Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
FUCK BIOLOGY
LOUISIANA
I pull into the driveway just after noon, the crisp fall air sharp against my skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and burning leaves.
Groceries weigh heavy in my arms, the chill making my breath catch in little puffs as I walk inside.
Everyone knows I can’t fucking cook, but I handle the shopping and the dishes.
Fair trade, right? I drop the bags by the door with a satisfied smirk; who the hell makes more than one trip?
I glance out the back window and spot Henry sitting on the wooden steps, elbows resting heavily on his knees, head bowed low like he’s carrying the weight of the world.
At first, I think he’s just lost in thought, quiet and still.
His broad shoulders don’t move much—just the kind of still that makes you think he’s thinking through a problem.
I push the door open and drop down beside him, nudging his leg with mine. “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise, Sheriff.” My voice sounds too light, too casual, like I’m trying to break through something I can’t see yet.
Then I notice it—the subtle hitch in his breath, the way his shoulders start to tremble, almost imperceptibly at first, then a little more.
A single tear slips from beneath his hat, trailing down his cheek and soaking into the collar of his shirt.
It’s slow, silent, and it catches me off guard like a punch to the gut.
I reach out with a trembling hand and gently lift his sunglasses off, revealing eyes glazed with raw, unfiltered pain. I’ve seen Henry misty-eyed before—hell, I’ve seen that stubborn man hold back tears—but never like this. Never so broken, so exposed.
My breath catches, and it feels like the air between us thickens with something heavy and electric, a rawness so real it hurts to even look. The man who’s been my rock, my unbreakable shield, is unraveling right in front of me.
Without thinking, my hand slides over his trembling back, fingers pressing slow, steady circles, trying to anchor him—to tell him without words that I’m here, that I’ve got him. “Talk to me, Henny,” I whisper, voice rough with something fierce and aching I can’t quite name.
He turns to me, slow like it hurts, and when his hazel eyes meet mine, they’re bloodshot and brimming with a kind of sorrow I’ve never seen on his face before. The pain carved into them has me clutching the back of his shirt tight in my fist, trying to brace myself for whatever the hell’s coming.
“Louisiana—” He says my name like it hurts him, voice splitting down the middle, raw and broken.
The sound of it stops me cold.
I don’t breathe. My heart is pounding, hard and uneven, as if it knows what’s coming before I do.
My hand tightens on his back, knuckles white through the soft cotton of his shirt.
I want to shake him, demand he spit it out, but I can’t.
The weight in the air is suffocating, and for a second, I swear I can feel his heartbreak pulsing beneath my fingertips.
Henry takes a breath, but it’s jagged and thin, like it’s tearing him apart to hold himself together. His hazel eyes—usually sharp and steady—are glassy when they find mine.
“Dallas’s dad has petitioned for custody of him.”
The words crash into me like a truck, flattening the air in my lungs. I jerk to my feet, like if I stand fast enough, the truth will fall off me.
“No. No, that’s—” My voice breaks like a bone snapping clean through, sharp and sudden.
I shake my head so hard my vision blurs, hair whipping across my face and clinging to the heat of unshed tears.
“They’ve never been able to find him, Henry.
Not once. Not one fucking time. He didn’t care.
He never cared. He didn’t even look for him! ”
My breath comes in gasps, shallow and ragged, like I’ve been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer.
“That baby—he was abused, Henry. He lost his baby brother. Do you understand me? He held that kind of pain before he even hit double digits, and after that? He got passed around like a bad habit, like he didn’t matter to anyone.
He starved. He cried himself to sleep in beds that weren’t safe.
He begged for love and all he got was fists and cold shoulders. ”
I can’t stop now—I’m unraveling, and the truth pours out in a fever pitch.
“Now this stranger—this ghost of a man who left him to rot—gets to walk into a courtroom and say, ‘He’s mine’?
He wants him now? Now that we’ve done the hard part?
Now that Dallas finally knows what it feels like to be safe? ”
I stumble back a step, arms flying up in helpless fury, every inch of me aching. “That’s not justice, Henry! That’s not redemption. That’s not how this works. That’s not fucking fair!”
“Lou—”
“No, Henry. If this is some sick joke—” My voice is shrill now, ugly and cracking.
His hand comes up, trembling as he grips my wrist. “It’s not a joke. Rue came to the station. She told me herself.”
The ground tilts under me, my knees threatening to give way. My throat closes up, burning with rage and panic. “She’s wrong,” I rasp. “How does she even know it’s him? How can we even be sure it’s not just some random—”
“She’s already requested a DNA test.”
