We’ve only known each other a couple of weeks. Two weeks. Sixteen days. I used to tell myself I’d wait months before introducing Bash to someone new. That I’d need time. Enough time to be sure, to test the waters, to make certain I wouldn’t confuse him or bring someone into his world who wouldn’t stay.
But I am certain about this.
The pull to stay here, in this soft bubble we’ve built, is strong. But life’s already knocking. Really fucking loud, with all the glory of its messy impatience.
Even so, something in me won’t let the truth of this time we’ve spent together pass by like a fluke.
I take a deep breath before saying: “I want you to meet Bash.”
That gets his attention. His eyes flick to mine with what can only be described as surprise. He blinks. “Yeah?”
I nod, the weight of what I’ve just said hitting me full in the chest now that it’s out.
“He’ll be back tonight, all wound up from fishing with his grandparents, talking a mile a minute, probably sunburned and sticky from too much lake water and not enough sunscreen,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “But… maybe sometime this week you could come over. Have dinner?”
His whole expression changes, seeming to melt him. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
I smile, but something inside me stirs. I’m nervous, but uncharacteristically hopeful for the first time in a long time.
I’ve never felt anything like what I’m experiencing with Hex before. Not this kind of steady. Not this kind of safe.
And it’s not just the way he makes me feel in bed—though, Lord knows, that’s top notch—or the way he looks at me like I’m something rare he refuses to mishandle. It’s the way he stepped into my world, saw my yard and my life, saw Bash’s life, and didn’t hesitate to add to it. A playscape, quietly built. A promise,unspoken but solid, that he plans to stick around long enough to see my son play on it.
It’s the way he told me to share his truth with Demi without blinking. No flinching, no conditions—just trust in me, and in her, because I trust her.
And it’s the way he handed me a gun this morning—no fear, no ego. Just the quiet conviction that I deserve to be protected, even if he’s not standing beside me.
That kind of trust? That kind of care? I’ve never had that before.
Hex is different. He’s real in a way most people aren’t.
And when I said I want him to meet Bash… I meant it.
Because if I ever want my son to see what it looks like when someone shows up to treat a woman right, I want him to see Hex.
I hold his gaze, still sharing a quiet smile. I hope he sees what my invitation really means. It’s not just dinner. It’s a door fully open to him. One I never thought I’d let anyone walk through again.
I get dressed, pack up what little I brought for the weekend, and before we leave, I stop by the office to say goodbye to the boys. JT’s still on the couch, bandaged and bruised, but cracking jokes. Will is back and gives me a nod and a soft thank you.
Then Hex and I head out.
The truck ride is quiet but not strained or awkward. My hand rests on the center console. His is right beside it. Every few minutes, his fingers brush against mine like a subtle check-in.
When we pull into a spot near the front of my shop, the air feels different. The glass has been swept, the door secured with plywood, but I know what waits for me inside. Furniture toppled, tools scattered, pieces ruined.
Hex kills the engine and walks me in, stalking every shadow, eyeing every corner.
I step through the door and pause. The familiar smell of sawdust, finish, and something older hits me square in the chest and I do my best to choke back tears.
This place is mine. My hard work. My freedom. And it’s a fucking war zone.
“I hate this,” I whisper.
Hex doesn’t say anything. He just steps beside me and starts picking up furniture and strewn tools. A broken clamp. A knocked-over stool. He doesn’t need direction. He just helps.
We work in silence for a few minutes. He moves through the space with careful hands, as though he understands it holds more than just objects. It holds pieces ofme.
Then his phone buzzes.
