San Sequoia
Seaglass Estate

The Fallout

The bathroom was bright, sleek, and modern—the kind that belonged in magazines, every surface polished, every fixture gleaming under soft recessed lighting. A deep soaking tub stretched along the far wall, the glass shower beside it pristine, untouched.

Brad sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows resting on his knees, his posture controlled despite the lingering ache in his ribs. Across from him, Connor settled against the vanity, broad frame dwarfing the space, hands resting loosely against the counter. Neither man had spoken for a full minute, just the quiet buzz of the house beyond the bathroom door filling the air.

Finally, Connor exhaled, adjusting the butterfly bandage with practiced precision. Both men were doctors by profession.

“Good news: You’ll live,” he muttered, shifting slightly, inspecting the bruising along Brad’s jaw. “Bad news: You’ll be going to work looking like you got jumped in some back alley.”

Brad exhaled, slow, measured, masking the discomfort.

“Yeah, not the image I prefer to project, but can’t be helped now.” He flexed his fingers lightly, testing the movement. “Thinking I’ll work from home for a while—let my surgeons handle things until I stop scaring patients.”

Connor huffed a quiet laugh, pressing along Brad’s wrist, testing the force distribution.

“You shocked all of us, going in like Rambo. But let’s be real—it’s obvious you’re not a fighter. Force traveled wrong—classic rookie mistake. You’ll be feeling that in your wrists and knuckles for a while.”

Brad barely reacted—not because Connor was wrong, but because none of it mattered.

Connor studied him for a beat, then—

“You know I like Jackson.”

Brad held his gaze, silent, then shrugged.

“Well, I do too. Or used to. Not so much now.”

Connor sighed, like this wasn’t the conversation he wanted, but hell, here they were.

“Don’t blame you. Because that was a damn mess if I’ve ever seen one.” He adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders, exhaling slow. “Ironically, I was talking with his dad right before it happened—told him Jackson wasn’t right that day. He was off. Inhaling all that booze did him no favors.”

Connor pressed a little firmer against Brad’s knuckles, watching the response before continuing.

“But you going after him like you did?” He shook his head. “Seriously, Brad—picking a fight with a guy like Jackson? A horserancher cowboy from Chestnut Ridge, where drinking beer and brawling is literally the only entertainment past a certain hour? Not a smart move, Dr. Cunningham. As you found out.”

Brad flexed his fingers once, slow, testing the ache.

“Well, I like to think he’s sitting at home feeling just as shitty, if not worse, than I do.”

He sat back slightly, lifting his gaze, tone sharper now.

“And what was I supposed to do, Connor? Stand by? Maybe clap while he moves in on MY wife, kissing her in front of everyone like he’s reenacting some rom-com? Maybe take some lovely pics for his Insta?”

Connor snorted, shaking his head.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Jackson barely manages a cell phone. He doesn’t do social media.”

Brad’s jaw locked, his expression darkening.

“He does if he’s stalking my wife. I know that for a fact.”

Connor sighed, deep, shifting slightly, tension thick between them.

“Tell me you’re handling this like the guy I know you are, Brad. I know Jackson acted like an asshole, but trust me—last thing he needs now is a lawsuit or something like that.”

Brad exhaled—long, heavy, deliberate.

“Already handled. I said my piece—with fists. I might not have come out unscathed, but neither has he.” He rolled his shoulders slightly, wincing through it. “Maybe now he realizes I’m not some wimpy fool or however he seems to view me.”

Connor watched him for a beat, weighing truth against pride.

Then—he leaned back, broad shoulders shifting, exhaling something between acceptance and reluctant agreement.

“Right.”

The men sat there for another beat of silence, both absorbing what came next—whatever that was.

Then—Connor smirked.

“Now, here’s my doctor’s orders.”

Brad sighed—he already knew where this was going.

“Take it easy. No more brawls for a few weeks.”

Connor wiped his hands on a towel, tossed it aside.

“And milk this shit with my sister. If Bri sees you like this, she’s gonna be on you like white on rice, and you need to let her.”

Brad chuckled, wincing slightly as his jaw protested.

“I was planning on it. If only to keep her from wanting to check in on Jackson. In her mind, he’s ‘poor Jackson who couldn’t help it because… reason.’ She always made excuses for that man.”

Connor snickered, rising to his feet, holding out a hand to Brad to pull him up.

“Well, you know what to do then, Cunningham.”

Brad took his hand, standing with a slow exhale, bracing against the pull in his ribs.

Connor clapped a broad, heavy hand against his back, earning a sharp wince.

“Sorry, kiddo.”

Brad shot him a flat glare, earning another smirk.

“Let’s go out there and have you get started on getting all the lovey-dovey attention from my little sister. You earned it.”

Brad sighed, rolled his shoulders once more, then followed Connor out.

Bri Under Pressure

The living room felt wrong. Stifling. Air thick with expectation, too charged, too damn quiet.

Usually, it was bright—open, filled with music and movement, with voices overlapping, with warmth that stretched across the polished floors and sunk into the plush couch beneath her.

But now?

Now it was nothing but silence, thick and suffocating, pressing against her ribcage like waiting hands.

Briar Rose sat rigid, stiff, nails digging into her palms, her breathing shallow.

Her father, Chase Cameron, settled into the armchair across from her, legs crossed, arms folded, expression unreadable—but carrying weight.

Waiting.
Watching.
Assessing.

Trying to make sense of the mess Jackson had just caused.
Trying to make sense of her.
Chase broke the silence first.

“So—what was that?”

Briar Rose inhaled sharply, forcing composure into her tone, keeping her voice steady.
“How am I supposed to know, Dad? You know as much as I do here. Jackson was totally wasted and grieving. Terrible mix for someone with his temper. That’s all I know.”

A half-truth, soaked in restraint.
Her mother, Hailey, on the couch next to Bri, sighed, low, deep—not soft, not harsh, just heavy. “Baby… we’ve known Jackson a long time. And this didn’t feel like just grief. This didn’t even feel like him.”

She hesitated for only a breath—then pressed further.

“We’ve seen Jackson angry before, and upset, many times actually, but this? This hit different. And speaking of, since when does Brad go around throwing punches? What has been in the water of late?” Her mother’s brows pulled together, a sharp crease settling between them, mouth pressing into something unreadable. “No, Bri, baby, your daddy and I were maybe born at night but not last night. There is something deeper going on here.”

Before Briar Rose could respond, movement in the doorway caught her eye.
Brad.
And her older brother Connor, lingering behind him, broad and unmoving, arms folded, the weight of his presence looming.

Brad didn’t speak right away—just crossed the room, lowering himself onto the couch beside her, every stiff movement telling a story of its own.

The bruises settling in now, deepening into raw purples and swollen blues, stiffening his posture even as he tried to mask it.

Instinct pulled her forward—hands moving before she even realized, fingers brushing lightly against his wrist, against the worst of the damage.

“Oh my God, babe, no! Does it hurt? Strike that, idiot question, of course it hurts. I am so very sorry, Braddy!” Her voice was gentle, breathy, drenched in concern, but her pulse was already spiking.

Brad caught her hand.
Not roughly.
But firmly. Deliberately.

He lifted it, placing a soft kiss against her knuckles before pressing it against his chest, holding it there, grounding her—grounding himself.

His heart thudded beneath her fingertips, strong, steady, but there was tension beneath it—unreadable, controlled. “Bri.” His voice was quiet, but restrained—but sharper than before. “I love you, you know I do. I have been very understanding about everything.”

His thumb brushed against hers, warm, solid—then he tightened his grip, just enough. “But now I need to ask: Is there something I should know?”

Her pulse kicked—too sharp, too sudden, lungs tightening. “You saw what happened. He was drunk, Brad. Drunk and grief-stricken. He just lost his wife, for crying out loud!”

Brad exhaled, slow, controlled, but the weight behind it was unshakable. “Drunk doesn’t explain his behavior. I have seen him drinking – and even in various stages of drunk of some of the many parties here or at your brother’s house. This was not that.”

His fingers tensed slightly against hers, anchoring her, forcing her to feel the full weight of his words. “Bri, I’ve had to deal with him—compete with him—for almost half our lives now. I know he’s a lot of things, brash, intense. Even vulgar. But that?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening—just barely.

“That seemed out of character. Even for him.” The grip tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure she wasn’t slipping away from the conversation. “I know he’s mourning. I know he was intoxicated. But that wasn’t just grief. That was more.”

Brad’s voice dropped lower now, sharper, pressing in. “He kissed you like a man possessed. Like he was on a mission. Like he felt like he had… the right.”

The words hit dead center. Precise. Calculated. Final.

Brad didn’t blink.
Briar Rose’s breath hitched, her chest tightened, her lips parted—but no words came.
She could still taste Jackson if she thought hard enough—like whiskey, like salt, like ruin. Could feel his grip, demanding.

Brad studied her. “And you didn’t push him away—at all.”

Silence crashed between them.
Long. Heavy. Suffocating.

Her mother shifted beside her, exhale barely audible, the tension coiling now, thick, unspoken.

Briar Rose straightened, fingers tightening, jaw locking, pulse thrumming. “I was too surprised to push him away.” Her voice was edged with something sharp, raw, defensive.

Brad’s gaze didn’t shift. “Too surprised?” He wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t angry. Just searching. Just calculating.

Briar Rose nodded quickly—too quickly. “Yes. It was—it was so fast, Brad. I wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t even register—”

“You didn’t register a kiss like that?” Brad’s tone wasn’t harsh. Wasn’t sharp. Just quiet. Just steady. But it held weight. It held reason.

“Jackson didn’t kiss you like a man making a mistake, Briar Rose. He kissed you like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Like I said, like a man who feels entitled.”

She couldn’t argue that.
She could still feel it.

Still taste it. Taste him. Feel it. Feel … him. His hand at the back of her neck, firm, grounding her, keeping her exactly where he wanted her—

She forced herself back to the here and now. “I—” She swallowed, inhaling deep. “I should’ve pushed him away. I am … sorry.” Her voice cracked.

Brad’s shoulders settled back slightly, but his expression didn’t change. “You should have.”

But she hadn’t. She lowered her gaze. She hadn’t.
And they both knew it.

Chestnut Ridge
Kershaw Ranch

Burning Bridges

Miles away, at the Kershaw Ranch, Jackson was in worse shape than he cared to admit.

Getting out of bed wasn’t just a struggle—it was damn near impossible.

The pain was everywhere—deep in his muscles, sharp along his ribs, twisting through his gut, the aftermath of whiskey and fists colliding in the worst way.

He finally managed to sit up, his body screaming in protest—his head pounding, his stomach churning, like his insides were ready to riot.

He gritted his teeth, forced himself upright, only for the whole damn world to tilt, sending him staggering against the bedpost.

“Jesus H. Christ.” His voice was hoarse, raw, torn at the edges.

He steadied himself, breath uneven, gripping the wooden frame like an anchor before pushing forward.
Dizzy. Aching. Wrecked.
Dragged himself toward the bathroom, every step threatening to knock him back down.

And then—the mirror told the ugly truth.
A deep split in his brow, dried blood crusted thick, bruising swelling ugly around it.
Jaw so tight it felt locked, swollen and sore like Brad’s fists had found it more than once.

The bastard could throw a punch—Jackson had to give him that.

Nose was tender, but intact, though the faint shadow of a bruise told him it’d been damn close.
Ribs were burning with every inhale, tight like something inside was screaming at him to stop moving.

He flexed his fingers—winced. His knuckles were scraped raw, swollen, pulsing with deep aches.
Brad might’ve taken a beating, but Jackson hadn’t walked away easy.

By the time he made it into the kitchen, the sharp scent of coffee and frying bacon hit him.

His stomach growled. Then twisted mean.
Didn’t know if he was hungry or fixing to throw up.

Then—Jack’s voice cut through the fog.

“Ah, good—y’all’re finally up. Damn boy, ya look like hell warmed over.” Jack whistled low, shaking his head at the sight of Jackson.

Jackson blinked, squinting as his father turned from the stove, arms crossed, eyes sharp, gaze unreadable—but not even a little amused.

“Feel like it too. Yer still here? Figured y’all’d’ve left by now. Flown back home.”

Jack tilted his head, assessing him.

“Well, ya reap what ya sow and Izzy and I both agreed we couldn’t just up an’ leave ya in that state you was in. Sit down, kid. We got a whole lot to talk about.”

Jackson gritted his teeth, straightened.

“Naw, I gotta get out to them horses. Overslept.” His words came slow, thick with exhaustion.

“Come here and plant that ass down in that chair, kid!”

Jack’s tone didn’t leave room for argument.

“Chores are done. Y’all forgettin’ I owned this place before ya did, and I ain’t been gone long enough to forget how to run a damn ranch. Izzy’s finishin’ up the rest—we damn well figured ya was in no shape t’do nothin’ but sit here an’ face the consequences of y’all’s actions. So take a load of.”

A command. Not a request.

Jackson sat slow, stiff, regret pooling deep in his gut.
Jack leaned against the counter, arms folded, gaze unreadable—but heavy.

Then, almost theatrically, took a slow sip of coffee, set the mug down deliberate.

“Ya wanna tell me what in hell that was last night?”

Jackson clenched his jaw, eyes fixed on the table.

“I got wasted, Pa, that’s what. Screwed up.”

Jack scoffed.

“Son, screwin’ up is pickin’ a fight with a man twice yer size. What y’all did last night?” He shook his head. “That was a goddamn spectacle all the way ‘round.” Jack drawled.

