are, Jock.” She tilted her head and hummed quietly for a second. “Since we’re talking about future things, where do you feel like we are when it comes to kids? I know we said someday, but that feels like a faraway time.”
“How many are we thinking?” He echoed her words back at her and earned a broad smile.
“I thought one at a time might be good.” Laughing, she reached out and stroked a finger across his lips. “You’d make a great dad, Jake.”
Jock captured her hand, rolled it over, and pressed a kiss to her palm. “And you’re going to make a gorgeous mom.”
***
Over the following weeks, Maynard’s progress accelerated.
He bounded up stairs without hesitation, his many runs in the yard a joyful blur of white fur and lolling tongue.
Play with Tank evolved into full romps complete with wrestling sessions that left both dogs panting and happy, Jock refereeing with laughter.
“You’re a fighter, boy,” he said during training, now working to teach roll over and shake, rewards reinforcing trust. “Good boy, Maynard.”
For him, the chance to reflect usually hit during quiet moments. Like Maynard’s scars, Jock’s PTSD was a permanent mark, but manageable, now more than ever, with the grounding techniques that turned bad nights into bearable ones.
Silly noticed, pulling him close after a session. “You’re both warriors.”
The date night’s cozy pivot lingered, inspiring more stay-at-home evenings, but when they tried again, it was with a movie under the stars at the drive-in, complete with popcorn and stolen kisses.
Maynard, fully settled now, stayed home with Tank, and they had no interruptions this time.
The vet’s words echoed in Jock’s mind from when they were talking about a subtle conflict. During the movie, Jock settled Silly’s head against his shoulder and opened up about the parallels as he saw between them.
“Maynard’s scars remind me of mine, you know. They’ll always be there, always be sensitive to triggers. But what we have, this love I have with you, it helps push that sensitivity back, making it more of a background noise than something at the forefront of my brain.”
Silly captured his hand and gave it a squeeze. “And like you, he’ll thrive because he’s loved.” The night ended with a quiet drive home hand in hand, and Jock knew his future would forever be brighter because of Silly.
***
The house was quiet for once, the usual rumble of dog play replaced by the soft creak of floorboards. Jock sat on the edge of the bed in their bedroom, the dim glow of a single lamp casting shadows across his scarred knuckles.
Silly stood by the window, her silhouette sharp against the night, one hand propped on the sill.
The air was heavy and rich, not just from the humid Louisiana night but from the weight of what they’d been talking about.
He’d pushed forwards the conversation they’d been having in bits and bites about them seriously trying for a kid, what that future would look like, and the hope that could come from something so precious, neither of them had dared name until now.
Jock watched her, his chest tight. She’d been a little quieter since the SSMC mess started, her usual fire banked by something deeper, something scared. He knew that look. Had seen it in the mirror way too many times. “Silly,” he said, voice rough but soft, “you okay?”
She turned, her green eyes catching the light, wet and raw. “What if I’m not cut out for this, Jock?” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “A kid. A family. I never had one worth a damn. What if I break it?”
He stood, crossed the room in two strides, and pulled her into his arms. She didn’t fight it, just sank against him, her breath shaky.
“Sylvia Rene Anna Estavez Perez, you know you’re not your past,” he said, his lips brushing her hair.
“You’re tougher than anyone I know. And you’re not alone in this.
” Stay sharp, stay steady, he thought, the mantra grounding him as her warmth pressed against his chest. “We’re in this together. ”
Silly looked up, her eyes searching his, and something shifted. It looked like fear finally giving way to a flicker of hope. “You really want this? With me?” Her voice was small, like she was waiting for the world to pull the rug out.
Jock cupped her face, his calloused thumbs brushing her cheeks.
“Hell yeah, I do. You, me, a kid. Oh, hell yeah. I say fuck the odds. We’ll make it work.
” He kissed her, slow and deep, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it.
Every promise, every fear, every damn thing he’d buried since he was a kid running from his own shadows.
She kissed him back, fierce, gripping his cut like she was holding herself together. The air changed, electric, the weight of their words igniting something primal. Silly pulled back, her eyes dark now, hungry. “Show me,” she said, voice low, almost a challenge.
Jock didn’t need to be told twice. He took off his cut and slung it over to the dresser, then lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the bed, their mouths crashing together.
Clothes hit the floor. His shirt, her tank top, a tangle of denim and cotton.
Her nails raked his back, and he growled, the sound raw, feral.
The bed creaked as he pinned her beneath him, her thighs parting, her breath hot against his neck.
“Jock,” she gasped, arching into him, pulling him closer, demanding.
He moved with her, hard and fast, their bodies slick with sweat, the room filled with the slap of skin and her sharp moans.
It was messy, urgent, like they were chasing something bigger than themselves.
A spark, a future, a life. She clung to him, her nails digging in, and he drove deeper, lost in her, in the heat and the need and the raw, wild connection that burned away everything else.
When they collapsed, panting, tangled in the sheets, Silly’s hand found his, her fingers lacing tight. The room was quiet again, but it felt different now, as if they’d staked a claim on something new.
Jock pulled her close, his heart still pounding, and whispered, “I love you. Love us. Love us so much.”