CHAPTER thirty-three
You’re My Flowers In The Dark
Nashville, Tennessee
In the whirlwind of tour chaos and rebuilding, I realize I never updated my parents. Not about the Hellwake fallout. Not about the new tour. Not even that I’m back in Nashville. So once we step out of the studio, I pull out my phone and call.
A few hours later, the guys and I pull up in an Uber, and I spot my dad already waiting at the front door. The moment he sees me, he bursts out with open arms, meeting me halfway across the yard.
“Oh, Mona girl. I missed you so much!” he says, sweeping me into a hug.
“Me too, Dad,” I say against his shoulder. The guys file up behind us and I motion toward them.
“This is Atlas Obsidian—in the flesh.”
He releases me, grinning as he shakes each of their hands. “Nice to meet you fellas. What brings you back to Nashville? I thought the tour still had a few more weeks?”
“About that…” I rub at the back of my neck, a sheepish smile tugging at my lips. “I’ll explain over dinner.”
He throws an arm around my shoulders and leads us inside like I never left.
My mom’s waiting in the kitchen, greeting each of the guys like long-lost sons.
Cody melts into her hug like he’s never had one before.
She ushers us all toward the table, where a few mismatched chairs have been added to make room.
Elias lingers beside me at the kitchen island.
“Can I help with anything, Mrs. Hendrix?”
She gives him a warm smile.
“That’s sweet of you, baby. Could you grab some plates from the cabinet? Ramona, pour everyone some tea?”
Elias moves smoothly, collecting seven plates and placing them at each setting. There’s something lighter in him tonight—quieter, but more open. Still, I don’t miss the tension in his shoulders. Meeting the parents is a milestone, whether we’ve defined this thing or not.
Dinner is a spread of comfort: meatloaf, buttery potatoes, green beans that smell like summer and home.
The table buzzes with conversation: my dad and Cody dive into an animated debate about sports or music or aliens, who knows.
Laughter erupts more than once, filling the room like a warm tide.
Elias meets my eyes when I pass the potatoes to him, giving me a delicate smile that curls somewhere deep inside me.
When we finally have a lull, my mom looks at me expectantly. “So, what brings you back here?”
I explain everything: from the disaster with Traeger to the punch that ended the tour, to Reign’s unexpected miracle and my promotion to band manager. My parents flinch a little at the punch, but they beam when I talk about what’s next.
“Well,” my dad says, leveling Elias with a look that’s both stern and grateful, “I don’t condone violence… but sounds like that Traeger guy had it coming. Thank you for keeping our girl safe.”
Elias just nods, the praise visibly sitting heavy on him.
“So when does the new tour start?” My mom asks.
“We’ve got two months to prep,” I say, practically vibrating with excitement. “Tickets are already selling fast.”
Grady smiles at my parents. “I think it goes without saying, but your daughter has been the best thing to happen to us.”
“I still don’t know how she puts up with us,” Cody adds, mouth full of potatoes, “but we’re beyond grateful.”
My mom laughs, dabbing the corner of her mouth.
“Well, we’ll be at the Nashville show, front and center. VIP, right?”
“Of course! You’ll be our honored guests,” I say with a wink.
After dinner, the guys thank my parents profusely before heading out to catch an Uber back to the bus.
I’m staying with my parents while we’re in town since my apartment’s still sublet, and honestly, I’ve missed being here.
My mom even offered to let the guys crash at the house, but they didn’t want to impose.
I walk out with them, trailing behind as the others give us space. Elias lingers on the porch, and we both settle into the old swing. My knee brushes his thigh as I turn toward him, the hum of summer cicadas echoing in the background.
“How are you holding up, Shadow Daddy?” I tease.
He chuckles, a sound I haven’t heard in days, and it wraps around my ribs with warmth.
“Better. Thank you for making all of this happen,” he says. “We really don’t deserve you.”
He says we, but the look in his eyes betrays what he really means. I don’t deserve you.
He doesn’t reach for me, not here on my parents’ porch, but I can feel the weight of what he wants to say hanging between us.
“It was my mistake to fix, but I’m grateful too. Even though I hate how we got here… I think this tour is exactly what the band needs. What you need. What you deserve.”
He looks at me for a long moment, the moonlight catching in his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve been distant. I don’t really know how to be good at this… at feeling things.”
“That’s okay,” I whisper. “I wanted to give you space.”
He nods slowly, pausing, then speaks, each word like a breath pulled from somewhere deep inside him.
“I want you too, Ramona. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted… anything.”
My heart stops mid-beat.
“Really?”
He pauses for a few seconds before his voice softens into something almost breakable.
“Would you let me call you mine?”
There’s something so vulnerable in the way he asks it. Like he’s afraid of the answer, but even more afraid of not asking.
I glance back at the house. My parents are nowhere in sight. I lean forward, brush my hand along his cheek, and feel him melt into the touch. I press the softest kiss to his lips.
A whisper of yes.
Then I pull back, eyes locked on his. The amber embers smolder in the dim light.
“I’ve been yours since the moment I first saw you.”
His smile blooms slow and real, and I swear, in that moment under the stars, on my parents’ front porch—he looks at peace.
“So much for a casual summer fling,” I tease. This earns me the rare laugh I’ve come to love.
“This was never casual, Flowers.”
Before I can respond, his eyes drop to the ink on my forearm, to the lightning bolt I got weeks ago. His fingertips graze the outline like he’s reading it in Braille, and something about the way he touches it makes my heart flutter.
