Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JAKE
The glow of the television dimly lights Stella’s living room, some action movie playing that neither of us is really watching.
She’s curled up against my side on her couch, her head on my chest, one leg thrown over mine.
We’ve been like this for hours, just existing in each other’s space, and it’s the most content I’ve felt in. .. well, maybe ever.
It’s been two weeks since the infamous Kinky Batman incident at Grumpy’s, and the nickname has stuck with embarrassing persistence. Even clients have started using it after overhearing the guys—though Stella insists it’s endearing rather than mortifying.
“This movie is terrible,” she murmurs against my chest.
“Mmm,” I agree, running my fingers through her hair. “Want to change it?”
“No. I like this.”
“Bad movies?”
“This. Us. Being here with you.”
Something warm spreads through my chest at her words. I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in that caramel scent that’s become my favourite smell in the world.
“Can I ask you something?” she says quietly.
“Anything.”
She shifts slightly so she can look at me. “The tattoo on your hand. The noose. You said you went through some shit, but you never told me what happened.”
My hand automatically flexes, the black ink stark against my skin even in the dim light. It’s not something I talk about often—well, not something I talk about ever, really. But something about the way she’s looking at me, the genuine concern in her green eyes, makes me want to tell her.
“My dad,” I start, then stop. “Fuck, this is harder than I thought.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“No, I want to. I want you to know.” I take a deep breath. “My dad wasn’t exactly Father of the Year. Drank too much, had a temper, thought the best way to solve problems was with his fists. I used to think that was just how men were meant to be—angry, loud, impossible to please.”
Stella’s hand finds mine, her fingers tracing gently over the tattoo.
“When I was seventeen, things got bad at home. Mum was working double shifts to avoid being there, and I was basically raising myself. One night, Dad came home absolutely pissed and started laying into me about something—I can’t even remember what.
Usual stuff about how I was worthless, how I’d never amount to anything. ”
The memories are still sharp, even after all these years. “I snapped. Told him exactly what I thought of him, called him every name in the book. He went mental—came at me with a beer bottle.”
Stella’s intake of breath is sharp. “Jake...”
“I was bigger than him by then, stronger. Could have really hurt him if I’d wanted to. But I just... left. Packed my stuff and walked out that night.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen. Eighteen in a month. I was so angry, so fucked up about everything. Felt like I was drowning, like there was no way out.” I look down at the tattoo. “Got this a few weeks later. Thought it was deep—symbolic of how trapped I felt.”
“And now?”
“Now I think I was a stupid kid who made a permanent decision based on temporary feelings.” I turn my hand over, linking our fingers. “But I keep it as a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That things can get better. That feeling trapped doesn’t mean you are trapped. That sometimes the darkest moments lead to something better.”
She brings our joined hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. “What happened with your dad after that?”
“Nothing, really. He died in a car accident about five years ago. Drunk driving—surprise, surprise. I went to the funeral, but I felt... nothing. No grief, no closure. Just nothing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He made his choices.” I pause. “What about you? You never really talk about your mum.”
I feel her tense slightly against me, and for a moment I think she’s going to deflect or change the subject. But then she speaks, her voice quiet.
“Cancer. Pancreatic. By the time they found it, there was nothing they could do. It felt like the clock started ticking louder every day, and no matter what we tried, time just kept running out.”
“How old were you?”
“Eighteen. I’d just started at uni and was living at home while I figured out what to do with my life.” She’s quiet for a long moment. “She was sick for eight months. Eight months of hospitals and treatments and false hope.”
“That must have been hell.”
“It was. But Doc was amazing during that time. He was there every day—helping with appointments, bringing groceries, fixing things around the house. He and Mum were really close—she was his little sister, and he’d always looked out for her.”
“What changed?”
“She died on a Tuesday. Funeral was on Friday. Doc spoke at the service, talked about how much she meant to him, how he’d always be there for her family.” Her voice turns bitter. “By the following week, he’d completely disappeared from my life.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. No calls, no visits, nothing. I tried reaching out a few times, but he never responded. It was like I didn’t exist anymore. And once you’ve been abandoned like that, it’s hard to trust anyone won’t eventually do the same.”