Jackson dragged a hand down his face, exhaled sharp.

“Didn’t mean for it t’happen.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed, voice edged now.

“Didn’t mean t’grab yer ex-wife an’ kiss her in front of her husband, her whole damn family, most of y’all’s family an’ half the town? Didn’t mean t’pick a fight right after? ‘Cause from where I was standin’, son, ya looked real committed to both.”

Jackson pressed his fingers against his temples, frustration spiking.

“Wasn’t—” He stopped himself. Exhaled, heavy. “I don’t know what happened.”

Jack scoffed.

“Ya don’t know what happened? Well, bless yer heart, ain’t that somethin’.”

His voice dropped lower now, rougher.

“‘Cause from where I was standin’, ya knew damn well what ya was doin’ when ya grabbed Briar Rose an’ kissed her in front of half the town. Ya know in a place like this people don’t forget things like that. Hell, first thing I heard walkin’ in the bar downtown was some stories of my past I didn’t need reminin’ of, especially not with mah wife standin’ right next to me. Luckily, I damn well told Izzy almost everythin’ worth tellin’ about back when. Really didn’t need ya to add to all that for you, me and Beau and Savannah.”

Jackson’s stomach twisted at the memory, but he stayed silent.
Jack stepped forward, voice firmer now.

“I watched ya get yerself drunk before, son. And I know what grief does. But this wasn’t any of that. No Sir, no Ma’am. Y’all was South of mentally gone. Y’all was possessed, if I ever seen anyone bein’ that!”

His eyes narrowed.

“Naw, Jackson, ya meant it. All of it was deliberate. That stunt last night wasn’t just whiskey talk. Y’all were staking yer damn claim on a woman ya lost long ago.”

Jackson swallowed hard.
Jack’s jaw tightened, voice edged.

“Are ya hearin’ me, boy? Listen Jackson, ya think I don’t remember what ya told me an’ Connor last night? That sorry excuse of a declaration when ya could barely stand?”

He leaned forward.

“Ya said ya was gonna get Bri back if it was the last damn thing ya ever did. An’ now? Ya proved that ya meant it.”

Silence crashed between them. Heavy. Suffocating.
Jack sighed. Shook his head.

“I need ya to remind yerself that Bri’s got a whole new life now, son. Kids. A husband. An’ whether ya wanna admit it or not, she ain’t yers no more. Jus’ ain’t and that’s that.”

Jackson’s hands curled into fists on the table.

“Hold up just a minute there! She ain’t got no kids, Pa! She got a kid with Brad. She got kids, plural, with me. She an’ I, WE got two kids. They’re mine, ours. Not his! He got a hold of her when she was upset with me, got her knocked up to pull her away from me!”

Jack’s voice lowered now, gruff but firm. “I’m gonna say this once, Jackson. Ya better listen real good.”

He leaned in close. Voice steel now. “Do not do this. Don’t go further down this path. You is wrong as wrong can be. And this ain’t some damn love song. Ain’t gonna end with some second-chance miracle. This ends in disaster.”

His voice dropped low.

“This road you’re barrelin’ down? It don’t just end with losin’ her—it ends with you losin’ everything. Your kids. Your pride. Hell, even yourself. And don’t forget this ranch—this land ain’t just dirt and fence posts. My great-great-great-great-grandpappy carved it outta nothin’ but grit and blistered hands, back when this whole stretch was wild and untamed. Ya think yer mess compares to that?
Yer dang close to throwin’ it all away, like it ain’t worth a damn. On what?! On something that ain’t there, like a goddang Don Quixote of Chestnut Ridge you is out there fightin’ windmills! So, tell me—whatcha think ya’d be fixin’ to leave your boy, huh? You reckon Beau oughta punch a timecard in some city office, or beg work swingin’ gates on somebody else’s ranch? That whatcha want for yer kids?”

His voice dropped lower now—sharp and cold as a winter wind.

“You wanna pin last night on the whiskey? Fine. But that bottle don’t swing the axe—y’all do. And ya done gone swingin’ that hard and good. So, straighten up, now. Before there’s nothin’ left to save.”

Jackson held his breath, but the truth was already sinkin’ into him, deep and cruel, clenched his jaw, staring hard at the table.

Jack exhaled, crossed his arms tighter, voice settled low.

“Ya got two choices, son. Face yer reality, or burn it all down tryin’ to chase somethin’ that ain’t there no more. Ain’t yours no more.”

Jackson forced himself to breathe, slow, measured, like he could wrestle control back.
Jack pushed back from the table, voice rougher now.

“I suggest ya figure it out quick. Ain’t nobody gonna keep savin’ ya from yerself.”

He sighed, shook his head, turned back to the stove. Grabbed two plates, heaped them full with bacon and eggs, then carried them over, setting one in front of Jackson.

“Get some food in ya,” Jack muttered. “To soak up the rest of that whiskey delirium. Might do wonders for yer mood and hopefully sober yer mind too.”

Jackson didn’t move. Didn’t touch the plate.

Jack sat down across from him, fork scraping slow against his own plate, shoveling the food into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days, silence stretching thick, suffocating.

Until finally—he spoke again, tone dead steady.

“Eat yer damn food kid. It’ll help settle yer stomach if yer queasy or get it all out for ya to start feelin’ better. Either way, can’t hurt none. And for the record, Bri ain’t waitin’ on ya no more. Ya best stop actin’ like she ever will be again. Ya tried, again and again, it’s over now. I liked her for ya, I did, but it ain’t happenin’ for either of us, so best to count yer losses and move on. She don’t want ya no more, son, sad as it may be.”

The plate hit the wall before Jack registered the movement.

The impact was violent—sharp—ceramic shards cutting through the silence, food splattering against the wood in a chaotic spray.

Jack sat back sharply, startled—but not afraid as he looked at his son’s fiery expression burning in his eyes, while Jack remained absolutely calm. Just watching. Calculating. Assessing.

His sleeve wiped across his mouth, slow, deliberate, as Jackson shot to his feet, chair scraping loud enough to slice through the room.

“Ya don’t know shit!” Jackson bellowed, voice raw, breath coming hard and fast, every muscle coiled, wrecked with adrenaline and rage.

Jack didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just held.

“Ya sit there tellin’ me she don’t want me?” Jackson’s chest heaved, fists clenching, the weight of everything crushing down hard as he now hammered his index finger into his chest repeatedly. “When I know better! I proved it!”

His pulse pounded through his skull, his words coming harder, faster, as fury tangled deep.

“Ya wanna sit there an’ act like she’s moved on? Then explain to me how she wanted me—in every damn way a woman can want a man!”

Jack exhaled, slow, watching Jackson unravel.

“Yeah, that’s right, Pa, I had her again, like that. Like a husband has a wife!” Jackson’s words tore through the space, sharp, brutal, irreversible. “She gave herself to me outta free will, I didn’t force her none, she wanted to. And that was after she kissed me, ya hearin’ me? SHE kissed ME at her parents’ place last time she and Brad were in town. SHE kissed me, an’ SHE gave herself to me again! So ya don’t get to tell me she don’t want me none when I know better!”

Jack’s face stayed unreadable—eyes dark, heavy, a storm brewing slow behind the control.

Jackson’s hands trembled slightly, breathing uneven.

“She still wants me! In every way! We just have to figure out the rest and I will have her back!” His voice cracked, shoving the words forward.

“Yer a fool, damn fool fer thinkin’ that, son! So what? So ya both reminisced in a very odd way, nobody ever doubted that ya both still hold feelin’s for one ‘nother. I’d wager even her husband knows that much. Blind man can see ya do and he ain’t neither blind nor a fool.”

Jack’s gaze sharpened—not just disappointment now. Something colder. Sharper. He pushed his plate forward, slow, precise, the scrape of ceramic against wood dragging like a blade.
Then—he rose.

“An’ what?” Jack’s voice dropped, measured but edged, heavy with something Jackson couldn’t name. “Ya think that means she’s yers again? Well, it don’t. And neither of ya is walking away smellin’ like roses here, ya realize that, dontcha? What y’all did was wrong on every level, son, far from heroic! The opposite, all ya both proven is that ya have no self control, can’t control yer primal urges around another. That’s all ya got proof for. Lust don’t equal love, Jackson, thought ya were taught that after the ordeal with Billie Rae, may she rest easy now. THAT is what lust does, lead ya to a marriage ya didn’t want to be in and another child ya needed in yer life like a hole in the head. And we all love Savannah but we all know that there was a time Bri wanted another baby with ya and even then, and with HER, ya knew to say no to that. So I know ya knew another kid was bad news. And it is, Jackson. Pray to God poor Savannah won’t have to grow up knowin’ that too. At least Beau has a rich momma who sends money every month, more than she has too. Hopefully it covers Savannah too or y’all be in trouble. THAT’s what ya need to focus on, not chasin’ tail.”

He leaned forward, just slightly—just enough that Jackson could feel the weight behind every word before they landed. The air shifted—thick, suffocating, the balance of power shifting, Jackson’s rage meeting Jack’s calm, controlled force.

“Do ya really think for one hot second that she’ll throw her entire life away for some weak moment?” Jack’s voice cut through the space, slicing clean. “Many people had one of those at some point in their lives, but are smart enough not to set fire to everything an’ burn every last bridge over it like a damn love stricken fool! Jackson, ain’t no doubt that she loved ya, maybe still does, probably always will, but she loves her husband more now. Best if ya face it. Don’t forget I was where ya are now before, with AG and Max, we all made some tough choices, but we knew then it was the right ones and decades later proven it. Wasn’t easy, not on either of us, but we made it.”

The words hit like a hammer—final, undeniable, brutal in their truth.
And for the first time, Jackson felt it.
The collapse. The weight. The reality suffocating under his own fury.
Jackson’s hands curled into fists, rage tangled thick with denial.

“I ain’t gon’ roll over like ya did with AG. I fought last night, an’ I’ll fight again!” Jackson roared, stepping forward. “An’ this time, I ain’t stoppin’ till I win!”

Jackson’s pulse hammered, fury burning through him like wildfire.
He needed out.

Away from the suffocating weight of Jack’s words. Away from the truth clawing at his mind, threatening to settle in if he stood here too damn long.

Jackson moved for the door—fast, reckless—but Jack was faster.

A strong, calloused hand yanked him back, grip tight, unrelenting, spinning Jackson halfway around before he could even register what happened.

“Ya ain’t runnin’ from this! Won’t let ya run out there thinkin’ ya are lookin’ at something more than ya are. Jackson, all y’all did by messin’ where ya shouldn’t’ve been messin’ was turning y’all into a homewrecker her into a slut. That what ya really wanted?” Jack snapped, voice edged in steel.

Jackson didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.
His fist flew, pure instinct—no thought, no restraint, just fire and fury.

It landed hard, square against Jack’s jaw, snapping his head sideways. The impact was sharp, brutal—a hit that shouldn’t have happened. A hit Jackson never thought he’d throw.

Jack staggered back a step, but barely.

He wasn’t some old man past his prime—he was built from ranch work, from farm life, from decades of hard-earned strength that didn’t fade with age.

Blood welled at the corner of his mouth, thick and deep, and Jack swiped the back of his hand across it, eyes flicking down briefly to where red smeared against his knuckles.

Then he looked up.
His gaze was sharp. Unforgiving.
Jackson had never seen his father look at him like that.

And then Jack swung.
It wasn’t wild. Wasn’t blind rage. It was controlled. Calculated.

It connected clean—jaw snapping sideways, force driving deep, a punch thrown by a man who knew how to fight. Jackson stumbled back, breath hitching, pain exploding across his face.

And then he charged.

Fists flying, anger unchecked, shame curdling thick in his throat, fury blinding him against the weight of what he’d done. Jack met him hit for hit, hard and fast, every move grounded, steady, like the ranch had trained him for this his whole damn life.

They crashed into the kitchen table—shoulders slamming, fists bruising, a fight neither of them had ever prepared for. Jackson landed a sharp hook to Jack’s ribs—felt the impact travel deep. Jack responded with a heavy blow to Jackson’s gut—solid, brutal, stealing the air from his lungs.

Furniture splintered, chairs skidded, the walls bearing witness to decades of unspoken resentment, disappointment, heartbreak—all erupting in a fight neither had planned, but neither could stop.

Until Jack hit the floor.
Jackson’s final punch sent him down hard, blood dripping onto the worn wooden floorboards.

Chest heaving.
Knuckles aching.
Reality crashing in—cold, merciless, irreversible.

And Jackson ran.

Storming through the doorway, breath ragged, vision swimming—nearly colliding straight into Izzy, his stepmother. She jerked back, eyes wide, mouth parting in shock at the sight of him—the bruised rage, the barely-contained fury, the undeniable guilt.

Jackson didn’t stop.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t look back.

The cabin door slammed behind him.

Izzy stood frozen for a fraction of a second before reality crashed in. He was bleeding! Something happened. Something bad!

Then she ran inside.

Her breath hitched when she saw Jack—on the ground, bloodied, trying to push himself upright, too damn stubborn for his own good.

For all the assumptions people made about their marriage, this was the truth—Izzy loved Jack, deeply, wholly, with a certainty no rumor or raised eyebrow could shake. The Irish beauty wasn’t some trophy wife decades younger, not some passing phase in his life. She was his partner, his equal, even if she wasn’t that much older than his son. That reality was never starker than now—her hands shaking as she helped Jack up, guiding him toward the couch, raw worry in every touch.

