Doc didn’t hesitate.
Neither did I.
The ceremony was small. The Saints. Their ladies.
When he said, “She’s mine,” the way he looked at me made the whole world narrow to just us.
And he’s been mine ever since.
Our son makes a small, impatient sound from his chest.
Six months old.
Doc shifts him gently, big hands impossibly careful.
“Easy, little man,” he murmurs.
It still gets me. The way the most rugged, tattooed, battle-scarred man I know softens the second he looks at his kid.
Doc grew up in foster homes. Different houses. Different rules. No permanence.
I grew up learning not to expect anyone to stay. A mother who left. A father who disappeared long before that.
We were both disposable once.
Now we’re building something that isn’t.
He didn’t just save me that night.
He stayed.
Through the panic that woke me up shaking. Through the days when grocery stores felt too loud. Through the weeks I flinched at footsteps behind me.
He never tried to fix me.
He just stood there. Steady. Patient. Certain I would find my footing again.
And I did.
I visited Tessa once.
Just once.
She didn’t expect it.
The look on her face when she saw me standing on the other side of that glass was almost worth the drive.
She tried to smile. Tried to pretend she still had power.
But she was the one behind bars.
I wasn’t there for revenge.
I just needed to see it.
Needed to see the door closed on her instead of me.
When I left, I didn’t even feel anger.
