Chapter Thirteen
Come on, Lassie. You can do it.
“ R ise and shine, Daddy!”
I squint through the split in my fingers, brain foggy and absolutely not ready for whatever fresh hell this is. But no matter how many times I blink, the hallucination doesn’t go away.
Griffin Sterling and Wilder Reed.
Two men I’ve trusted through gunfire, blackout nights, and too many bad decisions to count. Brothers in everything but blood.
Also? Two men who live several states away and have no fucking reason to be standing on my doorstep right now.
“Why do you look like you just woke up? It’s four pm,” Griffin barks as he shoves me aside and storms into my living room like he owns the place.
“Because I did,” I mutter.
Wilder’s right behind him, arms full of bags and a manic glint in his eyes like he’s been snorting energy drinks. He spins in a slow circle, brows high, mouth open.
“This is…”
“Quaint?” Griff chokes out, Tennessee accent thick as he drops one singular duffle bag onto my kitchen table. “Small but—”
“It’s a piece of shit,” Wilder interrupts, throwing his haul next to Griffs. “You need to move out. Immediately .”
He has no idea how accurate that statement is.
The door clicks shut behind me. I lean against it, arms crossed over my bare chest, deadpan and disoriented.
A weird wave of déjà vu rolls over me—Georgia, showing up on this exact doorstep weeks ago. Me, shirtless and wearing the same sweats, half-awake and half-functioning.
Only difference is, I’m sober as hell today.
And despite her dropping a twisted bomb directly into my lap, her visit was a fuck of a lot more interesting for my dick.
Until it wasn’t.
“So, where is it?” Wilder yells from my bathroom.
My brows snap together, stomach twisting.
“Where’s what?” I rasp, voice shredded from a week of barely sleeping. I shove off the door and head for the fridge, frowning at the lack of beer. I grab a few waters and toss them on the tiny bar with a thud. “Who the fuck are you talking about, and why are you here?”
Griffin turns, a smug grin already living rent-free beneath his overgrown beard. I briefly consider waxing it like I did once in the military.
“What’s got you all puffed up, princess? Parenthood got you in a mood?”
My hand stalls, bottle halfway to my mouth. My heart skips too many beats to be considered safe, and my stomach does a slow, ominous roll. Their words finally start connecting, and dread hits me like a tank.
Wilder stumbles out of the bathroom, still zipping up his fly. The toilet flushes behind him, but I barely hear it. He shoots me a dopey smile, all charm and zero awareness, and punches me in the good shoulder.
Small mercies.
“Where the hell’s your kid?” He toes open my closet like I might’ve stashed a whole ass toddler behind my boots.
“I—” What the actual fuck?
I rake a hand through my hair, scrambling for anything to say.
To lie? To stall? To figure out how the hell they even know?
I never called them like I said I would. Meant to, but everything’s been happening so damn fast, and my mind’s been a mess since the mediation.
A week’s flown by since then—a chaotic blur of long drives to Rydell to visit Aurora, house hunting, and running into ex-social workers and ex-landladies at my local grocery store.
Haven’t been able to get that damn run-in off my mind, either.
Seeing her on the floor like that—eyes glassy, shoulders shaking—it scared the shit out of me. Took everything I had not to drop to my knees and lift her up, demand to know what the hell happened.
But then she looked up at me with that spark, that flash of wildfire that always burns just beneath her skin, and I knew she didn’t need saving.
Not by me, anyway.
She looked… beautiful .
Too beautiful for a small town like this.
Long, flowy white dress, chunky cream sweater practically swallowing her whole—but somehow it made her look even smaller, softer. Her hair was straight, and it fell in this thick red sheet down her back, nearly touching the curve of her ass.
And I couldn’t stop looking at the way it swayed.
Maybe because I’m a man with a pulse, and she looked like a goddamn fever dream standing there in the middle of a run-down store that still smells like old floor wax and expired cheese.
Or maybe because she’s her, and I’m quickly becoming addicted to all things Georgia Walker.
She’s chaos. Sharp tongue, quick temper, a walking contradiction of compassion and bite. And I fucking love sparring with her. Love the way she challenges me—pushes back, never flinches.
But this… thing … in my chest. This… burn… It wasn’t just heat. It was something else. Something I don’t know how to name.
Which means it’s for the best Georgia’s out of my life and moving on, just like she said she would.
Temporary .
Because in a few weeks, my life’ll be anything but temporary. If things keep going as they are, soon enough, I’ll have a kid.
A kid who I’ve spent every day getting to know.