“For feck’s sake, Jack, I’m ringing the police!” Izzy muttered, voice tight, clipped.

Jack grabbed her wrist before she could dial, but the movement cost him—his breath hitched, a sharp groan escaping before he clenched his jaw against it.

“Don’t do that, darlin’,” he muttered, voice strained, tight with pain. “Ain’t worth it.”

Izzy’s wild eyes snapped to his, furious, disbelieving.

“Ah, Jack,” she murmured, voice low and lilting, her fingers brushing his cheek, careful now, as if she could will the pain away. “You’re hurt bad, so ya are. And I don’t know how ya expect me to sit here and do nothin’ about it.”

Jack exhaled sharp, grimacing against the pain, his own blood streaked against her fingertips.

“Ain’t nothin’ but a scratch, darlin’,” Jack muttered, voice rough, steady despite the blood. “Ain’t my first scrap, won’t be my last. Reckon I’ve taken worse and walked away just fine.”

He sighed deeply, eyes dropping for just a moment to where her hands still held him, gentle, unwavering.

“But my boy… he’s lost. Ain’t got the sense to see past his own damn mess. He’s already wrecked enough. Let him go and cool down. He’ll come back apologizin’ when he’s ready for it.”

Izzy stared at him, hands trembling as she let go, fingers trailing down his jawline before finally pulling away.

And slowly—painfully—she set the phone down. But the look in her eyes was undeniable.

This wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
And she would be right.

Del Sol Valley
Various locations

Family Ties

Bri had barely been in town for three days, here for a promo tour for her latest single release, Jasper and Iris had already subjected her to their full-throttle Del Sol Valley agenda: six restaurants, two rooftop parties, a charity auction—where Jasper, through sheer bravado, ended up in a bidding war with an A-lister for a signed guitar.

“You should thank me,” Jasper declared, slinging an arm around her shoulders as they strolled out. “If I’d won, I was gonna give it to you.”

Bri snorted. “It was twenty grand, Jas.”

Jasper waved her off, completely unfazed. “No, what it is, is Symbolism, Bri. It means you’re my sister from another mister, and I am your…?” He smirked, wiggling his eyebrows, clearly baiting her to finish their childhood phrase—one they still used without shame.

Bri rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help grinning. “Brother from another mother.”

“Exactly!” Jasper pointed triumphantly. “So, what’s money if not for the grand gestures that prove your devotion?”

Iris let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, money—you mean the stuff I also work for?”

Jasper scoffed. “You work because you want to, not because you have to. Neither of us does, at this point.” He shot her a knowing look. “Nice try though, you career-complainer.”

“Whatever. Nice. My husband, ladies and gentlemen.” Iris gestured grandly. “Drags me to an auction just to try and drop twenty grand of OUR money on a guitar for my sister, but what do I get? Nothing. Gave him two kids, but … nothing. You didn’t even attempt to bid on anything I liked. Guess the honeymoon phase ended after two kids.”

Jasper clutched his chest in mock devastation. “That is slander! You, my radiant queen, just last week received a custom diamond bracelet—handcrafted! Sent via private courier! Do I not get any credit?”

“And yet,” Iris mused, unimpressed, “Bri almost got a whole guitar.”

Jasper scoffed. “Well yeah, because she loved it and it makes sense for her, hello?, she is a career musician. And please. From the moment we walked into that auction, all you did was bemoan, critique, and absolutely eviscerate every single thing up for bidding.” He switched to his best Iris impression, complete with exaggerated eye-rolls.

‘Who in their right mind would buy a decorative surfboard autographed by someone who doesn’t even surf?’

‘A handbag worth more than a car? And it’s ugly? Crime should be reported.’

‘This whole collection looks like a rejected estate sale from someone who thought gold plating was a personality trait.’”

Bri, watching the two of them go back and forth, burst into laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth as Jasper threw up his hands dramatically.

“So forgive me,” he continued, “if I wasn’t about to humiliate myself by spending ten grand on a hideous crystal vase you spent six full minutes roasting like it personally offended your ancestors.”

Iris narrowed her eyes. “So you were considering the vase?”

“I was not, obviously.” Jasper huffed. “Because I value my marriage—and my dignity.”

Bri, still giggling, nudged Iris playfully. “Honestly, if he had bought the vase, you would’ve made him smash it just to prove a point.”

“Oh, without question,” Iris agreed, smirking.

Jasper sighed, shaking his head. “Bri has the soul of an artist and talent! I was honoring her craft! You, my love, are above the need for material possessions. Your beauty is timeless. Your essence—priceless.”

Bri let out another laugh. “This might be my favorite argument of the year—and considering the ones you two have had, that’s saying something. You should BOTH be in the entertainment industry. You need your own Reality TV show.”

He paused just long enough for effect, then grinned. “Bri’s got a point there. I’ll run that by my agent when I see him next. And I will tell you, Iris, my beautiful flower, if you want a guitar, I tell you what: if you start singing in front of full stadiums, I swear I’ll buy you two guitars, one for each side. Imagine it—gold-plated! Framed with diamonds! Your initials in neon lights behind you.”

Iris rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh. And until that happens, I get bracelets. Got it.”

Bri laughed. “Honestly, I’m honored. The dramatics. The suffering. The pure devotion.”

Jasper pointed at her triumphantly. “Exactly! Bri understands me.”

Iris looped her arm through Bri’s, steering the conversation back. “Speaking of drama … I hope you’re still coming to the movie premiere tomorrow. You’ve been ditching us more than usual.”

“Excuse me! I have not ditched you—I just occasionally require sleep, and also I do have a job which is why I am here in the first place. PR events. Interviews. Remember? And need I remind you both that we just saw each other last week? You’re acting like I’ve been missing for months.”

“Oh please.” Jasper pointed at her like he’d just cornered her in a courtroom cross-examination. “Firstly, let’s just not talk about last week. Still trying to wrap my head around your ex-husband going off the rails like I have never seen, what the heck was in Jackson’s coffee that day?! Secondly, yeah, we hang out, but only in San Seq. You never come to DSV. And thirdly, we are still waiting for that invite to Brindleton Bay.”

“I didn’t know you needed a formal invitation! I’ll get some printed the moment I get to the hotel room!” Bri shot back, giggling.

“Verbal is fine. All ears.” Jasper made a grand gesture of cupping his hand behind his ear—until Iris nudged him hard.

“Gawd, Jas, get off her back! I suggested several times we fly out and see my sis but all I heard from your pouty ass was whining about Brad and how you can’t do him for extended periods of time.”

“Lies! All lies!” Jasper gasped, ever theatrical. “Brad and I made up. We’re good now.”

Iris smirked. “Really? Okay, then let me update Bri on all you normally have to say about him…”

Jasper slapped a hand over her mouth before she could continue, then made the absolutely reckless choice to replace his hand with his lips—until Iris started fighting for air.

Finally, he let his wife go and turned to Bri, smirking. “Want some of that too? I mean, last week it was the ex-husband—you could try me, then see how Bradford compares.”

“If you even attempt to kiss my sister, I will single-handedly castrate you without any tools—considering you are tool enough.”

“You need at least two hands for me, I am packing, woman—don’t go starting rumors here. Bri? Thoughts, questions, concerns?”

And Bri had laughed, shoved him lightly, let herself sink into the comfort of this—the ease, the familiarity, the distraction.

“Yeah, I am very concerned about you,” she said, grinning. “But then again, you’ve always been like this.”

“Settled then. Dinner it is!” Jasper decided completely off the track, linking his arm into both sister’s, pulling them with him, all of them laughing.

Because distraction was exactly what Briar Rose needed.

Bri Goes Rogue

Dinner had been loud, animated—Jasper spinning tales with the dramatic flair of an award-winning actor, Iris delivering dry, unimpressed counterpoints, the two of them bouncing off each other like a well-rehearsed act.

Bri had barely touched her phone—until it buzzed.

She glanced at it absently, expecting another ‘I love and miss you’ from Brad or some routine notification.

Then—her stomach twisted.

Because she was accidentally copied on a message exchange she wasn’t supposed to see.

Connor: There goes that hope. Wasn’t here either. I still can’t find him. He’s been missing for days, Jack. I think you might want to think about contacting the authorities.

Jack: Yeah, something ain’t right. Ain’t like him. No cops yet. I don’t know what he been up to and last thing he needs is more trouble yet, the legal kind. If that boy goes to prison for somethin’, then I don’t know what to do. I can stay a few more days, but then I have to go home, can’t leave Izzy to run an entire farm by herself!

Connor: Copy that. We’ll figure it out, I’ll keep looking whenever I can. I agree, not knowing what mental cliff Jackson fell off here, I am keeping it hush too. No use roweling up the masses. And if he doesn’t come back soon, I’ll come and pick up the kids. Can’t do much about the ranch and the horses, my days only have 24 hours as well and I am a lot of things but cowboy isn’t one of them.

Jack: No argument here, doc. Don’t want to ruin them dainty fingers ya got with hard manual labor.

Connor: How about my dainty fingers and I come over and my dainty feet show your cowboy butt what’s up.

Jack: Tempting, but I’ve had my share thanks to Jackson. Ain’t looking for seconds.

Connor: Right. I’ll try to be out later today or first thing tomorrow to look you over and deal with the damage again.

Jack: Hey, if yer comin’ by, bring more of them dang pills from last time. I’ll take a whole bottle. When ya get to my age, somethin’ always hurts—but after one of them babies, I felt 18 again. Damn near chased Izzy around the barn.

Connor: That’s a terrifying visual, Jack. And no—I’m not giving you performance-enhancing narcotics so you can throw out your hip playing rodeo romance, old man. Then again, if I did and got caught distributing prescription-only narcotics by the bottle to friends, I could check whichever prison they throw me into to see if Jackson is there. One place I haven’t looked so far.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers clenched around the phone.

Jackson. Missing. For days. And nobody had told her.

Jasper cracked another joke. Iris took a sip of wine. The world spun along as if nothing had changed—because to them, nothing had.

“You good?” Iris asked, leaning toward Bri, frowning slightly.

Bri blinked. Forced herself to breathe. Pasted on a smile.

“Yeah,” she lied smoothly. “Just—exhausted.”

Jasper raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “What, suddenly? You were fine two minutes ago.”

“I dunno, maybe I’m just getting old.”

“Pregnant,” Jasper declared, pointing at her with certainty.

Iris snorted. “Jas, for the love of—”

“Nah, I’m telling you! She’s pregnant! Look at her! The glow!”

Bri rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “Oh sure, because I couldn’t possibly be glowing from laughing my face off with you and Iris. And exhaustion obviously only ever has one explanation—pregnancy. Poor exhausted men out there, must be a real nightmare for them. Pregnant, and with their… limited plumbing. That is gonna leave a mark. Literally.” she played along with the joke.

“Don’t forget the hormonal. Hormones make pregnant chicks radiant. You give hormonal,” Jasper added.

“Don’t forget annoying. That’s what YOU give,” Iris shot back.

“Rude,” Jasper muttered.

Bri flicked imaginary dust off her shoulder like the conversation bored her. “Calm down, Jas, I know for a fact I am not pregnant and if you need details, I’d be happy to go into full on TMI mode here. Besides, if ‘glowing’ is the new term for sleep-deprived, emotionally compromised, and constantly cleaning up messes that aren’t mine, then yeah—guess I’m radiant.”

Bri let the moment play out, laughed at the antics, shook her head, let the conversation skim past her without raising alarm.

And then—she stood.

“Guys, this was awesome, but I think I’m just gonna call it a night,” she said lightly, easily.

They didn’t question it.
Didn’t suspect a thing.
Because why would they?

She was safe here. Distracted. Coming here—knowing these two would claim the majority of her time or raise hell if she strayed—made Brad worry less about her traveling alone, despite the proximity to Chestnut Ridge. And Jackson.

Whenever she came to this part of the country now, be it for work or family visits, Brad had made it a point of joining her. He still didn’t know. But he definitely suspected. Clearly so, though his demeanor had not changed at all. Still kind and loving, sweet and accommodating.

Jasper and Iris dropped her off at the hotel. Bri waved goodbye at the entrance, the elevator ride stretched endlessly, but when she stepped inside the suite and let the door click shut behind her—she exhaled.

Then she changed into yoga pants, a hoodie, and sneakers, grabbed her wallet, ordered a rental car to be brought straight to her hotel—less than an hour later, Del Sol Valley was fading in the rearview mirror.

Straight toward Chestnut Ridge.
Straight to him.

It wasn’t just impulse. It wasn’t just fear. Fear he might do something terrible. Or already had.

She knew where to look.

Because when Jackson unraveled, when the weight of the world got too heavy, he never hid where people would expect. Not at the ranch, not near town, not anywhere his friends—especially his indigenous friends who knew every trail, every marker, every sign—would think to search first.

Jackson had always gone off the map. And Bri was one of the few people alive who knew exactly where that meant.

A place he’d shown her only once—deep in the valley, tucked beyond a nearly impassable ravine, shielded by towering evergreens and jagged cliffs that didn’t show up on most routes. A hideaway so remote even seasoned trackers might miss it unless they already knew what to look for.

“People ain’t meant to live like machines,” he’d told her once, long before things had spiraled. “When things get too loud, too messy—you find somewhere still. Somewhere nobody else can reach.”

Back then, it had been a philosophy. Now, it was survival.

So she drove.

Not toward where the others had searched.
Not toward safety.
But toward what was left of him.

Somewhere between Del Sol Valley and Chestnut Ridge

What’s Left of Him

Bri drove until the road ran out.

