Chapter 4 #2
I'm still watching when Torch looks up, catching my eye across the room. He raises his glass in my direction in a silent toast.
I raise mine in return.
He mouths the words from across the room. "Thank you."
I nod, my throat too tight to answer.
"Let's call them," Greyson says, pulling out his phone. "The whole family should know."
Greyson's on his phone spreading the word, and with each call the energy in the room ratchets higher. Techy finds a heavier track, the bass vibrating through the floorboards.
I find myself pulled into conversations, asked about the day care, about my life while the boys were gone. These men who look like they could kill with their bare hands are gentle with me, respectful. They've always treated me like family.
"To coming home," Greyson says, raising his glass. "And to staying there."
The toast echoes around the room. Trenton's gaze finds mine across the crowd. He raises his glass, a private acknowledgment that makes my heart swell.
The party continues well into the afternoon. The news spreads, and the clubhouse fills with more members, more friends. Matthew's parents arrive, followed quickly by Trenton's mother, who immediately bursts into tears at the sight of her son.
Through it all, I watch as Trenton and Matthew come back to life. The careful control they maintained during deployments slowly melts away, replaced by the easy confidence they've always had with their brothers.
"We should head out soon," Matthew murmurs against my ear as dusk begins to fall. "Let them have their celebration. We've got time."
I nod, already feeling the pull of our home, our real home, and the quiet intimacy waiting for us there.
Trenton approaches, his hand finding my back. "Ready?"
"With you? Always."
We say our goodbyes amid promises to return soon, to catch up properly. Torch pulls me aside as Trenton and Matthew talk with Greyson.
"I knew you'd be good for him," he says quietly. "For both of them. But I didn't know how good."
I squeeze his hand. "They're home now. For good."
As we drive away from the clubhouse, the sunset paints the sky in shades of orange and purple. I lean my head against the seat, listening to the low murmur of their voices and the rumble of the engine. For the first time in six years, there's nowhere else I need to be.
"Think your parents are ready for a surprise?" Matthew asks as Trenton turns onto their street, his fingers lacing with mine.
My stomach flutters. "They have no idea you're back," I say. "This is going to be interesting." I shake my head, my stomach fluttering with anticipation. "I wanted to surprise them too."
The house comes into view, the same two-story colonial I grew up in, with my mother's hydrangeas blooming along the front walk. Dad's pickup sits in the driveway.
"Ready?" I ask, squeezing their hands.
"Let's do this," Trenton says.
We walk up the path together, our footsteps in sync. I can see movement through the front window. My mother is at the kitchen sink. Before I can reach for the doorbell, the front door swings open.
My father stands there, broad-shouldered and still, the kind of man who takes up a doorway without trying. He freezes when he sees us, his weathered face registering shock, then disbelief.
"Dad?" I say, suddenly unsure.
He doesn't answer. He just stares at Trenton and Matthew, his gaze darting between their faces as if he can't believe they're real. His jaw works silently, and for a moment the raw emotion on his face looks almost like anger.
Then his composure cracks.
"God damn it," he whispers, his voice breaking. He steps forward and pulls Matthew into a rough hug, then Trenton, then me, crushing us all together in his strong arms. "You boys."
"Sir," Matthew says, sounding slightly winded from the embrace.
"Don't you 'sir' me," Dad says. His eyes are suspiciously bright. "Where the hell have you been? Why didn't you call?"
"Isaac?" My mother appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She takes in the scene, of my dad still gripping our shoulders, the three of us standing on the porch, and she goes very still, the dish towel bunched in both hands. "Oh my God."
"Emily," Dad says, his voice thick. "Look who's home."
Mom rushes forward, her apron fluttering. She pulls us all into a hug, tears streaming down her face. "Morgan! Boys! When did you get back?"
"Last night," I tell her, laughing through my own tears. "We decided to make it a surprise."
Dad finally releases his grip, stepping back to look at us properly. His expression has softened in a way I've rarely seen, the stern lines of his face relaxed.
"You're home for good?" he asks, his eyes moving between Trenton and Matthew.
"Yes, sir," Trenton answers. "Discharged with honors."
Dad nods slowly, and I can tell he is happy.
Mom is already pulling us inside, her voice bright with excitement. "I was just making dinner. There's plenty for everyone."
She gives me a knowing look that makes me blush.
