Chapter 26 #3
Trigger’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve been ready since you stopped running.” He pauses. “Just didn’t know it yet.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
Capone appears at the end of the hall, quiet, unannounced, a presence heavy enough to change the air. He looks at me once, slow and assessing, then nods toward the stairs. “Is she waiting?”
“Yeah.”
Capone takes a step closer. His voice stays low. “You don’t bring someone to the roof unless you’re sure.”
I meet his gaze with no hesitation. “I’m sure.”
Something passes through his eyes. Pride, maybe. Or recognition. He nods once. “Then don’t waste the moment,” he says quietly. “They don’t come around twice.” He turns away without another word.
Trigger smirks. “No pressure.”
I flip him off and keep walking, meeting Syvannah at the bottom of the stairs to head up to the roof.
The door to the roof groans when I push it open, and the night spills in all at once. Cool air, distant traffic muted by height, the city of Los Angeles stretched out below like a living thing. Headlights crawl along the streets. Neon pulses. Somewhere far below, a siren fades into nothing.
Syvannah steps out ahead of me and stops short. “Oh,” she breathes.
The city light catches in her eyes, and for a second, she just stands there, hands at her sides, taking it all in like she didn’t know the world could look like this from above. The wind lifts her hair and brushes it across her cheek.
Peanut wriggles against my chest, impatient, and I lift her free. She hops to Syvannah’s shoulder like it’s second nature, tail flicking as she surveys the city as if she’s been placed exactly where she belongs.
Syvannah laughs softly. “She thinks this is hers.”
“It is,” I say.
I step closer, the city humming beneath us, the wind tugging at my cut. Peanut hops down from Syvannah’s shoulder and pads toward the low ledge, sitting neatly, tail curled, watching us like she’s been appointed witness.
My hands find Syvannah’s. They’re warm and steady. “I used to come up here when my head got too loud,” I say. “When I didn’t know what to do with myself.”
“And now?” she asks quietly.
“Now I know.”
I drop to one knee.
The sound she makes is sharp and broken, like it gets torn straight out of her chest before she can stop it. Her hands fly to her mouth. Peanut chirps in protest at the sudden movement, then settles again, eyes bright.
I pull the ring from my pocket and hold it up. The small gear catches the city light, dark metal warm from my body, edges worn smooth by my hands.
“This came from my old bike,” I say. “From the wreck. From the part of my life that almost burned everything down.”
Her eyes fill instantly.
“I took something broken,” I continue, voice rough, “and turned it into this. Because you showed me ruined things can still become something worth keeping.”
She drops to her knees in front of me without thinking, like her body decides before her mind can catch up.
I pull the folded Ol’ Lady patch from my cut and set it beside the ring. “I don’t believe family is blood,” I say. “I believe it’s a choice. I choose you. Every day. I choose this.” My throat tightens. “Will you marry me?”
For a heartbeat, she can’t speak. Then she nods. Once. Hard. “Yes,” she cries, laughing and sobbing all at once. “Yes, Tiny. Yes.”
I slide the ring onto her finger, with shaking hands, until she steadies them with hers. Peanut hops closer, sniffs the ring, and bumps her head against Syvannah’s wrist like she’s claiming it.
“She approves,” Syvannah laughs through tears.
“That’s the highest honor,” I mutter.
I pull Syvannah into my arms, holding her tight, forehead pressed to hers, city lights glowing beneath us like witnesses.
“I’m yours,” she whispers.
“And I’m yours,” I say. “All of it.”
Peanut settles back on the ledge, purring like a tiny engine as the night stretches on around us.
Family isn’t blood. It’s choice and tonight, standing on this roof with the city at our feet and the future finally solid in my hands, we choose each other.
We don’t rush back down.
Syvannah stays pressed against me, forehead to my chest, breathing like she’s afraid that if she looks away, the city will disappear and take the moment with it. Peanut paces the ledge once, then hops back to Syvannah’s shoulder like she’s making sure we’re still upright.
“You good?” I murmur.
Syvannah nods, still crying, still smiling. “I’m… yeah. I’m really good.”
That word again. Good. It lands better every time.
When we finally head down the hallway, my hand never leaves hers. The hallway smells like oil and old concrete, familiar and grounding. I feel the shift before I see it. The way voices taper off, the way bodies turn.
Torch is the first to spot the ring. “Oh, shit,” he yells, loud enough to shake dust from the rafters. “LOOK AT HER HAND.”
The room erupts instantly.
“About damn time,” Blayze calls from the bar.
Trigger freezes mid-step. His eyes go straight to Syvannah’s face, then to the ring, then back again. Something soft breaks through his expression before he can stop it.
Capone doesn’t move. He just watches.
Monica steps closer, eyeing the patch in Syvannah’s hand. “This patch isn’t a prize,” she says, voice steady, carrying authority without raising it. “It’s a responsibility. It means you stand with us, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable.”
Syvannah straightens. Shoulders back. Chin up. No fear. No hesitation. “I understand.”
Danyella meets her eyes. “Do you accept it?”
“Yes,” Syvannah says, clear and unwavering.
Danyella holds out her hand, and Syvannah places the patch into her palm. Monica takes it from Danyella and pins it inside Syvannah’s jacket, now an Ol’ lady cut, fingers careful, exact. When she steps back, she nods once.
“Welcome,” Monica says.
Torch wipes at his eyes exaggeratedly. “I’m not crying. You’re crying.”
“Shut up,” Blayze mutters, but he’s smiling.
Trigger steps forward next. He reaches out and squeezes Syvannah’s shoulder once, solid and sincere. “You belong here.”
Capone rises last. “You stand with us now,” he says to Syvannah. Then his gaze cuts to me. “You take care of what’s yours.”
“I will,” I say. No hesitation.
Capone nods once. That’s it. Approval sealed.
Torch throws his arms up. “DRINKS. SOMEONE GET DRINKS.”
“Not you,” Monica snaps.
Torch sighs. “Every time.”
Laughter breaks the tension like a wave, and suddenly the room is alive again. Hands clapping shoulders, quiet congratulations, a few shouted jokes. Syvannah stays close to me, fingers laced with mine, still grounding herself in what just happened.
I lean down. “You okay?”
She nods. “I feel… chosen.” The word hits harder than the yes did.
Eventually, the noise blurs into warmth, into brotherhood, hands on my back, into Torch shouting something about future babies that makes Syvannah choke on her drink.
Syvannah squeezes my fingers twice. A silent question. I nod once, and we slip away while the room is still laughing. Syvannah and I head to our room. She leans against the door after it clicks, breathless, one hand lifting automatically to her cut like she’s making sure the patch is still there.
“I’m an Ol’ Lady,” she whispers.
“You are,” I say.
She steps into me without a second thought. I kiss her slowly, deeply, my hands framing her face like I’m still checking she’s real. Her fingers slide into my hair, tugging just enough to tell me she wants this, wants me.
Tonight isn’t frantic. It’s reverent.
We undress each other like there’s no rush left in the world, like nothing is chasing us anymore. Her cut stays on. She meets me with equal intent, learning me in return, steady and sure.
After, she curls into my chest, patch pressed between us, her fingers tracing the seam of her cut.
“Family isn’t blood,” she murmurs.
“It’s a choice,” I answer.
Peanut purrs between us, loud and satisfied. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m standing between two versions of myself.
I feel whole.