"Always."
She rests her head back against my chest. We stand there in the quiet house, holding each other, remembering how to be a couple instead of just co-parents.
"We should really sleep," she murmurs against my shirt.
"Yeah. We should."
But we stay there, holding each other, stealing this moment of peace before the chaos inevitably returns.
Eventually we make it to the bedroom. Both too tired to do anything but collapse into bed, fully clothed, tangled together. Sleep hits like a freight train—immediate, heavy, desperately needed.
I wake to my phone buzzing. Disoriented, I check the time—we've been asleep for three hours. Feels like three minutes.
The number is unfamiliar, but the area code is local. I answer before it can wake Lena.
"Yeah?"
"This is a collect call from—" automated voice, then Tommy's voice cuts in: "Tommy Martinez."
My heart does something complicated. "—an inmate at Arizona State Prison. To accept charges, press one."
I press one. Move carefully off the bed, slip into the hallway so I don't wake Lena.
"Tommy."
"Hey, Z." His voice sounds rough, tired. Prison does that. "Sorry for the collect call bullshit. You know how it is."
"Don't apologize. How you holding up?"
"I'm alive. Keeping my head down. Doing my time." Pause. "How's the kid?"
"Perfect. Exhausting. Worth every sleepless night."
"And Lena?"
"Strong. Tired. Beautiful. Exactly what you'd expect."
"You tell her that?"
"Working on it."
"Work harder." There's a smile in his voice. "Women need to hear it, especially after having babies. Trust me on this."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Speaking from regrets. My son... I didn't tell him enough. Didn't show him enough. Then he was gone and I had nothing but regrets." His voice goes quiet. "Don't be me, Z. Don't wait until it's too late to show them what they mean to you."
The weight of that sits heavy. Tommy's son died young—gang violence, drugs, the same shit that claims too many kids. Tommy's been carrying that grief for years, let it shape him into the man who became my mentor. Now he's in prison paying for club decisions while I'm out here raising a son, getting the chance he never had.
"I won't waste it," I say. "I promise."
"Good. Because that kid deserves better than what my son got. He deserves a father who shows up. Who's present. Who chooses family."
"Every day."
"That's all I needed to hear." Pause, then: "How's the club?"
"Stable. Joker's doing good as VP. The brothers are solid. Ghost is making noise externally but nothing we can't handle."