Then she walked.

The rental—a sleek, top-tier luxury SUV designed more for city curves than wild detours—had done its best. But even the four-wheel drive had limits. She abandoned it at the last marker of civilization, wedging it off the shoulder where the dirt road narrowed into something more like a suggestion than a path.

Her feet hit the rough terrain, crunching through dry brush and loose gravel. The air carried that sharp, earthy scent of the Ridge—pine, dust, the ghost of summer fires long extinguished. The temperature had dropped now that the sun was gone, turning the dry heat into something brittle, biting.

She switched on her phone’s flashlight.

A single, weak glow against the ink-black vastness of the land.

The stars overhead shimmered like broken glass, the only witnesses to her search. She kept moving, the memory of Jackson’s voice guiding her more than any visible trail. Off the map. Somewhere nobody else can reach.

Then—she saw it.

The structure was barely standing.

An old hunting cabin, long abandoned, more skeleton than shelter. The wood was splintered, the roof sagging with time and rot, the door hanging crooked in its frame. If someone had lived here once, they hadn’t for years.

But Jackson was here.

She knew it before she stepped inside. The smell hit first—stale whiskey, sweat, something sour curling through the air. Bri swallowed, pushing the door open cautiously. The stench was overwhelming, thick enough to choke her. She coughed, eyes watering, pressing her sleeve against her nose and mouth as she moved forward. The floor creaked beneath her sneakers, every step whispering into the silence.

And then—she saw him.

Slumped against a bare mattress on the floor, half-covered by an old blanket, boots kicked into the wreckage of the room.

His hair was a mess, his stubble thick, his face and upper body bruised, stained with dried blood—remnants of fights he didn’t win.

A broken glass rested beside him, some whiskey still pooling at the bottom, smearing into the wood grain. Around him several already empty whiskey bottles and one still about one quarter full.

His breath was shallow, uneven, punctuated by quiet murmurs—nonsense words, a drunken slur of sound.

His eyes were slow to lift to hers, sluggish, unfocused. And when they did—he grinned. A crooked smile in a mangled face, marked by brawling and boozing.

“Well, well,” Jackson muttered, voice lazy, slurred, soaked in liquor. “Look who finally made it. Took ya long ‘nough. Startin’ to think ya forgot. Or they were right—ya didn’t want me no more.”

Bri exhaled sharply, arms crossing tight over her chest.

“OMG, are you drunk again? Is that all you do now? Create more problems rather than finding a solution?”

“Still …” he slurred.

“What?”

“Still drunk, Bri. Ain’t been sober since that night …”

Bri’s pulse hammered as she stepped closer, frustration curling tight in her chest.

“Ever think about Beau and Savannah? You know, your children?! Remember?! Father of the year! Seriously.”

Jackson laughed, tilting his head back against the wall, amusement flickering in his half-lidded gaze.

“Too drunk, darlin’,” he murmured, voice lazy, slurred. “Ain’t gonna find my way outta this hole. And I knew Connor would get ‘em. Jus’ like I knew ya would come find me.”

He sounded smug—like this whole thing was inevitable, like she was just playing her part.

Bri stepped forward, holding out a hand, jaw tight. “Get up.”

Jackson raised a brow, slow, amused, unreadable. “Gimme one good reason I should.”

With an annoyed sound, Bri yanked the blanket back—only for her breath to hitch, horror flashing across her face.

“Oh my God, are you naked?! Why are you stark naked in a condemned cabin?! It’s not exactly balmy! Are you trying to die of hypothermia?!”

Jackson glanced down at himself, squinting as though he hadn’t noticed before.

“Well, hell,” he muttered, barely fazed. “Would ya look at that.” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Yes ma’am, I sure am nekkid. ‘Fraid so. How’d that happen, I wonder …”

Bri stared, exasperated, resisting the urge to physically shake sense into him.

The cabin smelled like a crime scene—whiskey bleeding into the wood, sweat soaked into every fiber of the mattress, unwashed clothes stiff with filth. The air was stale, bitter, saturated with decay.

“Where are your clothes? Jackson—what did you do with your underwear?” Bri asked, voice pinched with disbelief, eyes scanning the wreckage of the room.

Jackson just shrugged, unapologetic. “Somewhere … anywhere… don’t remember,” he muttered, lazily unconcerned.

Bri sighed—deep, exasperated, equal parts disgust and grim resolve. She stepped closer, grabbing his arm and yanking at him, trying to pull him upright. Not a chance. His frame was too large, too heavy, a dead weight she couldn’t lift without his help.

“Get up already! We’re leaving!” she barked, frustrated, panting lightly from the effort.

“Nah,” Jackson muttered, settling deeper into the mattress like a man who’d planted roots there.

“Jackson—” Bri warned, her voice tightening.

“Tell ya what,” he cut in, voice low, teasing, reckless—dangerous in that way he always was when he wanted to get under her skin.

Bri froze, immediately wary. “What?”

“I’ll go,” Jackson drawled, lips curling at the edges, his grin widening into something smug and infuriating. “If ya gimme a kiss.”

Bri huffed and shoved his head aside with one sharp palm. “Are you serious right now?” she asked, annoyed—though the flush creeping up her neck betrayed more than irritation.

Jackson just smirked. “I dunno, darlin’. Are ya gonna kiss me?”

“I’m going to find your damn clothes,” she shot back, scanning the room for anything remotely wearable.

Her eyes landed on a pair of discarded jeans—dusty, rumpled, but salvageable. She recognized them from better days. The same ones he had worn that night when … well, during the altercation with Brad at the funeral. She found his shirt, so stiff it felt as it had been starched to death. She found his underwear too, but didn’t pick that up, likewise with what once were socks, now filthy, stiff creations of a color that didn’t have a name yet. It was disgusting and beyond saving. His boots and hat were near the bed and looked mostly as they always had.

“Fine. Just—God, sit still,” she muttered, grabbing a pant leg and yanking like she was wrangling a toddler.

Jackson grinned lazily, lifting his hips just enough to help. “Don’t mind the view, sweetheart.”

She buttoned his jeans with clipped precision, jaw tight. Jackson, ever the menace, leaned forward and brushed his lips deliberately against her temple.

“Come on, darlin’. Just a little kiss.”

“Jackson, for the love of—”

“Just one.”

Bri froze. Breath caught.

She should walk away. Say no. Push him off.

Hell, he should be easy to resist—he was disgusting, filthy, wrecked in every possible way. His clothing only enhanced the filth, as she painfully realized after sliding the shirt over his head, his arms lifted like dressing a toddler.

But she caved.
A fleeting kiss. Brief. Soft.
Jackson melted into it instantly.

His movements, sluggish before, turned fast—arms hooking tight around her, pulling her in, deepening the kiss like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“Mmm,” he hummed against her mouth, grip easing, voice quieter, softer. “Knew ya still loved me.”

Bri rolled her eyes, pulled away, shoving his shirt down the rest of the way with unnecessary force.

Jackson smirked, basking in her efforts, reveling in the fact she still cared.

“Shut up and get up now.” she ordered firmly, her hand held out to him.

For once—he listened.
Bri wasn’t naive—getting Jackson dressed and standing up was only the beginning, getting him somehow out to the car was going to be an ordeal. But she had to. She couldn’t risk taking him somewhere the kids could see him like this and in this state, there were no guarantees she could keep him subtle.

He wasn’t just drunk. He was wrecked. Out of his mind. No longer in control of himself.

Filthy, exhausted, unsteady, every inch of him reeking of whiskey and sweat. His shirt—if it could even be called that—was rumpled, stained, more someone someone would use to clean up messes with than actual clothing.

“Jackson, come on now.”

He squinted at her, smirking like she’d just suggested something wildly unreasonable.

“Nah. Ain’t happenin’.”

She huffed, planted her hands on her hips.

“Oh, it’s happening. You had your kiss, and now you are coming with me, even if I have to drag you.”

Jackson laughed, low and raspy, shaking his head. “Darlin’, ya ain’t got the weight for that.”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp as flint. “Challenge accepted. I am not playing, Jackson. This is serious and so am I!”

She grabbed his arm, pulled hard.

He barely budged.

“Oh, for the love of—Jackson, quit this and come along already!”

“Can’t,” he drawled, completely unbothered. “Too drunk. Too tired. Too damn uncomfortable.”

God. Men.
She switched tactics.

“Jackson, listen to me,” she said, firm, lowering herself to meet his gaze. “I will not leave without you. And if you’re too weak to walk, that means you’ve already lost—are you that type now? The weak type that break a nail and give up on life completely? Really? Cos you used to hate that type. You’re like those city slickers you made fun of in San Sequoia.”

That hit something. Jackson’s smirk faltered. His eyes flickered—not drunken amusement, but something else.

“I ain’t weak,” he muttered, jaw tightening.

“Then prove it. Come on, get up. Show me how tough you are.”

For a long, agonizing second—nothing.

Then, slowly, Jackson shifted. His movements were sluggish, his limbs heavy—but he braced himself, pushed up onto his elbows, then onto shaky feet. Bri caught him when he swayed, grunting at the sheer weight of him. And the stench that took her breath away. Disgusting. He was absolutely filthy.

“Okay, okay—steady, cowboy.” she labored out, suppressing a gag reflex.

Jackson snorted. “Cowboy, huh? Yeah, ya always liked that about me.”

“Oh, don’t get excited. You smell like actual roadkill. Like a dead skunk, decomposing.”

“Pretty sure I smell like whiskey and regret.”

“You smell like whiskey and regret if they were dragged through a swamp, lit on fire, and doused with raw sewage.”

Jackson laughed, shaking his head, stumbling slightly. Bri tightened her grip.

“No going weak on me,” she muttered, adjusting his arm over her shoulder, practically hauling him forward.

They staggered out of the cabin.The night was cooler now, crisp, the air cleaner than the suffocating wreckage inside—but the sheer distance to the car loomed.

“Where in hell’s name did ya park?” Jackson grumbled, voice rough.

“Farther than you would like, apparently,” Bri shot back. “Because I had no choice. The rental car company was fresh out of monster trucks, guess I am not the only one going off-roading to save my ex-husband from himself tonight. And no SUV I could rent on short notice in DSV would make it any further than I already attempted. Should have bought that insurance this time.”

Jackson smirked. “Ya need somethin’ rugged in yer life. Like me.”

“You are the opposite of rugged right now. You are a hot mess. You are an embarrassment to the concept of rugged.”

“That’s cruel, darlin’.”

“It’s accurate.”

They trudged forward, Jackson’s weight pressing against Bri harder than she’d like, along with a nearly unbearable and very unappetizing stench making her gag and her eyes water—but she gritted her teeth, forced them through the brush, each step bringing them closer.

Fifteen minutes. A quarter of an hour, compiled of long, endless minutes that each felt like an hour. Dragging him, cursing him, practically carrying his dead weight while he mumbled drunken nonsense in her ear the entire way.

By the time they reached the car, Bri was breathless, sweaty, furious. She yanked the passenger door open, shoved Jackson toward it. “Get in. Do not argue. Do not get sentimental. Sit. Down.”

Jackson grinned but obliged stiffly and clumsily he climbed up and lowered himself into the passenger seat. “Ya do love bossin’ me around, huh?”

“I swear to God …”

Bri slammed the door shut, exhaling sharply before sinking into the driver’s seat. As she gripped the wheel, her gaze caught on a polished wooden air freshener mounted near the dashboard—a small, elegantly carved slab, giving off a crisp cedar scent.

She snatched it up, took a quick sniff, then turned sharply toward Jackson. Without hesitation, she pressed the wood against his shirt, rubbing it in like some kind of desperate cleansing ritual.

Jackson groaned, weakly batting at her hand. “Hell, woman, I don’t wanna smell like no damn urinal cake!”

“You wish you smelled half as good,” Bri shot back, grinding the scent deeper into his clothes. But it wasn’t enough. With a devilish glint in her eye, she yanked at the waistband of his jeans, intent on shoving the freshener inside.

Jackson jolted, suddenly far more alert than his drunken stupor should allow. “Alright, that’s enough!”

In one swift motion, he snatched the wooden slab from her grasp, yanked the door open just enough to chuck it outside, and slammed it shut again.

Bri stared, dumbfounded. Then she growled. “Great. Now I have to pay for that too!”

Jackson just grinned, slumping back in the seat. “Consider it a tax on your ridiculous ideas.”

Bri shook her head, muttering under her breath as she started the car. The GPS screen flickered—then went black. “Oh, come the fuck on now!”

She groaned, tapping the screen, cycling through buttons, but nothing worked.

Jackson chuckled. “Well, at least we know which way it ain’t.”

“Helpful,” Bri snapped.

Navigating the winding roads proved to be another test of patience, with Jackson tossing out smug commentary every time she second-guessed a turn.

“That road looks promising—unless you wanna end up in a ditch.”

“I swear to God, Jackson—”

But just as her frustration reached a boiling point, the distant glow of highway signs peeked through the trees. Bri straightened, triumphant.

“Ha!” She shot him a victorious look. “Told you I could find my way.”

Jackson huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he turned toward the window, watching the darkened landscape blur past as they merged onto the highway.

The first highway sign appeared—Del Sol Valley, 167 miles.

Bri exhaled, tension easing from her grip on the steering wheel. They were on the highway now. She had him. They were heading back.

She glanced sideways. Jackson still slumped in the seat, gazing out at the blurred landscape, but something about him had shifted. The lighthearted arrogance, the smirking defiance—it was gone. What sat in its place was quieter, heavier.