That sentence guts me. I stagger back, my hands flying to my mouth like I can shove the scream back inside.
“No,” I choke out. “There’s no way a judge will give him custody. I don’t give a damn what biology says. Dallas is ours. He’s—he’s—” My chest caves. “You call Rue. You tell her she better not come here with that shit!”
“It doesn’t work like that, wildflower,” he says softly, and that softness—God, it kills me more than anger ever could. “There are…procedures.”
Procedures. What a cold, sterile word for something that could rip apart everything we’ve built.
I stare at him, trembling—every inch of me wired tight with helpless, feral fury. My voice splinters as it leaves me, raw and ragged.
“I told you,” I breathe, barely above a whisper but sharp as glass. “I told you I couldn’t take it—not again. I told you I couldn’t handle having something else ripped out of me! I told you—”
But the words collapse in my throat, and so do I.
Henry pulls me into his lap before I can fall apart completely, his arms wrapping around me like he’s the only thing keeping me from shattering.
I sink into him, fists clutching at his shirt like maybe if I hold on tight enough, we won’t lose anything else.
He’s shaking. Not just his hands—him. His whole body quakes beneath mine, and I can feel the frantic thud of his heart, like it’s trying to outrun something it knows is coming. His breath hitches in my hair.
“I know, wildflower,” he chokes out, so soft, it nearly breaks me. “I know.”
Then quieter still, just a breath against my ear, broken in a way I’ve never heard from him before, “I don’t want to lose my boy either.”
Those eight words steal my breath. My throat burns as I bury my face against his neck, tears finally slipping free. My strong, unshakable Henry—Sheriff fucking Wilder—is falling apart beneath my hands.
I wrap my arms around him, straddling his hips, clinging to him like I can anchor us both while the whole world tilts. His tears soak into my shirt, his breath ragged and hot against my collarbone, and all I can think is: No one is taking our boy. Not now. Not ever.
The world outside doesn’t matter. Not the laws, not the petitions, not the man trying to claim blood over love. All that matters is this—the three of us, bound by something far deeper than DNA.
I don’t remember how I got inside.
Maybe I floated. Maybe I ran. Maybe I just needed the space between us for a minute, because if I stayed in his arms, I was going to shatter—and I couldn’t afford to fall apart where he could see it.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, muffling the world. My knees hit the cold tile harder than I meant, the sound echoing off the porcelain and silence. I press my back against the cabinet and bite down on my fist, trying to stifle the sob crawling up my throat.
But it comes anyway.
God, it comes.
A brutal, choking sound I don’t recognize as mine. Tears hit my cheeks hot and fast, and I press my forehead to my knees, trying to disappear into myself.
Dallas is ours.
That boy’s laughter lives in this house. His socks are still in the damn dryer. His cereal bowl is in the sink. He doesn’t just live here—he belongs here.
And someone thinks they can take him?
My chest convulses, a silent scream tearing through my ribs. I curl tighter, like if I make myself small enough, the pain won’t find me. But it does. It finds me and it doesn’t let go.
Then— A knock. Soft. Barely there.
“Lou?”
Henry.
I don't answer. I can’t. If I open my mouth right now, I’ll beg him to fix it—and I know he can’t.
The door creaks open anyway.
“I’m coming in,” he says, voice low. Not a question. Not a demand. Just a promise.
His footsteps are slow, deliberate, as he kneels beside me. I feel the shift in the air before I feel his hand—warm and steady—slide into my hair. He doesn’t pull me to him, doesn’t force me to speak. Just rests his forehead against mine.
“I didn’t know where you went,” he murmurs. His breath is shaky. “I thought maybe you left.”
I shake my head against him, my voice a cracked whisper. “I didn’t know where else to fall.”
He closes his eyes, jaw tight. “Into me baby,” he says, wrapping his arms around me pulling me onto his lap as he sits on the cold ceramic bathroom floor. “Always into me, I’ve got you Lou.”
And this time, I do.
I let go. I let myself sob into his chest, clutch at his shirt like a lifeline, like maybe if I hold tight enough, the storm outside won’t reach us.
He holds me through it. Every breath, every tremble. His hands stroke my back, his lips press to the top of my head, and he doesn’t say it’ll be okay—because he knows better.
He just says, “We’ll fight.”
Damn right we will.
Even with my heart in pieces and the future clawing at our door, I know we will. Because if there’s one thing we’ve always done—
It’s fucking fight.