Chapter 24
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Kendall
I let out a shaky breath, the kind that sheds the last of the tension I’ve been carrying. “You always make it sound so easy.”
“It's not easy,” Booker corrects, his voice gravelly and sincere.
“But it's worth it. I've spent my whole life building things for the club, things that eventually get torn down or burned or broken. I want to build something that stays. I want to build a life for us. For him. I want him to grow up knowing his dad is a man who builds, not just a man who breaks.”
I look up at him, my eyes bright. Hearing him call himself Kolter's dad sends a warmth through me that I can't quite name—a sense of belonging I never thought I’d feel. Not just for me, but for my son too. I don't flinch, instead, I lean into him. He’s mine, and I’m his, and the realization feels like something indescribable.
“You're already doing that,” I whisper. “Just by being here. Just by being with us.”
“I'm just getting started,” he promises, a fierce look in his eyes. “Tonight, we tell him. We tell him he’s got a kingdom to explore. I bet he’ll be vibrating with excitement.”
I laugh, and the sound feels like pure, unburdened joy. “He’ll probably try to sleep in every corner of this place before he decides on his bedroom. He’s going to love the windows. He’s going to love watching the world go by.”
Booker looks around the room, at the solid beams and the clear glass. “He deserves to watch the world go by,” he declares. “He deserves to know it’s safe.”
“We're doing it,” I murmur, snuggling into his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat against my own. “We're really doing it.”
“Yeah,” he answers, hauling me closer until the last of my doubts evaporate. “We really are.”
Retracing our steps back toward the clubhouse, the path seems to stretch further than it did during our trek to the ridge earlier.
The compound is buzzing with activity this afternoon, the air’s thick with the revving of engines and laughter ringing through the air.
Booker’s palm remains fused to mine, his rough, familiar callouses grounding me with every step.
He stays quiet, but the silence isn't empty, it’s soothing.
The way his thumb traces lazy, possessive patterns against my skin tells me everything his rough voice doesn't have to.
We reach the back of the clubhouse where the lawn stretches out toward the tree line.
It’s shaded and quiet here, far enough away from the mass of brothers to escape the noise but close enough to hear the heartbeat of the club.
Kolter’s sitting on the grass, surrounded by a few of his toy cars and a wooden stick he’s clearly been using as a makeshift plane.
He’s imitating the roar of an engine to himself, a soft, sputtering noise that makes my chest tighten with overwhelming affection.
Squeezing Booker’s hand, I give him a look that says this is it. He nods once, his expression softening in a way that only I get to see. He understands the weight of this moment. He knows it’s not just about the house. It’s about us. It’s about the promise for the path we want to pave as a family.
The grass behind the clubhouse feels coarse against my palms as I sink onto the lawn, the ground still holding the heat of the afternoon sun.
I shift my weight and tuck my legs beneath me, feeling the rough texture of the earth and the small imperfections that make this place feel undeniably real.
A few feet away, Kolter’s absorbed in his own world, his small fingers pushing a battered metal truck through a miniature valley of tall weeds.
He’s humming a low, tuneless melody that seems to vibrate through the air, creating a bubble of peace that feels fragile yet entirely necessary.
Booker settles next to me, his presence a steadying force that draws my focus away from the lingering ghosts of the past. He doesn’t speak right away, letting the silence wrap around us like a protective cloak.
We watch Kolter. He’s so immersed in his play that he doesn’t even notice us sitting here, his brow furrowed with the intense, singular concentration of a child who’s finally been given permission to focus on nothing more than the path ahead of him.
It’s a dichotomy to the life he lived only weeks ago, where every sound was a trigger and every shadow was a potential threat.
“Hey, Kolter,” I murmur, my voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in my chest.
Kolter stops his truck, the metal scraping softly against a stone. He looks up, his eyes wide and clear, reflecting the blue hue of the sky. He wipes a smudge of dirt from his forehead, his expression shifting from his playtime to immediate, quiet curiosity.
“Come sit with us for a second,” Booker invites, his voice low and vibrating with a warmth that I find myself leaning into.