He blinked once, then turned to look at her.

“Thank ya for comin’ for me, Bri. I know ya didn’t have to.”

His voice was softer than she’d ever heard it. Just raw honesty.

She frowned. “Of course I did.”

He huffed a short laugh, shaking his head as if he didn’t believe her. “I know I done gone screwed up bad. And don’t know how to unscrew it all.”

Bri felt something in her chest twist. Without thinking, she reached across the console, wrapping her fingers around his. His hand was rough, warm, calloused from years of recklessness.

“We’ll figure it out. As far as everyone knows you were hurting, mourning and drunk and didn’t know what you were doing. I am sure most in your town have been there and those who suspect more won’t hold it against you as they know things have never been easy for us,” she murmured.

For a second, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he turned his palm and caught her retreating fingers, bringing them to his lips. The kiss was barely there—soft, fleeting, almost reverent.

“Thank you,” he whispered against her skin.

Bri swallowed past the tightness in her throat. “You’re welcome.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and full.

Then, finally, she let out a slow breath, shifted her grip back to the wheel, and smirked just slightly.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Jackson chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back in the seat.

The miles ahead stretched long and winding, but for the first time in a long time—neither of them felt entirely lost.

Del Sol Valley
The Solace Grand Hotel & Resort

Secrets We Keep

The Solace Grand was opulence incarnate.

Towering glass doors, ornate chandeliers spilling golden light across the marble floors, sleek modern architecture designed for high-class discretion. The soft scent of fresh-cut lilies and expensive cologne lingered in the air, effortlessly masking the chaos of the city outside.

And then—there was Jackson.

Drunk. Filthy. A wrecked cowboy dropped straight into the heart of elite wealth.

Bri clenched her teeth as she pulled up to the valet station, her rental SUV looking exactly like it had fought its way across the wilderness and lost.

Dirt caked the tires, dried streaks of mud splattered across the doors, and—thanks to Jackson—the interior smelled like a distillery, sweat, dead skunk and hopelessness.

The valet, crisp in a tailored uniform, approached with visible hesitation.

His eyes flicked between Bri and the car, expression carefully neutral.

“Ma’am,” he greeted smoothly, reaching for the door handle—only to freeze as Jackson unfolded himself from the passenger seat.

The stench hit immediately.

The valet physically recoiled.

Jackson stretched like he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in years, rubbing a hand over his bruised jaw, disheveled hair sticking up in defiance, his clothes wrinkled, stained, barely passing as acceptable attire.

The valet’s posture stiffened. His eyes darted toward Bri, concern flickering through his professional mask.

Jackson noticed.

And grinned.

“Ain’t she somethin’?” he drawled, nodding toward Bri like she was escorting him into high society against his will. “Even got me a fancy ride. Ain’t that love?”

Bri slapped his arm, dragged him toward the entrance before the valet could summon security.

Jackson laughed, unbothered, reeking of whiskey and trouble, stumbling slightly as she hauled him past the grand lobby.

Inside, the cool air wrapped around them, refreshing against Bri’s frustration, but Jackson? He looked even worse under the bright hotel lighting—like a man who had lost every fight he picked and still wasn’t done picking more.

As they waited for the elevator, Bri stole a glance at him, exasperation curling deep in her chest.

She barely had time to react before a sharply dressed concierge approached, expression calm but wary, eyes flicking between Jackson and Bri with pointed assessment.

“Ma’am,” the man greeted, voice carefully polite, measured in the way service workers handled delicate situations. “Is this gentleman bothering you? Do you require assistance?”

Jackson’s grin widened, downright wicked. Bri’s eyes burned with pure fury as she turned to the concierge, forcing a semi-polite smile.

“No, he’s my guest. He’s with me. All fine here, thank you for checking.”

The concierge hesitated, clearly debating whether this was worth escalating. But Bri didn’t give him the chance. The elevator arrived with a ding, the minute it opened she grabbed him and dragged Jackson inside, shoved him into the corner, and hit the button for her floor with unnecessary force.

The concierge lingered in the lobby, still watching, still skeptical—but he let it go. As the elevator closed, Bri exhaled sharply then frowned as his stench become very hard to ignore. Jackson, still smirking, leaned against the wall, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded.

“Yer real protective when ya wanna be.”

Bri stabbed the button again, even though the elevator was already moving.

“I don’t want to hear it, Jackson.”

Jackson laughed softly—tipsy, slow, unbothered—like this was all a damn joke.

“Ain’t this somethin’? We’re sneakin’ around again. Just like when we were teenagers.”

The elevator doors slid open with a smooth, near-silent grace, revealing the polished opulence of the Solace Grand’s upper floor. Bri stepped out first, posture stiff, breath measured—already acutely aware of the scrutiny surrounding them.

Jackson followed, unsteady, his boots heavy against the plush carpet, his filthy jeans stiff with dried sweat, his shirt rumpled, stained, reeking of whiskey and regret.

The guests noticed immediately.

Wealth dripped from every angle—the tailored suits, designer dresses, carefully perfected appearances meant for business dealings, exclusive events, and carefully curated reputations.

And then—there was Jackson.

A wreck in cowboy boots and Stetson, clashing hard against the world of polished refinement.

Whispers started first. Bri felt the stares before she saw them. Sharp, disapproving, carefully veiled behind polite pretenses but undeniably there.

Jackson—fully oblivious, or fully unbothered—stumbled slightly, catching himself against the sleek marble wall with a lazy grin.

“Oh, hell, these floors are slicker than owl snot,” he murmured, tipsy, barely upright.

A woman in an emerald gown pressed a manicured hand to her chest, eyes darting to Bri with visible concern. Across the room, an older man in sharply tailored evening wear let out a huff, his lips curling in distaste as his gaze raked over Jackson’s disheveled state.

Jackson grinned wider. “Don’t mind me, folks. Just escortin’ my lady love here.”

Bri’s fury simmered beneath her skin. She tightened her grip on Jackson’s wrist, forcing herself to keep moving, dragging him down the corridor despite the judgment radiating around them.

A particularly bold hotel page stepped forward, brows furrowed in concern. “Ma’am—are you alright? Is this man bothering you?”

Bri’s patience snapped. She yanked Jackson’s wrist up, fixing the page with a glare. “Which part of this screams ‘help’ to you, huh? I’m clearly in charge. So no—I’m fine. He’s fine. We’re fine. Thanks!”

Jackson snorted, outrageously pleased as he drawled, his words teetering on the edge of too loud. “Why’s ev’ryone askin’ her that? I ain’t botherin’ nobody. No sir, no ma’am. She’s botherin’ me, if we’re bein’ honest.”

He wobbled, caught himself, and shot a lazy grin at the horrified onlookers. “Dragged me right outta my peaceful, rustic retreat, she did. I was thrivin’. Had everything a man could need—questionable whiskey, a creek cold enough to dunk in when necessary, and a fine, nasty mattress older than I am for makin’ a nest in the corner. But nooooo, ‘Jackson, you smell like a bad decision, get in the car, we’re goin’ to civilization.’”

He threw his hands up, mocking Bri’s voice with exaggerated dismay, then let out a mournful sigh. “Now look at me—trapped in a damn chandelier-infested palace, surrounded by folks who wouldn’t last two days in my world. And worst of all?” He leaned in as if confessing something grave. “My buzz is wearin’ off, and I ain’t even got a backup whiskey stash on me.”

Bri resisted the strong urge to drop-kick him straight into the next wall. Instead, she straightened, lifted her chin, and let her glare do the talking. “He is with me. He is fine. I am fine. Everyone’s fine. And, if it helps you sleep tonight, he’s just deep in his filthy cowboy era. You know, the one where he disappears into the wilderness, rejects modern hygiene, and fully commits to smelling like regret? All he needs is a good scrub and an attitude adjustment. We’re getting there. Okay? Are we all good now? Fabulous!”

The concierge hesitated, then wisely stepped back. Bri shoved Jackson forward before he could spit out another ridiculous comment, fuming all the way to the suite.

The moment they stepped inside, Bri slammed the door shut and exhaled sharply, leaning against it. “So much for being discreet about this.”

Jackson braced himself against the wall, boots scuffing the pristine floor as he took in the suite’s opulence. He let out a low whistle, amused. “Damn. Fancy place, even for you. What, they got gold-plated toilets too? Am I supposed to tip the furniture?”

Bri didn’t answer.
Just grabbed his arm, dragged him straight into the bathroom, setting the shower water running, ignoring the way Jackson leaned heavily against the counter, watching her with that same, stupid smirk as steam started clouding the mirrors.

“Ya gonna scrub me down too?”

Bri glared, launched the wet sponge at him without hesitation hitting him square in the face. “You will wash your own stanky ass, Jackson.”

He laughed, lazy and unbothered, then plucked his cowboy hat—the damn Stetson—off his head and set it onto hers like some kind of drunken coronation.

Bri froze. Absolutely not.

With a look of pure disgust, she ripped it off her head and flung it toward the counter with careless aim, as if even touching the thing had tainted her. She glared at him.

He laughed, shaking his head, but when he tried to push up—tried to unbutton his jeans—his fingers fumbled, his movements sluggish, uncoordinated, wrecked with lingering whiskey. The floor tilted beneath him. Or maybe he tilted—body refusing to cooperate, balance slipping fast.

Boots scuffed hard against the tile as his weight pitched forward, momentum dragging him straight toward disaster. Bri caught him—barely. Her hands snapped out, gripping his arms, steadying, pulling—only to have his deadweight drunken slump nearly take her down too. She planted her feet, bracing against him, but he kept going, his body pressing into hers, knocking her back—until the cold wall halted them both.

Too close.

Steam curled around them, thick and rising, their faces mere inches apart. His breath was warm, whiskey-laced, brushing against her cheek. Her pulse kicked hard against her ribs.

Jackson felt it too.

His grip shifted slightly—just a twitch, just enough to feel her. Solid. Steady. Right there, against him. His body heavier than he realized, his eyes lazy, half-lidded, locking onto hers. There was a flicker of something unreadable beneath the drunken haze, something Bri refused to analyze.

Reality slammed into her, sharp and unrelenting. She slipped free. Fast. Leaving Jackson stumbling forward—hands catching the wall just in time to stop himself from face-planting into it.

He huffed a quiet laugh, barely catching himself against the counter, watching her with that infuriating smirk. “Aw, darlin’. Ya almost enjoyed that.”

Bri whipped around, eyes blazing. “You are insufferable. And incapable. And if you fall again, I’m letting you hit the ground face-first. I don’t even care.”

“Oh, but you do still care. Me bein’ here right now is evidence.” Jackson drawled, amused, trying to unbutton his jeans again, unsuccessfully.

Bri exhaled sharply, marching over, fingers batting his aside, gripping his shirt, yanking it up over his head before he could protest. “You’re useless right now.” The sweat-soaked fabric hit the floor with a disgusted toss. She did not look at his bare chest.

Jackson chuckled, grin widening, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Ain’t often ya go undressin’ me like this, sweetheart. I like ya takin’ care of me.”

She ignored him, fingers working at the stiff, stained denim. Jackson was no help, swaying as his boots scraped against the tile—until he finally steadied himself against the wall and kicked them off.

“Yeah, I’m so lucky to get to unwrap your stanky butt. Hold still already! Keep wriggling, and you’ll be showering in your jeans,” she muttered, finally wrestling the button undone, yanking the zipper down, and dragging his denims down his legs.

Jackson snorted, shifting his weight just enough for her to drag them off. “I dunno. You seem mighty eager. Can’t wait for you to scrub me down next. I’m ’bout as harmless as a newborn kitten, all that booze inside me I got whiskey dick for days, darlin’. I couldn’t even if ya wanted to. But I’d sure try … if ya wanted me to.” He smirked, utterly unrepentant, standing there without a thread left on him.

“Shut up, Jackson,” she gritted through her teeth.

She dumped his rank clothes into a heap against the wall—out of sight, out of mind—then shoved him toward the shower, pulse pounding with irritation as she fought against his grip.

Jackson—because he was Jackson—took full advantage, looping an arm around her waist and pulling her in, grinning like a damn menace.

Fully clothed. Bri screeched, yanking back, shoving him off, hands grappling at his arms until she broke free. She spun, hauled the glass door shut between them before he could try anything else, sealing him inside.

Jackson laughed, voice muffled by the steam curling through the space. “You ain’t no fun, darlin’.”

Bri ignored him—because for once, his damn teasing didn’t matter.

She grabbed a fresh washcloth, marched back to the shower door, and—with no patience left to waste—flung it straight at his chest, water splattering off the soaked fabric as it hit.

“Wash properly, Jackson. Don’t come out until you got every nook and cranny or I swear I will get a can of Lysol and empty it on you!”

Jackson huffed out a chuckle, catching the cloth with lazy amusement, swiping it over his face.

“Damn. Y’mean to tell me I gotta do this all by myself?”

Bri huffed, crossed the room, snatched up a courtesy bathrobe and thick towel drying her phone with it and stormed out, his laughter trailing after her.

Once the door clicked shut, Jackson’s chuckle died.

It was sudden—like laughter had been the only thing keeping the floodgates shut, the only barrier between himself and the reality crashing in. The tears came fast, streaming unchecked, silent, unrestrained. Guilt. Shame. Longing.

The ache for Bri tangled deep in his chest, twisted tight enough to hurt, but the fear was worse—the fear of asking for too much, of pushing her too far, of losing her completely. The drunken state burned away faster than usual, replaced with something sharper, colder, unbearable.

