I close my eyes, and a single tear rolls down my cheek. “He got a vasectomy,” I whisper. I owe it to Tucker to come into whatever this is with wide eyes. “He never told me. Not until years later. That was the beginning of the end.”
Tucker squeezes my hand, and I let myself feel the comfort and warmth of his touch.
"We'd talked about kids when we first got together—I was nineteen at the time. I said I wanted them someday. He said..." I pause, remembering. "He said, 'Maybe.' I thought that meant yes, eventually. But three years into our marriage, I found the paperwork. He'd done it without telling me."
Tucker's jaw tightens. "That's fucked up."
"The worst part?" My voice cracks. "When I confronted him, he didn't apologize. He just said, 'I told you I wasn't sure.' Like 'not sure' meant 'absolutely never' and I should have known." I wipe my eyes. "He wasn't cruel about it. He was just... blank. Like he'd already decided I'd either accept it or leave, and either way, he'd be fine."
Josh was always distant with his emotions. He suffered his own trauma as a kid—something we bonded over initially. My mistake was believing our love would heal him. And me, I guess.
Tucker growls. “That'sreallyfucked up, Sloane. He had no right."
"He thought he was protecting his future.”
"He was controlling yours." Tucker's voice is firm. "And that's not the same thing."
The validation—someone seeing it, naming it, being angry on my behalf—breaks something open in my chest.
"He said I use people," I whisper. “On the phone today, he said I take what I can get and move on."
"He's wrong." Tucker's voice is fierce now. "You're nothing like that. You're strong and smart, and you're trying to build a life for yourself. That's not taking—that's creating."
I want to believe him. Want to believe I'm not repeating harmful patterns, not using people, not running from one disaster into another.
“About my living situation,” I say slowly. “You got room here for a few more people?”
Tucker goes very still, striking blue eyes dancing in the fading light. "Yes. God, yes. But Sloane, I don't want you to feel pressured. If you're not ready?—"
"I'm not ready," I interrupt. "But I'm also out of options. Failing school. Living alone. It’s not safe."
"Okay." He nods quickly. "Okay. We can make it work. Whatever you need?—"
"Boundaries," I say firmly. "This is temporary. Just until the babies come, and I figure out something more permanent. We're roommates. Co-parents. Nothing more."
Something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or disappointment—but he nods. "Whatever you need."
"I need my own space. My own room."
“Done. Easy. The main bedroom even has a full bathroom, walk-in closet, sitting area. I’ll move my crap down the hall to the guest room.”
“You don’t have to give up your room.”
He waves a hand. “All the bedrooms have an ensuite in thisplace. You need the bigger room because you are growing Stag babies.” He gestures to his frame. “We make ‘em big, Sloane.” Then he winces, as if just realizing the implications of that declaration. I clutch my midsection and breathe through a twinge of panic, reminding myself that the babies will not start out as massive Vikings like their father.
“There are some things I won’t bend about,” I tell him. “Like vaccines.”
He holds up a hand. “We are pro-science in the Stag family. No worries there.”
I purse my lips. “We’ll be raising Black kids.”
He sits up, fully alert, and looks me in the eyes. “Of course, Sloane. I want to learn all I can and make sure these nuggets feel whole.” Tucker stops himself. "You have my word. Your autonomy, your independence—that's non-negotiable."
I study his face, looking for any sign that he's just telling me what I want to hear. But all I see is sincerity. Determination. Fear that I'll say no.
"Okay," I say. "I'll move in."
Tucker's whole body seems to sag with relief. "Thank you. I promise you won't regret this."
