I woke at 0500 hours to find John Dutton already dressed and drinking coffee in the kitchen, staring out the window at the pre-dawn darkness like it held answers to questions he wouldn't ask out loud.
"You're up early," I said, pouring my own coffee.
"Never stopped," John replied, his voice rough. "Been thinking about yesterday. About Kayce."
I leaned against the counter, studying my father in the dim kitchen light. The stitches in his forehead looked angry, and the shadows under his eyes suggested he'd spent the night wrestling with pride and regret in equal measure.
"You should go see him," I said.
John's jaw tightened. "He made his choice—"
"Dad." I set down my coffee cup with enough force to make it clink against the granite. "I'm going to see Kayce today. You're coming with me."
John turned to look at me fully, surprise flickering across his face before the familiar Dutton stubbornness settled in. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I kept my voice level but firm—the tone I'd used with subordinates who needed clear direction. "I just spent seven years in war zones watching brothers die over stupid shit that could've been resolved with conversation. I'm not watching my family tear itself apart over pride."
"This isn't about pride—"
"It's entirely about pride," I interrupted. "Yours and his. And I'm done watching it. So here's what's going to happen: you're going to finish that coffee, we're going to ride out to the reservation, and you're going to have an actual conversation with your son. Not a confrontation. Not a lecture. A *conversation*."
"Jack—"
"I died, Dad." The words came out harder than I'd intended. "Technically. For ninety seconds in Syria. And when I came back, you know what I realized? That life's too short to waste on feuds that don't serve anyone. Kayce married Monica. They have a son. Your grandson. And you're missing all of it because you can't accept that he chose his own path."
The kitchen fell silent except for the coffee pot percolating and the distant sound of ranch hands starting their day.
John stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "When did you get so damn pushy?"
"When I realized that being respectful doesn't mean being silent." I picked up my coffee again. "I love you, Dad. But you're wrong about this. And I'm not going to watch you lose another son because you're too stubborn to bend."
"Another son?" John's voice went quiet, dangerous. "What's that supposed to mean?"
*Shit*. That was too much knowledge of a timeline that hadn't happened yet. I course-corrected quickly.
"It means I was gone for seven years and that already felt like losing me," I said. "Kayce's been gone longer. How much more family are you willing to sacrifice?"
John turned back to the window, his shoulders tight with tension. For a long moment, I thought he'd refuse—that Dutton pride would win over Dutton love.
Then he sighed, and it sounded like defeat and acceptance mixed together. "Fine. We'll go. But if he throws us off his property—"
"He won't," I said, hoping I was right. "He's hurt and angry, but he's still your son. Still my brother. That counts for something."
John drained his coffee and set the cup down with finality. "Get dressed. We leave in twenty minutes. And Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't make me regret this."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
---
The ride to the Broken Rock Reservation was tense. John drove his truck in silence, jaw tight, hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. I followed on the Fat Bob, the engine's rumble providing a soundtrack to my own nervousness.
Patrick Jane's observational skills noted everything: the way John kept checking his rearview mirror to make sure I was still following, the slight tremor in his hands that suggested this was harder for him than he'd ever admit, the careful route he took—not the main entrance to the reservation, but a back road that suggested he knew exactly where Kayce lived.
*He's been here before*, I realized. *Watching from a distance. Too proud to knock on the door but unable to stay away completely.*
The knowledge made something in my chest ache.
Kayce's house appeared ahead—a modest place by Dutton standards, but well-maintained. A small ranch-style home with a truck in the driveway and a corral out back where I could see the stallion he'd captured yesterday, still pacing and wild.
John pulled up and killed the engine. Sat there for a moment, staring at the house like it might attack.
I parked the Fat Bob next to his truck and swung off, waiting.
"This is a mistake," John said, not moving.
"Probably," I agreed. "But it's the right mistake."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Welcome to family dynamics."