Bri waited outside, changed into the bathrobe, her wet clothing spread out on the windowsills to dry, her arms crossed, head tipped back, listening to the water pounding against the tile, listening to the hum of the city beyond the window.

And when Jackson finally stepped out, towel slung low around his hips, the bruises looked even worse under artificial light—deep, swollen, etched across his skin like a map of every mistake he hadn’t outrun.

He didn’t speak. Bri’s breath hitched, gaze sweeping over him, taking in the damage in full view.

“Oh, Jackson…”

She shook her head, eyes flicking over every cut, every mottled bruise, before grabbing the first aid kit, catching his wrist, pulling him to the bed, gently pressing him down onto the mattress.

Jackson let himself be handled, be pulled, be placed, be taken care of.
Just sat there, watching her.
Ignoring the sting of alcohol against his wounds, the pain, just soaking in the way she touched him, the way she tended to him without hesitation, the way her presence felt like home, even when it wasn’t his anymore.

Not his Bri.
Not his to keep.
But his right now.

Her hands moved with care, cleaning each wound, focused, steady, efficient.
Until her fingers softened, slowed, the back of her hand brushing gently across his temple, a touch meant for comfort, not for tending.

A touch that said I remember you.
A touch that said you are wrecked, and I cannot look away.

Silence stretched thick between them.

Jackson exhaled, eyes locked onto hers, something unspoken settling between them, heavier than anything she’d said yet. He shook his head once, voice quiet but sure, like the words were dragging him down.

“Why not?”

Bri blinked, brow pulling tight.

“Why not what?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze tired, raw, unwavering.

“Why ain’t ya leaving him?”

Her breath hitched. “Brad? Why would I?!”

Jackson’s voice wasn’t cruel, wasn’t taunting—just honest, stripped down, peeling back every layer she kept trying to rebuild.

“I know ya love me. I know ya want me. I feel it. Hell, we both know what we’ve done. So why ain’t ya just admitting it? You know I only want you. I need ya. I’ve tried to move on, but… I can’t. It’s you for me.”

Bri exhaled sharply, pressing her fingers against her temples, eyes squeezing shut like it might stop the ache twisting deep into her ribs.

“Jackson, I can’t. Not this again. We are absolutely not going there.”

His jaw flexed, hands twitching, his eyes burning into hers like they could force the truth straight out of her.

“But ya want to, don’tcha?”

Bri swallowed hard, breath uneven, pulse skipping, stalling.

“No, I do not.”

“Say it.” His voice dropped, challenging.

She closed her eyes.

“Jackson—”

He moved, fast. Stood, grabbing her wrists, pulling her in, holding her there. His fingers curled, not tight, but firm enough that her pulse knew.

“Say it.”

Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs.

“Say what, Jackson?” She yanked at his grip but didn’t pull free. “We’ve said everything that was left to say. We didn’t separate because we fell out of love—we are just not compatible. Brad and I are. And you will find the right woman.”

His breath was warm now, close, unshaken.

“Say ya love me.”

She flinched, barely.

Her pulse thundered, her hands trembling.

“If I say it, will you sit back down and behave?”

A nod. Expectant. Unrelenting.

She stepped closer, brought her lips near his ear, voice low, steady, exhausted.

“I love you, you dumb, selfish asshole.”

Then—she shoved him back down onto the bed.

He let her.
Grinning.

Damage Done

Jackson sat on the edge of the bed, towel draped loosely around his waist, hands resting on his thighs, head tipped forward as Bri stood in front of him, assessing the wreckage.

The bruises were deep—purple, yellow at the edges, some fresh, some fading, scattered across his ribs, his jaw, down his arms like a damn roadmap of every mistake he’d made.

The worst was his cheekbone—still swollen, still raw, a cut splitting through the skin like a fault line, proof of the fight he hadn’t been ready for.

Bri exhaled, shaking her head, fingers twitching at her sides.

“Now what the hell did you do? You did not look like THAT when I last saw you.”

Jackson grinned, slow, tired, but still cocky.

“I lost, sweetheart. Ain’t that obvious? I lost at life.”

Bri ignored his words, stepping closer, fingers grazing the worst bruise on his ribs, watching the way his breath hitched slightly at the contact.

“Jesus, Jackson. This isn’t from your rumble with Brad. Can’t be. I know he was upset, had to be or he wouldn’t have thrown hands, but this … no way. He is too sweet to do THAT to another person.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head.

“Well, Brad got me good. I got him worse. I know I did. Can he even walk now?”

Bri’s stomach twisted.

“Really, Jackson? You need to measure dick size now? Brad is fine, thank you for asking, probably in better shape than you, but he also didn’t try to find answers in the bottom of booze bottles for days at a time. And I KNOW he held his own, but he didn’t do all that to you!”

Jackson paused, licking his lips, jaw tightening.

“Naw. Mah Pa did.”

Bri froze, breath stopped, everything in her chest seized like a vice had gripped her lungs.

“What?! Oh no, you didn’t. Jackson! Please PLEASE tell me you didn’t get into a fistfight with Jack!”

Jackson held her gaze, steady, unflinching.

“Sure did, darlin’.”

Bri shook her head, sharp, disbelieving, pacing once like the movement could somehow keep her from screaming at him.

Jackson just sighed, voice flat, quiet, too damn resigned for a man who had hit rock bottom.

“Which is why I am here and not … well, home. I don’t know that I can ever go home. I know I messed up bad. Some things ya just don’t do … beatin’ on yer father is one. No matter how hard he beats ya back.”

Jackson exhaled, long, slow, shaking his head.

“Ain’t got much else left, sweetheart. Might as well put what I do have left on the final card I was dealt.”

Bri’s lips pressed into a thin line, fingers itching to keep fixing him, even when she knew he was a problem she couldn’t solve.

She opened her mouth—ready to say something, anything—but then—

The weight of his confession still hung heavy in the air, but then—

A knock.

Jackson tensed, Bri winced, then exhaled, forcing herself to relax.

Room service. Right.

She moved quickly, grasping at the distraction like a lifeline. The uniformed man wheeled in the cart, lifting silver domes with the quiet efficiency of someone accustomed to luxury.

The scent of seared meat hit first, grounding and familiar, but it wasn’t just the entrees—their spread was indulgence layered over exhaustion.

Beside Jackson’s bone-in ribeye—charred, butter-laced, resting in a pool of its own rich juices—a small platter held bacon-wrapped jalapeño poppers, smoky and glistening with melted cheddar. A side of charred elote, thick with cotija and lime crema, sat steaming in its husk. Artisan fries, crisped golden, were accompanied by a trio of sauces—chipotle aioli, garlic parmesan, and house-made bourbon ketchup.

For Bri, the refinement was subtle but unmistakable—a delicate tower of beef tartare nestled atop toasted brioche, garnished with a soft quail egg, its richness barely contained. A bowl of lobster bisque sat nearby, the aroma deep with sherry, the surface smooth as silk.

And then came the dessert selection.

The covered tray lifted, revealing temptation incarnate—

A towering slice of chocolate soufflé cake, dense and glossy with ganache, daring anyone to take the first bite. A crème brûlée with its golden, sugar-cracked crust gleamed under the soft hotel light. Between them, an array of macarons—vanilla bean, pistachio, dark raspberry—stood like jeweled confections, delicate and precise.

And then, tucked beside Jackson’s coffee, Bri had ordered him something she knew he wouldn’t resist—whiskey-infused bread pudding, soaked in caramel sauce, its aroma rich enough to steal the breath from even the most restrained man.

She dismissed the worker with a nod and some folded banknotes slipped into his hand discreetly, then the door clicking shut behind him.

“We need to get some food in you. And coffee. And juice. Anything non-alcoholic. Come.”

She walked over to him, reached out a hand.
Jackson took it, let her pull him up, let her guide him, let her do what she always did—take care of him, despite everything.

They approached the table.

His stomach didn’t growl—it roared.

Bri giggled, Jackson chuckled, shaking his head.

“Still takin’ care of me. Gawd, I missed that more than I would ever care to say.”

He paused, fingers brushing over the silverware, something flickering deep behind his eyes.

“Boone wasn’t like that. She don’t take care of no one but herself. Did. She did.”

The correction hit soft, loaded, like he hadn’t fully accepted her absence until he said it out loud.

They ate—well, Jackson devoured, Bri nibbled, and when he finished his share and most of hers, they settled into the chaise lounge, TV humming in the background.

Bri finally let him pull her against him, her head resting against his shoulder, his arm loose, unguarded around her.

The moment stretched, familiar, dangerous—something too comfortable for what they were supposed to be now.

She felt his body relax, felt his breathing deepen, felt the way he kept nodding off in quiet intervals.

Eventually, she dragged him to the bed, fought his grabby hands off, then tucked him in, ignoring his drowsy protests. Before she even finished, he was out.

Bri settled back on the couch, picking up a book she couldn’t focus on. After an undetermined time, could have been 10 minutes or two hours, suddenly …

A Knock

Bri’s head jerked up, gaze flicking toward Jackson.

He didn’t stir.
Didn’t react.
Completely unbothered, tangled beneath the hotel sheets, exhaustion pressing deep into his bones.

She inhaled slowly, stood, crossed the room, and opened the door for what she thought would be room service to take back the dishes.

“Please be quiet, though someone is—”

She froze.

Words caught, breath stuck, pulse jumping hard against her ribs.
This wasn’t room service.

Busted

Jasper Hargrave—best friend since childhood, brother-in-law by circumstance, professional meddler by choice—strode inside like he owned the place.

“Busted!” His eyes flicked to the bed, spotting Jackson sprawled out in exhausted oblivion. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face.

“Jas …”

But he was already surveying the scene, nodding, lips pursed in mock admiration.

“Nice. A scrumptious dinner, a shower, followed by … well … dot dot dot. Looks like you wore the man out.”

Bri groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Jas, keep your voice down! And no, that’s not what happened. I swear, this is just me helping someone I care about. Yes, he’s here. Yes, I made him shower. Yes, I fed him. And now, I’m making him sleep off the rest of his hangover. Totally harmless. Platonic.”

Jasper raised a brow, motioning vaguely at her bathrobe and damp hair.

“Uh-huh. That’s why you’re dressed like a romance novel heroine post-bubble bath? Well, hang on then—lemme take a shower real quick, wrap myself in a sexy towel, and join this little platonic meet-and-greet. You know, for solidarity. Come to think of it, I’m a very good friend, but somehow, we never showered together.”

Bri glared. “Jas … I can’t do your jokes right now. Besides, as if you’d ever let your hair get wet now.”

“Truth. Not going ragged just to make a point.” He smirked, then sobered. His voice dropped. “Bri. What are you doing?”

She clenched her jaw. “Helping. Look at him. He needed help. I got this accidental text, found out he was missing. He’s the father of my children—”

“You know what else he is? No longer your problem. Brad is. And guess what? He’s not dealing with this well. We both know that last week’s Royal Rumble at the Kershaw Ranch didn’t exactly inspire calm confidence in him. Understandably so. And this is making even me wonder … and I am used to your bullshit involving Jackson. I believe you, but you gotta admit, this looks like well … not great. And if it doesn’t look great to me, how do you think this would look to Brad?”

Bri scowled. “Since when are you Team Brad? I thought you and Jackson were the new version of The Odd Couple?”

“I’m Team Bri,” Jasper shot back. “And this? This isn’t healthy. If Iris knew, you know this conversation wouldn’t be happening. This would have turned into another cage match with her kicking your and Jackson’s asses around the room. You’re lucky it’s just me.”

Bri stiffened. “Iris doesn’t know?”

“Nope. So congratulations! You’re lying to your husband, and I am—kinda sorta—lying to my wife. She thinks I went for a late-night gym session because I’ve got a new gig coming up and need to stay trim. But I knew I’d find him here, and frankly? I like both of you better alive—which wouldn’t be guaranteed if Iris walked in on you playing night nurse with Jackson.”

Bri pressed her lips together, her chest tightening.

“You know these types of things never stay hidden. This will come out, Bri. And usually? At the worst possible time. Ask yourself, is this really worth it?”

Silence thickened between them.

Then, softly—raw—she whispered, “Okay, Jas. You have all the insights, then tell me—what do I do? What’s the right thing here? Because I can’t see it anymore. Everything’s gotten blurry.” Her voice wobbled, but she pushed forward. “You saw him at the funeral. He lost it. And then he ran. I found him in an old, abandoned cabin, tucked away in the canyons drunk out of his mind. Was I supposed to just turn my head and pretend he’d be okay? Knowing there was a high chance he wouldn’t be?” Her breath shuddered. “Would you?”

Jasper sighed.

Slowly, he walked up to the bed, stared at Jackson’s sleeping form—then abruptly yanked down the blanket before tossing it right over Jackson’s face.

Jackson jolted awake.

A sleepy, disoriented “Mmf—what the hell?” sputtered from beneath the covers.

Jasper clapped a hand on Jackson’s shoulder like this was a team-building exercise.

“Morning, sunshine!”

Jackson peeled the blanket off his face, blinking sluggishly at Bri—who looked like a kid caught stealing cookies—then at Jasper.

The cowboy winced. “You called him?” His voice was a deep, scratchy wreck.

Before Bri could answer, Jasper snapped his fingers near Jackson’s ear, making him flinch.