“You never showed me yours,” I murmur, my hand settling gently over his.
A flicker of hesitation crosses his face. He doesn’t answer right away, just looks down, like he’s weighing something fragile. Then slowly he lifts the hem of his shirt, revealing the curve of his ribs.
Tucked just beneath the inked chaos already carved across his skin is a new addition: a small bouquet, etched in fine lines. Wildflowers. The placement is intimate, the kind of spot that aches when touched. Sensitive, close to the bone.
I reach out and run my fingers along the new tattoo, the skin still slightly raised. Then I dip my head and press a kiss to it.
“What does it mean?” I whisper against his skin.
He doesn’t respond right away. When I meet his gaze again, it’s clear he’s searching, not for the truth, but for the courage to say it out loud.
“What if I told you I got it for you?”
My heart stutters. Words dissolve on my tongue as his eyes hold mine, open and unsure, like he’s waiting to be let in or gently pushed away.
“I… I don’t know what to say.” I admit, my voice is barely a thread.
He exhales, a short huff of a laugh.
“Do you know why I call you Flowers?”
I lift a brow, teasing, “Because my name’s Ramona? Scott Pilgrim?”
He smiles, but then shakes his head.
“Never seen it.”
That surprises me. I blink, studying him. He’s unreadable at first, but then something shifts behind his eyes. The air between us tightens.
“I call you Flowers because I can’t think of anything more beautiful.
Because wildflowers grow where they shouldn’t.
Through cement. In the shadows. You showed up in my life when I didn’t think anything good could grow in me anymore…
and ever since, you’ve been blooming in places I thought were long dead. ”
Elias and I hold hands until the last possible second, fingertips reluctantly pulling apart like threads unraveling.
The others climb into the gray SUV one by one, laughter echoing faintly as the doors shut.
He lingers behind. Before ducking into the backseat, he turns—just once—and finds me standing there.
His gaze locks with mine, silent and unspoken, stretching the space between us like a held breath.
I don’t move from the porch until the taillights disappear down the road and the low hum of the engine fades into nothing. A sigh escapes me, warm and contented, as I finally step back inside my childhood home.
The kitchen smells faintly of lemon cleaner and roasted vegetables, the last traces of dinner clinging to the air. My mom’s at the sink, wiping down the counter. She turns as I enter, catching my eye with that look, equal parts amusement and interrogation, the kind only a mother can master.
“What?” I ask, reaching across the island to snag a butterscotch from the glass dish, trying to play it cool.
She arches an eyebrow, towel still in hand.
“When were you going to tell me you brought home more than just a paycheck this summer?”
I feign innocence, unwrapping the candy and popping it into my mouth. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Ramona Gwenyvere…” Her tone dips into that sing-song warning, the kind that always meant I was caught red-handed as a kid.
“Okay, okay.” I throw my hands up in surrender. “Elias and I are seeing each other. There. Happy?”
She inhales slowly and rounds the kitchen island, the faint murmur of my dad flipping channels in the living room acting as background static. She stops in front of me and places a steadying hand on my shoulder, her face soft but serious.
“I just want you to be cautious,” she says gently. “Mixing romance and work is… tricky. And people in the entertainment world aren’t always the most…” She trails off, her expression tightening, searching for a diplomatic way to phrase whatever judgment she’s holding back.
“The most what, Mom?” I challenge, lifting my chin. “You don’t even know him.”
“He seemed perfectly polite tonight. But he doesn’t exactly scream long-term partner to me.”
My stomach twists. I step back, crossing my arms.
“First off, I’m only twenty-six, not drafting a wedding guest list. But what exactly does husband material look like to you?”
She frowns, her voice clipped. “Let’s just say your wedding photos weren’t supposed to include full sleeves and nose rings.”
“Wow.” The word drops from my lips like a stone.
“Really, Mom? I thought you were more open-minded than this. You don’t even see him.
Elias is—he’s one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met.
He’s kind, fiercely loyal, and considerate in ways most people wouldn’t even think to be.
He feels things deeply. That matters more than what’s inked on his skin. ”
She exhales sharply, eyes darting toward the floor before meeting mine again. “I know I sound harsh. But when you left on tour, I looked him up. I found some… things. He has a history, Ramona. He’s an addict.”
The room stills. My jaw clenches, and I take a breath before answering.
“Yes. I know. He told me. And you know what else? He’s been clean for five years. That doesn’t erase what he’s been through—it proves who he is now. He’s solid.”
Her expression doesn’t shift much, but something in her eyes flickers—concern wrestling with reluctant understanding.
“I get it,” I say, voice quieter now. “I know you’re just trying to protect me. But please… before you write him off, try seeing him for who he is, not who he used to be.”
Emotion suddenly floods my eyes, but I try to blink it away.
“You wouldn’t want someone to look at Gracelyn that way. You know she was so much more than her addiction.”
Her breath catches for a moment before her expression falls.
She hesitates, then places both hands on my arms and pulls me gently into a hug. I can feel her breath against my hair.
“You’re absolutely right. I promise I will try. I just want to keep you safe, my sweet Mona.”
“I know,” I whisper.
She pulls back to look at me. “When did you become wiser than your mother?” she says as teasingly as she can muster. I just smile in return.
As much as it hurts to hear my mom judge Elias so harshly, especially when she just met him, I do understand where she’s coming from. After what happened to Gracelyn, her caution isn’t unfounded. But I know I’m safe with him. His past is dark, but it has shaped his present.
I know that he would never hurt me, and I know that he is finished with drugs.