Finally—reluctantly—John opened his door and climbed out. Together, we walked to the front door, and I could feel the tension radiating off him like heat.
I knocked. Three times, firm but not aggressive.
Footsteps inside. Then the door opened, and Kayce stood there in jeans and a t-shirt, clearly having just woken up. His eyes went wide when he saw me, then narrowed when he spotted John.
"Jack." His voice was carefully neutral. "Dad."
"Hey, Kayce." I kept my tone light, easy. "Sorry to show up unannounced. Got a minute to talk?"
Kayce's gaze flicked between us, clearly trying to assess the situation. "About what?"
"About cattle, about family, about seven years of not seeing my brother." I paused. "Please?"
Something in my tone must have reached him, because Kayce's expression softened slightly. He stepped back, opening the door wider. "Fine. Come in."
The house was small but comfortable—lived-in, with photos on the walls of Kayce, Monica, and a little boy I recognized as Tate from Jack's memories. There were signs of family everywhere: toys scattered near the couch, kids' drawings on the refrigerator, the kind of warmth that came from people who genuinely loved each other.
It was everything the main ranch house wasn't.
Kayce gestured to the couch and chairs. "Sit. I'll make coffee."
"I can help—" I started.
"I've got it." Kayce headed to the kitchen, and I could see the military bearing in the way he moved—economical, efficient, always aware of his surroundings.
Navy SEAL training never really left you.
John and I sat, and the silence stretched uncomfortable and tense.
"Nice place," I offered.
John just grunted, looking around like he was cataloguing everything and finding it wanting.
Kayce returned with three mugs of coffee—strong and black, the way servicemen took it—and handed them out before settling into the chair across from us.
"So," Kayce said, looking at me rather than John. "You grew up."
"Had to eventually." I grinned. "You look good too. Though I hear you're wasting your Navy SEAL training on livestock disputes now."
Kayce's lips twitched—almost a smile. "And I hear you spent seven years playing Army Ranger. How'd that work out?"
"Oh, we're going there?" I leaned forward, warming to the familiar rivalry. "At least Rangers don't spend all their time underwater pretending to be fish."
"At least SEALs can actually swim instead of just marching in straight lines."
"We march *tactically*."
"That's not a thing."
"It absolutely is a thing."
John watched this exchange with visible confusion, and I could see him trying to figure out if we were fighting or bonding.
"Anyway," Kayce said, his expression settling back to careful neutrality. "I'm guessing this isn't a social call."
"It's exactly a social call," I said. "Seven years, Kayce. That's too long to not talk to my brother."
"Your brother who you left behind at seventeen," Kayce pointed out, but there wasn't much heat in it.
"Fair. I was an idiot at seventeen."
"You were." Kayce took a drink of coffee. "But you came back. That's more than I expected."
John cleared his throat—the sound of a man about to say something difficult. "Kayce. About yesterday. The cattle situation."
Kayce's expression went carefully blank. "I was doing my job. Livestock Commission doesn't play favorites."
"Those were Yellowstone cattle—"
"On reservation land," Kayce interrupted, his voice hardening. "Which makes them reservation business until proven otherwise. You know the law, Dad. You just don't like it when it applies to you."
"I don't like my son helping people steal from me."
"I wasn't helping anyone steal anything," Kayce said, his voice going cold in a way that reminded me exactly why you didn't piss off a Navy SEAL. "I was doing the job I'm contracted for. Impartially. The way it's supposed to be done."
"By siding against your own family—"
"I didn't side against anyone," Kayce snapped. "I followed protocol. If you've got a problem with that, take it up with the Livestock Commission, not me."
The tension ratcheted up to dangerous levels, and I could see exactly how this would spiral—raised voices, old resentments, both of them too proud to back down.
Time to intervene.
"Okay," I said, setting down my coffee. "How about we all take a breath and remember we're family, not enemy combatants?"
"Could've fooled me," Kayce muttered.