“Hey! I am capable of conversation—I’m not just a pretty face. Well, I am that too, obviously, but I also have a brain. And I knew something was off when Bri pretended to be sick at dinner after receiving that text—the one that made her turn the same shade as the table linens.” He wagged a finger. “So yeah. Here I am. Because, like I told her, I prefer both of you alive.”

Jackson groaned, swung his legs off the bed, then paused, suddenly hyper-aware of the towel situation and the fact that he nearly flashed Jasper with his drowsy manspreading. He adjusted it, rubbed his temple, sighed.

Jasper exhaled dramatically, turned on his heel, and tapped his chin.

“Cowboy meets whiskey. Whiskey wins. Cowboy loses all dignity, so he goes nuclear on what’s left of his life.” He spread his arms. “What a shocker.”

Jackson glared.

Jasper grinned.

Then clapped his hands together. “Lucky for you, cowboy—I have just the thing.”

Bri looked wary. Jackson looked nauseous.

“I swear to God—if it’s a protein shake—”

“Oh, ye of little faith!” Jasper spun toward the minibar like a man with purpose, muttering about ingredients as he rifled through the stash like some demented scientist.

Several bottles clinked together. He grabbed a lemon, sugar packets, salt—then let out a gleeful cackle.

“Ginger ale, extra bitter! We’re saved!”

Jackson eyed him suspiciously. “You tryin’ to poison me, Jas?”

Jasper lined up ingredients. “Not today, my friend. Today—I present the Hargrave Hangover Elixir.”

Bri side-eyed the creation forming in Jasper’s glass. “Jas, if this works …”

“There is no ‘ifs’ about it. Trust me, I am an expert here.” Jasper told her, then held out the glass toward Jackson.

“Drink up. Bottoms up.”

Jackson hesitated. Then—like a man accepting his fate—tipped the concoction back in one go.

Immediately, he gagged.

“Oh, God—what the hell was that?”

Jasper leaned back, arms crossed, smug as hell. “Delicious. And effective.”

And shockingly?

It was.

Jackson blinked, exhaled, and—miraculously—his nausea vanished.

He stared at Jasper like he’d just performed an exorcism. “What … what was in that?”

Jasper waggled an Alka-Seltzer packet. “Magic, citrus, salt, and a little Jasper brilliance.”

Bri shook her head, exhausted. “Fine. You already look less pathetic now. Thanks, Jassy.” she planted a little friendly peck on Jasper’s cheek, he leaned in for it, smirking.

Jackson stretched, blinked, then nodded. “Guess I do feel better. Thank ya, Jas.”

Jasper winked. “Told ya. And you’re welcome.” He slung an arm around Bri. “Now—let’s brainstorm how to get both of you out of this mess without blowing up everyone’s lives.”

Jackson groaned.

Bri muttered, “Oh, yeah. That. I knew I had to help Jackson, but I honestly didn’t think much past getting him to the hotel. I have no idea what to do now without looking like … well … the obvious, as you called it.”

Jasper smirked. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I got ya.”

Bri barely had a second to process the madness Jasper had already unleashed before he was dragging her toward the table, rearranging plates with theatrical efficiency.

“Hold still,” he muttered, grabbing one of the leftover macaroons, shoving it into her mouth, then snapping a quick picture.

Bri gagged, spitting half of it into her palm. “What the hell, Jas?!”

He ignored her, grinning at his phone, fingers tapping rapidly. “Just securing your alibi, sweetheart.”

“What alibi?”

Jasper turned the screen toward her, displaying his latest selfie—he, looking handsome, smirking like an award-winning charmer under flawless lighting, while Bri looked like she’d been assaulted by a dessert tray. Her cheeks were puffed with half a macaroon sticking out of her mouth, one eye squinting suspiciously at the camera, the other wide in shock, like a raccoon surprised while digging through someone’s trash can. The caption?

“Late night snacking with my oldest she-bruh. #JasBri #Songbird&ActorSlay #SisterFromAnotherMister #BrotherFromAnotherMother”

Bri blinked. “You—you posted that? Publicly!?” she sounded horrified.

“Sure did. You’re welcome.” Jasper smirked devilish, showing the phone to Jackson.

Jackson let out a low chuckle, still nursing his sore skull. “Damn, don’t know what that’s about but I am surprised yer still alive, Jasper.”

Jasper shrugged, smug. “Oh, Bri loves me, would never bend a hair on me. And, I learned from the best. My last role—playing a sleazy fighter pilot married but with a mistress in every major city—had some good shit in it. I took notes. Like, every time his hotel bill reflected dinner for two? Boom—selfie with an inconspicuous old buddy. No awkward questions later. Here it is applied to real life. Bri ordered dinner for two, that might have gotten stuck in Brad’s throat, but now, bam. Bri and Jas. Nobody can argue with that. Brad would never dare flag me. Too many people would kick his ass if he did. Including my wife.”

Bri’s jaw dropped. “I—I don’t even know what to say to that.”

Jackson, despite all the baggage weighing him down, managed a grin. “Damn, Jasper.”

Jasper smirked. “I know.”

Then, he clapped his hands together. “Alright! Ran damage control, nursed a half-dead cowboy back to health. So, what’s next? What’s the game plan?”

Bri groaned. “Honestly, Jas, I have no idea.”

Jackson sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Same. God help us.”

Jasper just beamed.

“We don’t need God for this, my beautiful people. We got me.”

The Goodbye That Isn’t Really Goodbye

Jackson sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed, hands clasped between his knees, while Bri stood in front of him, arms crossed, trying too damn hard to act like this wasn’t hitting her as hard as it was.

“Well, we need a plan and lucky for you, I got one. Our cowboy here will splash some cold water to his face, get dressed and then I will haul his hiney back to his ranch and his kids and his horsies, all of whom probably desperately missed him,” Jasper said casually, but there was no mistaking the firmness behind his tone.

“I can’t go back there. I am sure mah father’s still there and I can’t show mah face around there. I done some … shit.”

Jackson lifted his gaze slowly—flicking to Jasper, then Bri.
His throat tightened.

Bri’s fingers curled slightly against her arms. She didn’t speak. Just sighed, shaking her head at Jasper who drew his brows together.

“What kinda ‘shit’ are we talking here? Did you nail your stepmom? Been plowing the back forty with Izzy?”

“What!? NO!” Jackson exclaimed, then realizing Jasper couldn’t know. “I just … I got into an argument with him and it turned … physical.”

“Seriously Jasper! Jackson would never touch Izzy! OMG!” Bri shook her head at him in disbelief.

Jasper exhaled dramatically, clapped his hands together.

“What? Have you met this man lately? He’s been going so off-script I’m surprised he hasn’t started improv classes. At this point, anything’s possible. Not unheard of that a thirty something knocks boots with a forty-something and Izzy may be a bit too natural for my taste, but throw some make up on that, do something with her hair and throw some nice clothes on her and she isn’t shabby.”

“She is my brother’s mother!” Jackson reiterated.

“So? And Bri is your EX-wife and married to another man now, but I didn’t see you clutching your pearls over that little fact when you went all chick-flick on her at a funeral, seriously bro. And so what, you got into it with your daddy, Jackson—big whoop. Jack’s not exactly Mr. Manners. I’m sure he’s brawled his way through more than five hundred bar tabs, looking at you, cos we both know that wasn’t Brad that got you to the donation pile stage your body is currently in. So yes, you can go back. And we will. I’ll be right there, mediating whatever mess you stirred up. It’s one of my lesser-known superpowers. I can sell ice to a penguin, my brother. Now get dressed—shoo. Get!”

Jackson stood, rolling his shoulders, his movements stiff but steady. Then he nodded and headed to the bathroom.

Jasper followed a beat behind, still rambling. “ I’ll come up with the narrative for Bri and my unexpected reunion, courtesy of my latest social media masterpiece. Needs some contexts and it needs to be solid, especially cos Iris and Brad will both have some questions on that. My wife thinks I am at the gym, then she sees me throwing back macaroons with her sister. Yeah …”

He reached the bathroom doorframe, with Bri trailing reluctantly after him, when a smell hit him like a slap from a wet sock.

“Whoa, whoa, what the hell died in there?” Jasper reeled back, gagging dramatically as he clutched the doorway for support.

Inside, Jackson leaned over, fishing something from the corner near the shower. He straightened, holding up the crumpled heap. “Mah clothes. Been sittin’ there since I got in.”

Jasper staggered back like the fabric had spoken directly to him. “Oh no. Oh no, sir. You are not marinating my precious leather seats in that biohazard. Did you swim through raw sewage in those?!” Jasper exclaimed appalled, so Jackson lifted them to his face, shrugging.

“Ain’t that bad…anymore. Smell like shower gel and shampoo now. Much better than before, I tell ya what.” holding them out right into Jasper’s face who nearly fled sideways, holding his nose, looking horrified.

Jackson looked at them again, then held them towards Bri, who jumped backwards too, swatting at his arm. “Eeew!”

Jasper nudged her, grinning. “And you tapped that.”

“Not recently … and not in THAT condition!” she protested, then blushed when Jackson’s eyes snapped towards hers, his gaze accusatory and fiery, alerting Jasper.

“Oh. My. God! You went there! You both are insane. You know what? I don’t want to hear ANYTHING about ANY of that. Nope.” Jasper rolled his eyes. “Well, either way, dude, either you got your nose broken or you are noseblind to your own stench! They smell like shower gel and shampoo fucked on a landfill next to a sewage plant! You are NOT getting anywhere near my car in those! Send them to one hour cleaning, Bri! I’ll gladly wait.”

“I can’t! The hotel bill. Brad is gonna see that. You know they list the items on the cleaning part. Man’s clothing on my bill? Or do you wanna put that on yourself too, just how do you explain THAT?!” Bri shook her head.

“Oh, right. Shit! Lemme think.” Jasper sighed, then looked at Jackson. “Okay, your nasty ass isn’t getting into my nice car in that filthy shit. I will go get you some clothing for the drive and you will shut your face, not complain, just put them on when I get back.” He headed towards the door, handle in hand, he turned “Oh, and please stay off each other while I am gone. This is gonna be a short trip.”

He left.

“This just happened.” Bri sighed, while grabbing one of the plastic laundry bags anyway, holding them out for Jackson to stuff his dirty clothing into, before she sealed them in with a double knot, then set them aside.

Jackson huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Sure did.”

She stepped forward, hesitated, then—carefully—pressed her hand against his chest, just above one of the worst bruises, fingers light against his skin.

“Jackson, please. You have to fix yourself, if only for Beau and Savannah. You know firsthand how bad parents falling apart until they can’t go any further hurts a child. Don’t become your parents. Learn from them, don’t repeat the same mistakes.” she asked softly.

Jackson exhaled sharply, eyes closing briefly.

“Yeah. I know. It’s hard Bri. I feel like I have nothing left worth livin’ for. Thinking Beau and even Savannah would be better off with you.”

She shook her head, dropping her hand.

“You can’t keep doing this. And Savannah is not even my child. No way I would even get custody of her. That has to be YOU, Jackson.”

“You already have been more of a mother to her than Boone ever was. Ya know that sayin’ ‘if someone shows you who they really are, believe them’? I should have believed her. Now, I just got an even bigger mess than I had before.”

Silence stretched thick between them.
Until finally—she stepped closer. Wrapped her arms around him.

And Jackson—he sank into it instantly. Snaked his arms around her waist, pulled her tight against him, let his chin rest against the top of her head.

This wasn’t goodbye. Not really. They both knew that.

But it was an ending of something. Even if neither of them could name what ended, but something had. All both knew was that it wasn’t the end of them. They were linked together forever via their kids. But something ended. Something yet to be named. Discovered. Figured out.

Jasper arrived just in time to ruin the moment. He had grabbed the key card Bri had left on a small console by the door on his way out.

“Alright, lovebirds—time’s up. Break the lovey-dovey moment up.”

Bri stepped back quickly. Jackson barely moved. Jasper tossed a paper shopping bag at him with the name of an exclusive, upscale department store on it—luckily, Jackson’s reflexes had somewhat recovered. He fumbled it a little but caught it.

“Got you fresh jeans—dark Selvedge Dior, white Saint Laurent tee, new Armani boxers in a deep blue, and some black cashmere socks. Kept it plain, just like you like it.”

Jackson arched a brow while pulling up one of the price tags.

“Jeezes Christ. You paid more for these here jeans than I spend in a month feedin’ mah damn horses!”

“Oh yeah, and they are worth every penny. Those jeans are God’s gift to a man’s ass. They’ll have cowgirls lining up just to watch you leave. Thank me later. Now get crackin’. This already turned into an all-nighter.” Jasper said, pointing at the bathroom.

Jackson grumbled, snatched up the bag, disappeared into the bathroom.

Bri pressed a hand to her forehead, exhaling.

“Oh man, Jas. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Oh, I am gonna come up with ways. Just you wait.” Jasper smirked.

Del Sol Valley downtown
to
the far outskirts of Chestnut Ridge

Rolling Home

The entrance to the Solace Grand was a polished display of wealth—marble columns, golden accents catching under the glow of sconces, the quiet hum of luxury cars pulling in and out of the private drive. The air smelled expensive, refined, like a mix of fresh linen and understated cologne.

Jackson stepped out of the lobby, adjusting his grip on his fresh clothes, the final faint buzz of whiskey still lingering in his veins but he was mostly sober by now. The evening was warm, thick with city heat, and the moment his boots hit the pavement, he stopped short.

Right there, parked beneath the grand archway, sat Jasper’s car.