I can hear the hurt in her voice—the confusion and abandonment that still lingers after all these years.
“Maybe he was grieving too. People handle grief differently.”
“Maybe. But I was eighteen years old, had just lost my only parent, and suddenly the one person who’d been like a father to me wanted nothing to do with me. That’s not grief—that’s abandonment.”
“Stella...”
“I know it sounds pathetic, holding onto that hurt for so long. But he was all I had left, you know? My dad was never in the picture, no grandparents, no other family. Just me, Mum, and Uncle Doc. When she died, I thought at least I’d still have him.”
“It doesn’t sound pathetic. It sounds like you were a scared kid who needed the one remaining family member to step up, and he didn’t.”
She shifts again, looking up at me. “Is that why you don’t want kids? Because of your dad?”
The question catches me off guard. “I... where did that come from?” I’d mentioned briefly that I didn’t think kids were for me. I’m almost thirty and figured if it were going to happen, it would have already.
“Just something I’ve been thinking about. You’re so good with people, so protective and caring. But when you said that in passing a few weeks ago, it got me thinking.”
I consider this. “I guess I never thought I’d be any good at it. Hard to know how to be a good father when you’ve never had one.”
“But you’ve figured out how to be a good man despite that.”
“Have I?”
“Jake.” She sits up, turning to face me. “You’re kind, loyal, and protective of the people you care about. You work hard, you’re reliable, you make me laugh. You’re nothing like your father.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because of this.” She reaches up to touch my throat gently. “The way you touch me here, during... you know. It’s not about control or violence. It’s about trust, connection. You do it because you know I like it, because it makes me feel safe and owned in the best possible way.”
Heat floods my system at her words, but it’s more than just arousal. It’s the realisation that she sees something in me that I’ve never seen in myself.
“Why do you like it?” I ask quietly. “The throat thing. I’ve never asked—just assumed it was something you wanted and didn’t push for the why.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Promise you won’t think I’m weird?”
“Never.”
“It’s about trust, I think. Letting someone have that kind of control over you and knowing they won’t abuse it. It’s the ultimate intimacy, isn’t it? Having someone’s hand on the most vulnerable part of your body and knowing they’d never hurt you.”
“And with me?”
“With you, it feels like coming home. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be—and like even if the whole world fell apart, I’d still feel safe if I was here.”
The admission hits me square in the chest. This incredible, strong, independent woman trusts me with something so intimate, so vulnerable.
“Stella,” I say, cupping her face with my free hand, “I would never hurt you. Never.”
“I know. That’s why I can let go with you—why I can be completely myself.”
Looking at her in the dim light, her red hair falling over her shoulders, her green eyes soft with trust and something deeper, I’m hit with a realisation that nearly knocks the wind out of me.
I’m in love with her. Not the kind of love you can talk yourself out of or keep safely at arm’s length. The kind that digs in deep and doesn’t let go.
And more than that—I can see a future with her. A real future. Marriage, kids, growing old together. All the things I thought I’d never want, never be good enough for.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, studying my face.
“You,” I answer honestly. “Us. How I never thought I was the settling down type, but with you...”
“With me, what?”
“With you, I can see it. All of it. The whole domestic bliss thing that used to terrify me.”
Her breath catches. “Really?”
“Really. You make me want things I’ve never wanted before. Make me think maybe I could be the kind of man who deserves a life like that.”
“Jake, you already are that kind of man.”
“Am I? Because sometimes I look at you and think about how much better your life could be with someone who has their shit together. Someone who didn’t grow up in a broken home with a deadbeat father.”
“Stop.” Her voice is firm. “Don’t you dare diminish yourself like that. Yes, you had a hard childhood. Yes, your father was a terrible person. But that doesn’t define you. You define you.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because I see who you are every day. I see how you treat the guys at work, how you’ve been patient with me figuring out this relationship, how you make me feel like the most important person in the world.” She hesitates, then adds softly, “And because I’m falling in love with you.”