"Kayce, Dad's not here to fight," I continued, shooting John a warning look. "He's here because I dragged him here. Because I'm tired of watching this family tear itself apart over stubbornness."
"Jack—" John started.
"No, let me finish." I turned to Kayce. "You didn't know those were Yellowstone cattle. I believe that. But Dad's not entirely wrong either—someone's been cutting our fences, and it's convenient timing with all the development pressure."
I looked back at John. "And Kayce's not wrong that he was following protocol. He's contracted as an impartial agent. If he'd helped us without verification, he'd be failing his job. That's not betrayal—that's integrity."
Both of them stared at me like I'd performed a magic trick.
"When did you become a diplomat?" Kayce asked.
"Rangers taught me that sometimes talking prevents unnecessary casualties."
"SEALs taught me that sometimes casualties are necessary," Kayce countered, but there was less heat in it.
"And that," I said, "is why Marines exist—to mediate between Army common sense and Navy theatrics."
That actually got a surprised laugh out of Kayce. John's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close.
The tension in the room dropped from *imminent violence* to *manageable discomfort*.
Kayce studied his coffee for a moment, then looked at John directly. "I didn't help them steal from you. But I also won't help you just because we're related. That's not how the job works."
"I know," John said, and the admission clearly cost him. "I don't like it, but I know it."
"Then what do you want?" Kayce's voice carried years of hurt beneath the question. "You want me to quit the Livestock Commission? Come back to the ranch? Divorce Monica and pretend the last few years didn't happen?"
"I want—" John stopped, struggled with the words. "I want you to not be on the wrong side when things get bad. And they're going to get bad, son. Dan Jenkins, Paradise Valley Development, the oil companies—they're all circling. When the fight comes, I need to know where you stand."
"I stand with my family," Kayce said flatly. "Monica. Tate. That's my family, Dad. Whether you accept it or not."
The words hung in the air like a physical blow, and I saw John flinch.
"I'm not asking you to choose," John said finally, quietly. "I'm asking you to be careful. To avoid trouble if you can."
"Like you avoid trouble?" Kayce's voice was bitter. "Everything you touch turns into trouble. It's kind of your specialty."
"Kayce," I said gently. "He's trying. That's worth something."
Kayce looked at me, and I could see the war happening behind his eyes—wanting to stay angry, wanting to protect himself, but also seeing his youngest brother home for the first time in seven years and not wanting to waste that time on old grudges.
Finally, he sighed. "Fine. I'll be careful. Happy?"
"It's a start," John said. He paused, and I could see him gathering courage for the next part. "And Kayce... I'd like to meet Tate. Spend some time with him. If that's... if Monica would allow it."
The request clearly caught Kayce off guard. "You want to meet Tate?"
"He's my grandson." John's voice was rough with emotion he wouldn't quite express. "I've missed three years of his life. I'd like to not miss any more. If that's possible."
Kayce was quiet for a long moment, clearly processing. Then: "Tate's not here. He's at Monica's parents' place. They're keeping him for a few days."
Something in his tone made my tactical awareness ping. John Wick's instincts combined with Patrick Jane's observational skills showed me the tells: the slight hesitation before speaking, the way Kayce's eyes flicked toward the hallway, the micro-expression that suggested he was lying.
*Tate's here*, I realized. *Kayce doesn't trust John around his son yet.*
The knowledge hurt, but I understood it. Years of estrangement didn't disappear with one awkward conversation.
John seemed to buy it, though—or maybe he just didn't want to push. "Alright. Well. When he's back, maybe..."
"Maybe," Kayce said, noncommittal. "We'll see."
John stood, and I followed his lead. The conversation had gone as far as it was going to go today.
"Thanks for the coffee," I said to Kayce. "And for not throwing us out immediately."
"Day's not over yet," Kayce replied, but he was almost smiling. "How long you staying in Montana?"