The nurses told me everything they could—how to bathe a baby that’s not quite yours without making it weird, how, what and when to feed her, milestones she’ll have coming up, what kind of bed and shit I need for a nursery I have nowhere to put, and even how to encourage her to finally talk, despite what she’s been through.
Despite it—like her entire world wasn’t wrecked in a breath.
I’ve fallen for the tiny, little thing. She’s sweet. A giggling bundle wrapped in barely-there curls that match mine. She loves blocks, especially when I trip over them and cry in pain. Makes her lose her mind with laughter.
She gets grumpy when she doesn’t have her feet covered—which I learned isn’t normal for babies. Apparently, hating socks and shoes is a world-wide baby phenomenon. But Aurora loves those tiny socks, and I find it so fucking cute, it makes me want to cry all over again.
I’m a sap where she’s concerned, and she’s not even mine yet.
“Jesus Christ. He’s falling apart, isn’t he?” Griff mutters. “Look at ’em. He’s miles away.”
“I think he’s just sleeping standing up,” Wilder whisper-hisses, snapping in my face. “Wake up, big boy!”
I slap his hand and blink back to the present.
Griff’s leaning against the chipped Formica bar, back to the living room, rolling a water between his bear paws as he stares me down. It’s the same look he used to give me in the army right before I got assigned some bullshit task.
Wilder elbows in beside him, bumping the six-foot-five bastard off balance.
“Fuck off,” Griff grumbles, downing his water in one long drink.
Wilder cackles like the feral psycho he is and props his chin on his fist. “Nah, I’m comfy right here, big man.”
As one, they turn to me, eyes sharp, seeing too fucking much.
There’s a breeze drifting in through the open window behind them, but sweat still breaks out along my spine. My skin itches and my thigh throbs, like just looking at my best friends reminds my body what we all went through together.
For one wild second, I consider throwing myself off the roof just to get away.
Might even get some sleep in the hospital.
But of course, a peaceful coma is way too much to hope for when these assholes are involved. Wilder would probably curl up on my gurney with me, and Griff would sing until I woke up.
“So,” Wilder drawls, tapping his fingers against his annoyingly clean-shaven jaw. He tilts his head, messy blond hair flopping into his eyes. “What’s new with you?”
I swallow hard and nearly choke, because apparently my mouth is the Sahara. “Georgia called you, didn’t she? She told you?”
It’s the only thing that makes sense.
She took Griff’s card. Said she needed to verify my job. That was over a week ago. Of course, she called. She’s professional, punctual, and perfect. I, on the other hand, am struggling to stay awake, keep my shit together, and haven’t told a single soul what’s been happening.
“I don’t know,” Griff says slowly, green eyes narrowed. “Tell us what , Archer?”
“And who’s Georgia?” Wilder pipes in, all curiosity and faux-innocence. “That’s a pretty name. Not sure I would have forgotten it if I’d heard it before.” He blinks up at our forever Sargent. “What about you, Griff?”
He shakes his head, man-bun whipping side to side. “No, Reed. Don’t think I would have. Bet she’s got a pretty-as-hell voice, too. All sweet and sunshine.” His brows hit his hairline. “ Memorable .”
“Jesus.” I groan, dragging my hands down my face. “You guys are fucking assholes.”
“Assholes who flew halfway across the country to meet our—”
“Okay,” I snap, cutting Wilder off with a sharp look. “I get it. You want to meet your—” There goes my dry mouth again. “Your—”
They lean in, eyes wide, faces reassuring.
“Come on, Lassie,” Griff coaxes, slapping my cheek.
“You can say it, boy,” Wilder coos, ruffling my hair like I’m a fucking golden retriever.
I swat them both away and take a step back, needing air and space, and a temporary best friend transplant. My fists land on my hips, and I start pacing. Tiny, anxious stomps across my two-by-two kitchen.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Ten laps in, my pulse finally slows. Fifteen, and I can swallow again without gagging. Somewhere around lap twenty, I finally start to talk—still pacing, still avoiding their eyes, because if I stop, I won’t get a damn word out.
I tell them everything.
Georgia showing up on my doorstep out of nowhere.
The mediation. The probationary thirty-day period I’ve got to prove I can be a dad.
The part where I need a new job. A safer house.
A whole fucking lifestyle reset. And how it all ended with me at the hospital, holding a baby that isn’t mine by blood—but is somehow already mine in every way that matters because she needs me .
I don’t get into how it felt. I leave out the part about the way she looked up at me. The weight of her. The way everything in me cracked wide open the second she smiled.
I’m not there yet.