Kolter scrambles up, his movements fluid and unburdened, and he plops down in the grass between us.
He looks between our faces, his eyes lingering on the way Booker’s hand rests on my back.
He’s looking for cues, searching for the hidden meaning that he learned to hunt for in every room he ever entered.
I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to hunt anymore, that he’s safe, but I decide to show him instead.
“We have something to tell you,” I begin, smoothing a stray blade of grass from his knee. “It’s not bad news. It’s the best news.”
Kolter tilts his head. He bites his lip, a nervous tic I wish I could steal away from him forever. I don’t think he caught onto my mention that it’s nothing bad because his face falls. “Did I do something wrong?” he whispers, his voice barely audible.
“No, sweetheart,” I answer quickly, reaching out to cup his cheek. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s about a house. We aren’t going anywhere. In fact, we want to tell you something exciting.”
He goes still. “A house?” he repeats, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.
“The one on the ridge,” Booker continues, his eyes locking onto mine for a fraction of a second before returning to the boy.
“The place with the windows that catch the light all day. We decided that we want that to be our place. Our home.” I bite my lip because he’s not confessing that it’s already his, he’s making it sound like he chose it after he came into our lives, wanting to give us a place to plant some roots.
Kolter stares at us, his eyes traveling from the clubhouse, the center of this world, to the distant rise of the hill where the house stands, isolated and beautiful against the horizon.
He looks back at Booker, his expression searching.
“Is that where we’re going to live?” he inquires, his voice rising just a little.
“We are,” Booker confirms. “I already started setting up the rooms. I’ve got paint for the walls and shelves for your cars. It’s yours as much as it’s ours.”
I watch Kolter process this. I see the wheels turning behind his eyes, the calculation of what this means for his daily life, for his safety, for the terrifying prospect of belonging somewhere permanent.
Booker looks at me, his gaze softening, and the tension that usually sits in his shoulders begins to bleed away.
“You can have all the space you need for your drawings and your cars. It’s yours, Kolter.
It’s a place where you can just be a kid,” I add softly.
“I don’t have to leave?” he asks. “I can just stay there?”
“You can stay there as long as you want,” I promise, my heart swelling. “It’s our place.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes me want to weep.
It’s a genuine, unrestrained expression of hope.
He looks down at his hands, twisting the fabric of his jeans, and then back up at Booker.
He seems to be weighing something heavy, something he’s been carrying in the dark for a long time.
He shifts his posture, drawing his knees up to his chest. He studies Booker with an intensity that makes the air feel charged. “Does this mean we’re a family?” he inquires, his voice small but firm. “Does this mean you’re going to be my dad now?”
The question hangs in the space between us.
My breath catches in my throat, a physical constriction that leaves me momentarily unable to speak.
I look at Booker. His jaw is tight, his eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that I know is threatening to break him open.
He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t offer a platitude or a standard line.
He reaches out, his large hand covering Kolter’s small one, and his presence feels like an anchor.
“I’d be honored to be your dad,” Booker vows, his voice thick and rough, stripped of every ounce of pretense.
“If you’ll have me, that’s exactly who I want to be. ”
Kolter doesn’t remark. He doesn’t wait for anything else.
He lunges forward, throwing his arms around Booker’s neck in a hug that’s fierce and desperate, a collision of two souls who’ve finally found the tether they needed to stop drifting.
Booker’s arms come up immediately, wrapping around him, holding him with a strength that promises he’ll never let him go.
I sit there, tears tracking freely down my cheeks, the silence of the evening now filled with the sound of their ragged breathing. This isn’t about the past. It’s about a boy who finally has someone to look up to and a man who finally has something to protect.
Everything I’ve ever done has led to this exact moment on a patch of lawn behind a clubhouse.
I realize that I’m not just a survivor anymore.
I’m a mother. I’m a partner. I’m a builder of a life that’s actually mine.
I watch them, two men, one grown, one growing, finding their footing in a world that’s no longer trying to break them.