"A month. Maybe longer." I paused. "We should ride together sometime. Catch up properly. I want to hear about SEAL training and why you thought it was better than Rangers."
"Because it *is* better than Rangers."
"Objectively false, but we can debate it over beer."
"Deal." Kayce stood and walked us to the door. "Jack? It's good to have you home. Really."
"Good to be home." I clapped him on the shoulder—carefully, because even between brothers, you didn't just grab a SEAL. "Take care of yourself, brother."
"You too."
We headed back to the vehicles, and I could feel John's tension—not anger now, but something more complicated. Regret, maybe. Sorrow.
"That went better than expected," I offered.
"He lied about Tate," John said quietly.
So he'd caught it too. Or maybe he'd just known his son well enough to see through it.
"Yeah," I agreed. "But he'll come around. Give him time."
"How much time?"
"However long it takes." I swung onto the Fat Bob. "You can't force reconciliation, Dad. You can just... show up. Be present. Prove you've changed."
John climbed into his truck, started the engine, then rolled down his window. "You really think he'll let me meet Tate?"
"Eventually. When he trusts that you won't hurt them." I paused. "You won't, right? Hurt them? Monica's part of this family now, whether you like it or not."
John's jaw worked, clearly struggling with deeply held feelings about his son marrying outside the ranch, outside their world. But finally, he said, "No. I won't hurt them. They're family."
It was the most concession I'd get, and honestly, it was more than I'd expected.
"Good. Then we keep showing up. Keep trying. Eventually, Kayce will see that you mean it."
John nodded, then drove off toward the ranch.
I sat on the Fat Bob for a moment, not starting it yet, thinking.
Then I saw the curtain in Kayce's house move slightly.
A small face appeared in the window—a little boy, maybe three years old, with dark hair and curious eyes.
Tate.
A moment later, Monica appeared behind him, her hand on his shoulder, pulling him back from the window. She looked at me directly—assessing, protective, clearly having heard everything from inside the house.
I raised my hand in acknowledgment. Not a wave, exactly. Just recognition that I knew the truth.
Monica studied me for a long moment, then nodded slightly before disappearing back into the house.
*One step at a time*, I thought. *First Kayce. Then Monica. Then Tate.*
*But at least nobody died today.*
I started the Fat Bob and headed back toward the ranch, the morning sun painting everything gold.
Behind me, in Kayce's small house on the reservation, a family was having a conversation I couldn't hear but could imagine: Monica asking if Kayce had done the right thing, Kayce wrestling with protecting his son versus giving his father a chance, Tate asking questions about the big man on the motorcycle and why Grandpa John looked so sad.
The work of reconciliation was slow, painful, and complicated.
But at least we'd started.
And in another timeline—the one where I didn't exist, where Marcus Chen had died and stayed dead—Lee would be dead in a few days. Kayce would kill Robert Long in revenge. The spiral of violence would continue.
But not this time.
This time, we were going to do it different.
Even if it killed me.
*Again.*
---
I found John in the barn when I got back, brushing down his horse with movements that were just a little too aggressive to be casual grooming. Processing through physical work—classic Dutton emotional management.
"He'll come around," I said, leaning against a stall door.
"You said that already."
"Bears repeating." I paused. "Tate was there. In the house. Monica and him."
John's hands stilled on the brush. "You sure?"
"Saw him in the window after you left. Monica too."
"He lied to my face about my own grandson," John said, and the hurt in his voice was raw.
"He protected his son from someone he doesn't trust yet," I corrected gently. "That's not betrayal, Dad. That's being a good father. Kind of like someone else I know who called my CO twice when I deployed to check if I was alive."
John shot me a look. "Lee told you about that?"
"Yeah. And it mattered. Knowing you cared, even when you couldn't say it." I moved closer. "Kayce will see it too. Eventually. You just have to keep showing up."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then at least you tried. That's more than most fathers do." I thought about Marcus Chen's dad, who'd died too young to try at all. "Trust me. Trying matters."