A valet attendant stood beside it, stiff in his perfectly pressed uniform, clutching the keys with the delicate hesitation of a man who knew exactly how much money he was holding.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me.” Jackson mumbled.

Jasper, completely unbothered, strode forward like he owned the place, flashing the valet a quick grin as he plucked the keys from his grip and placed money in it. “You should’ve seen the look on his face when I pulled up.”

Jackson narrowed his eyes, watching as Jasper tossed the keys in the air and caught them with effortless ease.

“I know, right. She’s a Beaute, Clark. Stylish and sleek, just like her owner.”

It was sleek. Low to the ground. The kind of luxury vehicle that looked more suited for gliding through the Diamond District than maneuvering through the dust-heavy outskirts of the valley. Under the overhead lighting, the metallic bronze shimmered like liquid fire—too refined, too polished, too Jasper.

Jackson squinted at it like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or concerned. He ran a hand along the hood, then stepped back with a skeptical frown.

“Hell, that looks like a burnt-up penny on wheels.”

Jasper inhaled sharply, affronted. “Excuse you—this is an Aston Martin DB12 in Magneto Bronze. Twin-turbo V8, 671 horsepower, top speed of 202 miles per hour.” He paused, waiting for Jackson to react. “It’s a masterpiece.”

Jackson flicked at the paint like he was testing for dust. “Hate to break it to you, Jas, but all that means squat when you get stuck in the mud.”

Jasper scoffed. “Clearly, you have no appreciation for fine craftsmanship, cowboy.”

Jackson let out a short, incredulous laugh, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he took another look at the car. “Yeah, well, I also don’t have any appreciation for gettin’ stranded in the middle of nowhere. How exactly are you plannin’ to get this fancy tin can from the exit for Chestnut Ridge all the way out to the ranch without gettin’ high-centered on every damn pebble?”

Jasper waved him off, far too confident. “It’s got adaptive suspension.”

Jackson just shook his head. “It ain’t got common sense. Automobiles are meant to be functional, Jas. The only function this thing there serves is to flaunt y’all got more money than most.”

“That’s why you don’t own one and never will. That attitude right there. Shame on you.” Jasper pressed the button to unlock the doors, gesturing grandly as if he were unveiling some priceless artwork.

Jackson grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Ya expect me to ride in that thing?”

“Unless you feel like skidding in the back on your heels for anywhere between two to three hours, then yes, cowboy, I do. And be a little respectful with this beauty.”

Jackson sighed, resigned to his fate, shot a glance at the valet, who had wisely backed away, watching with a kind of distant amusement as Jackson clumsily folded his tall frame – still stiff from the fight and his days of uninterrupted drinking that followed – into the low seat.

Immediately—he scowled.

“What the hell is this seat made of? Leather-covered concrete?”

“Italian leather covered bucket seats, to keep you in place. You’ll see why in a moment. Hint: it’s got a lot of horses under its hood, and they love to run,” Jasper said smugly, revving the engine.

Jackson groaned.

“Feels like it’s judging me.” Jackson mumbled, running his hand across the leather in awe.

Jasper laughed, pulled out of the valet lane, cutting out onto the boulevard like he had every right to own the night. It wasn’t far to the onramp from the hotel.

The freeway stretched ahead, barely occupied save for a few headlights flickering in the distance. Jasper saw nothing but opportunity.

Without hesitation, he floored it.

The Aston Martin launched forward, cutting through the night like a bullet.

Jackson hadn’t even finished buckling up. The sudden acceleration flung him back against the seat, then forward again as he scrambled to drag the seatbelt across his chest. One hand slammed against the dash, the other locked onto the door handle like a lifeline—as if bracing against gravity itself.

“Jas!”

Jasper grinned like a man who had never faced consequences. “What? She’s built for this!”

Jackson braced his boots against the floor, as if it would somehow anchor him to reality. “Yeah, but I ain’t! She’s built for dyin’ in a blaze of glory, takin’ us with her, that’s what she’s built for! Rich man’s coffin.”

Jasper only laughed louder, the bronze paint catching the headlights of passing vehicles like embers in the wind while Jackson let out a sigh of relief when he finally had gotten himself buckled.

“You ever heard of control, Jas?” Jackson snapped, voice tight as he clung to the door handle with white-knuckled determination.

Jasper glanced over with easy confidence. “I am in full control. You ever heard of having fun?”

“Yeah, but my kinda fun don’t end with me fishtailin’ into a goddamn guardrail!”

Jasper simply pushed the accelerator harder, letting the machine do what it did best—own the road.

Jackson squeezed his eyes shut, muttering something under his breath about “… dyin’ in a rich man’s coffin. That’s how I’ll go. Ironic …”

Jasper only laughed again, weaving smoothly between cars, then, he looked at Jackson.

“Tell you what, you chickenshit. I’ll slow her down for you, grandma, if you agree to talk brass tacks. I have some questions, and I want straight answers. The moment you get cutesy and shy, I’ll hammer it on the accelerator. Deal?”

For good measure, he floored it again.

Jackson let out a sharp curse, white-knuckled grip tightening as his body slammed back into the seat. “Swear to God, Jas, I will strangle ya with yer own damn seatbelt—”

Smirking, Jasper moved to the right lane and finally eased off the gas, the speedometer dipping down to something reasonable.

Jackson let out a long breath. “Alright. Hit me with yer questions and I will try mah best to answer.”

Jasper hummed, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “You’re spiraling, man.”

Jackson snorted. “I ain’t no educated man, but that don’t sound like no damn question.”

“Observation,” Jasper said, glancing at him. “The question is—what the hell are you gonna do about it? About Bri. Because right now? You’re dragging her into the undertow with you.”

He shook his head. “I know her, Jackson. She’s not built for half-truths and maybes. You keep reeling her in like there’s still a plan, like there’s a finish line for the two of you. But we’ve seen this movie since we were sixteen, and it always ends the same. She deserves better than déjà vu.”

Jackson exhaled, jaw tense. “Is there a question in there?”

Jasper gave him a look. “Yeah. Are you ready to stop repeating history? Or are you gonna let her drown chasing a future that doesn’t exist?”

Jackson flexed his grip on his knee but said nothing.

Jasper blew out a breath. “I was there at that funeral, Jackson.”

Jackson’s jaw ticked.

“You looked like a man on a mission.”

“Wasn’t thinkin’ straight,” Jackson muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “I was wasted.”

“Sure. But you’re always off your rails when it comes to her.” Jasper’s voice tightened. “Same for her. You’re each other’s goddamn kryptonite. But even for y’all, that was a masterclass in self-destruction.”

Jackson didn’t argue.

“Let’s recap,” Jasper said, tone flat. “You kissed your ex-wife. In front of her husband. Her family. Yours. Then you picked a fight with Brad like you were auditioning for a daytime soap. What exactly were you hoping to prove?”

No answer.

“You love her—everyone knows that. But what happens now? You think she forgets everything and comes running back? That Brad just shrugs and lets you take her? Don’t fool yourself. He’s a nice guy until he’s not. And this time, he won’t step aside. I guaran-damn-tee you that. I know the guy. I grew up with him, from sandbox days until we had a falling out at 18. We just recently kinda reconnected and I promise you, he isn’t going to fade into the background. He loves her too. He set fire to his entire life for her.”

Jasper scoffed. “Speaking of fire, you already torched that bridge with Brad. He’s not exactly your biggest fan right now, and as nice as he is, having someone with his financial clout on your bad side? Never a good idea, Jackson.”

He shook his head. “And then there’s Bri. I’m just as protective of her as Connor and Iris. And listen—I love you, man. I love you with her. But even I can see it doesn’t work between you two. It never really did, at least not long term.”

He looked over. “So tell me—what is the endgame here?”

Jackson finally exhaled. “She kissed me, Jas. She. Kissed. Me. She offered me somethin’ I couldn’t say no to. So I didn’t. And I took more. That’s why it pisses me off when people tell me she don’t want me no more—I know better. She does want me, and she still loves me, I know both for a damn hard fact cos she herself told me that. What I don’t know is how to make this right. For real this time. For good. I know what yer sayin’ about makin’ it last, I agree with that. I don’t know how either, but I will figure it out. There HAS to be a way. And I am gonna find it or die tryin’. THAT is my endgame here. Me and Bri and our kids back together.”

Jasper tilted his head. “Wow. You are South of Delusional.”

Silence.

He nodded to himself. “Look, I get it. I do. But she’s gone, Jackson. Maybe you got a taste of something familiar, maybe she needed it too—but she’s not yours anymore. And chasing that version of her? That ends in flames. For you. For her. For the kids.”

Still, Jackson said nothing.

“You love her,” Jasper said quietly. “Nobody doubts that. Not even Brad, probably. But love’s not always enough. Y’all tried—twice. More if we’re being honest. So how many times do you roll the dice before you admit it’s always the same ending?”

Jackson swallowed hard.

Jasper sighed. “Let her go. I am not being a dick here, Jackson, I am being a friend, hers and YOURS, trying to help.”

Silence fell. Comfortable, productive. Jasper glanced over at Jackson several times and purposely kept quiet, letting Jackson process.

The city lights disappeared behind them, swallowed by distance and darkness. The smooth asphalt gave way to narrower roads, the freeway thinning into long stretches of empty highway, then twisting into hard-packed dirt.

The city lights disappeared behind them, swallowed by distance and darkness. The smooth asphalt gave way to narrower roads, the freeway thinning into long stretches of empty highway, then veering into hard-packed dirt that looked like it hadn’t been maintained since the Eisenhower administration.

Jasper had long since stopped speeding—not because he’d grown cautious, but because the Aston Martin was clearly suffering an existential breakdown. What had once purred like a panther now growled like an asthmatic lawn mower. The sleek body, once a badge of elegance in Del Sol Valley, now looked hilariously out of place—like it had been dared into backcountry survival.

Jackson smirked as the tires kicked up dust in sad little poofs, the suspension groaning with every dip and rut. “How’s that adaptive suspension treatin’ you now?”

Jasper exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched. “She’s… adjusting.”

Jackson huffed, rolling his shoulders into the too-tight leather seat. “She’s fightin’ for her damn life. There’s a reason folks out here drive old beat-up trucks or four-wheel-drives. Hell, once you hit canyon country, you’re better off in a side-by-side or something with treads. Yer fancy-ass spaceship ain’t impressin’ nobody out here ’cept maybe a high-maintenance horse lookin’ for a fancy butt-scratchin’ post.” He drawled the last part, laughing like he’d just pictured it in glorious, dusty detail.

He cackled when Jasper shot him a middle finger just as the car lurched over a pothole with a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper.

“Jackson,” Jasper growled through gritted teeth, “with all due respect, I love you, man—but shut the fuck up and go fuck yourself with a large, dry cactus. Preferably sideways.”

The night deepened, the road stretching into the void. Towering canyon walls loomed around them, casting jagged silhouettes beneath the moonlight, like they were driving straight into a cave painting. The air was different out here—thin, dry, and laced with dust, mesquite, and the quiet dignity of a luxury vehicle questioning all its life choices.

The city was long gone. Neon had surrendered to pitch-black sky, the pristine roads of Del Sol Valley swallowed by the raw, untamed sprawl of prairie. The last gas station had vanished miles ago, leaving only the hush of wilderness and the jagged cut of canyon ridgelines against the stars.

The Kershaw Ranch appeared at last, stretching wide beneath a canopy of stars, nestled in the canyon’s shadow. The dirt road cut straight toward the cabin, its porch light burning low. And there, standing on the steps, arms folded and posture carved from stone—Jack. He probably heard the car coming from miles away.

Jackson said nothing. His eyes locked on the porch, shoulders tightening like he was squaring up for a punch. Jasper glanced over, caught the twitch in his jaw, the subtle clench in one hand.

“He stayed,” Jasper said quietly. “Took care of your kids. Fed your horses. Held it down while you were off the grid.”

Jackson exhaled, slow. Still silent.

“I know it ended ugly,” Jasper added. “But he never walked away from you. That means something, Jackson.”

Gravel crunched beneath the tires as the car coasted to a stop.

“I’ll hang back,” Jasper said. “But… he’s not here to swing.”

He cut the engine. The Aston Martin gave a final groan, the sound of a luxury machine deeply offended by rural life. Silence settled thick around them.

Neither of them moved.

Jasper pushed his door open and stretched like they’d just finished a grocery run. Jackson moved slower, every step thick with the weight of something unfinished. His boots hit the dirt. His shoulders fought to square up.

Jack didn’t blink.
Didn’t speak.
Just stared.

Jackson swallowed. The last time he stood on this porch, his fists had been bloodied and his world had been burning.

Jasper raised a hand. “We come in peace, Jack—just returning your long-lost son. He’s fine, well fine-adjacent … well, mostly intact, anyway. And very sorry.”

Jack didn’t flinch.

He stepped forward—deliberate and fast—and slapped Jackson clean across the face.

“Oh shit,” Jasper muttered.

Jackson didn’t react. He stood still. Took it.

Jack tilted his head, voice low and dry. “That’s for makin’ me clean up your mess again.”

Jackson blinked once, breath steady. But before he could speak, Jack grabbed the front of his shirt, yanked him in, and pulled him into a hug that was firm, hard, unrelenting—but real.

And then, just loud enough to be heard “Damn it, son. I’m glad you’re home.”
Jackson closed his eyes.
Jack’s voice cracked a little.

“Love you. You stupid, stubborn bastard.”

“Love ya too, dad. And I am very sorry.”

“I know ya are, kid.”

And Jackson didn’t fight it.
Not this time.