Dad lingers in the entryway, watching as Mom fusses over us, asking a hundred questions in rapid succession.
"Isaac," Mom calls over her shoulder. "Grab the good whiskey from the cabinet. We're celebrating."
Dad moves to obey, his steps lighter than I've seen in years. As he passes me, he pauses, his hand coming to rest briefly on my shoulder.
"I'm glad you waited," he says quietly. "Some things are worth waiting for."
The words are simple, but they carry the weight of years. I still remember him cleaning his hunting knife on the porch the first time these two picked me up for a date. To hear this from him now means everything.
"Thank you," I whisper, my voice catching.
He nods once, then continues to the cabinet.
Dinner is loud and joyful. Mom can't stop smiling, her eyes constantly filling with fresh tears as she watches us. Dad says less, but he watches too, his gaze moving between the three of us as we share stories of the new house, the clubhouse welcome, our plans for the future.
"Emily cried for a week after you were deployed," Dad says suddenly, looking at Trenton and Matthew. "I told her you'd come back. Strong boys like you."
Trenton meets his gaze steadily. "We had reasons to come home."
"I know you did." Dad's eyes find mine, and I see the understanding there, the acceptance that's been years in the making. "Good reasons."
After dessert, Mom insists on showing us her latest projects: the garden she's expanded, then the quilt she's making for our new home. Dad pulls Trenton and Matthew aside, leading them to the garage where he's been restoring an old motorcycle.
I follow them into the garage, the familiar scent of oil and old wood greeting me. For years, this space was Dad's refuge. Now, he's inviting them in.
"The engine's almost done," Dad says, gesturing to the partially assembled bike. "Thought it might make a good project for you boys."
Matthew runs his hand over the frame. "This is a '67 Triumph Bonneville. These are getting hard to find."
Dad nods, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Knew you'd recognize it."
I watch them, three heads bent over the engine, voices a low murmur of parts and modifications. The peaceful image almost erases the memory of Dad on the porch, his voice like gravel, promising to bury them in the woods if they ever hurt me.
"They're good men," Dad says quietly, appearing beside me as Matthew and Trenton debate the merits of different carburetors. "Always have been."
"I know," I say, equally quiet.
He turns to face me fully. "You've always known your own heart, Morgan. Even when you were young. I was afraid for you, but I shouldn't have been."
"Dad—"
"You chose well," he continues, his voice low and steady. "Those boys would die for you. I see it in how they look at you. How they move when you're near."
I feel tears welling again. "I love them."
"I know." He puts his arm around my shoulders, a rare display of affection. "And they love you. That's all that matters."
Later, as we prepare to leave, Mom presses Tupperware containers of food into our hands while Dad loads a case of his home-brewed beer into Trenton's truck.
"For the new house," he explains. "Housewarming gift."
"Thank you, sir," Trenton says, and I hear the genuine respect in his voice.
"Isaac," Dad corrects. "You're family now. No more 'sir.'"
The words hang in the air between them, and in the quiet that follows.
As we drive away, Matthew's hand in mine, Trenton's arm stretched across the back of the seat behind us. I feel a sense of completion that's been missing for too long. All the pieces are finally in place: our home, our family, our future.
"Your dad," Matthew says, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "He's different."
I smile, watching the familiar streets of my childhood pass by. "He loves you both. Always has, deep down."
"He threatened to bury me in the backyard once," Trenton recalls, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"But he's been checking on our house for years," I remind him. "Making sure it was maintained while you were gone. Helping Mom organize care packages to send you."
Matthew looks at me in surprise. "Your dad sent those packages?"
"Every month," I confirm. "He just didn't want credit for it."
A new understanding of my father settles over me. It recalibrates the memories. The stern warnings weren't rejection, but a test; the loaded glances weren't disapproval, but a silent measure of the men I'd chosen. He wasn't pushing them away, he was making sure they were worthy.
And they were. They are.
Trenton turns onto our driveway, the lights of our house welcoming us back.
The door closes, shutting out the world.
In the sudden quiet of our home, Trenton turns me to face him, his eyes dark with an emotion too deep for words.
He traces my jaw before his mouth finds mine, a kiss that's both a promise and a desperate claim.
Matthew's hands slide around my waist, pulling me tight against him.
"Finally," I whisper against Trenton's lips. "Just us."