John went back to brushing the horse, but his movements were calmer now. "You really have grown up."
"Had to eventually. Someone needed to be the mature one in this family."
"That sure as hell isn't Beth."
"Or Lee."
"Definitely not Jamie."
"Kayce's close, but he married into it so it doesn't count."
"Which leaves you," John said, and there was something like pride in his voice. "The baby of the family. The one who left angry and came back wise."
"I came back bigger," I corrected. "The wise part is debatable."
"Take the compliment, Jack."
"Taking it." I grinned. "Now, what's next on the agenda? More fence inspections? Cattle disputes? Family drama?"
"All of the above, probably." John set down the brush and turned to face me fully. "But first, breakfast. Gator made enough food to feed a battalion, and I'll be damned if we waste it."
"Now you're speaking my language."
We headed toward the main lodge together, father and son, and for just a moment, the weight of timeline knowledge and prevented deaths and complicated futures fell away.
For just a moment, I was just Jack Dutton, home on the ranch, walking with my dad.
And that was enough.
—
I woke to my phone buzzing on the nightstand at 0730—late by Ranger standards, but my body had apparently decided I'd earned the extra sleep after yesterday's emotional gauntlet.
The message was from Beth: *Sydney has today off. She spends her free days at that spot you two used to go. You know the one. Her address is 247 Maple Street, Apt 2B. Don't be a coward.*
I stared at the phone for a long moment, processing.
Beth was meddling. Actively, deliberately meddling in my love life. Which was both terrifying and kind of sweet in a very Beth Dutton way.
The spot. Of course I knew the spot—Jack's memories supplied it instantly. Miller's Creek Overlook, about fifteen miles outside town. A clearing on a hillside that overlooked the valley, where Sydney and Jack had spent countless afternoons when they were seventeen. Talking, kissing, planning futures that had never materialized.
It was their place. Had been their place.
I could ignore the text. Spend the day helping around the ranch, avoid complicating an already complicated situation.
Or I could do what Marcus Chen had done when he'd heard a little girl scream—run toward the thing that scared me instead of away from it.
*Don't be a coward*, Beth had written.
"Damn it, Beth," I muttered, but I was already getting out of bed.
---
By 0900, I was showered, dressed in jeans and a henley that had seen better days, and standing next to the Fat Bob with my phone in hand, staring at Sydney's address.
247 Maple Street was in town—a small apartment complex that looked like it had been built in the seventies and maintained with varying degrees of enthusiasm since. Not run-down, exactly, but definitely showing its age.
Apartment 2B was on the second floor, accessible by an external staircase that creaked ominously under my weight.
I stood at her door for a solid minute, hand raised to knock, feeling like an idiot.
*This is stupid*, part of my brain said. *You just talked to her last night. You're showing up unannounced at her apartment like a stalker.*
*Beth gave you her address*, another part countered. *That's basically permission. Also, you're not stalking, you're... being proactive.*
*That's exactly what a stalker would say.*
Before I could overthink myself into paralysis, the door opened.
Sydney stood there in yoga pants and an oversized Montana State sweatshirt, her blonde hair up in a messy bun, face makeup-free and looking impossibly pretty in the morning light.
We stared at each other.
"Jack," she said, surprise evident in her voice. "What are you—how did you—"
"Beth," I said simply. "She texted me your address and told me you spend your days off at Miller's Creek."
Sydney's expression shifted through several emotions—surprise, understanding, exasperation, and what might have been amusement. "Of course she did. Your sister is incapable of not meddling."
"Yeah. I'm sorry. I can go. This was stupid. I shouldn't have just shown up—"
"Do you want to come in?" Sydney interrupted. "I was just about to make coffee."
I hesitated. "Are you sure? I don't want to impose."
"Jack." She stepped back, holding the door open. "If I didn't want you here, I wouldn't have asked. Come in before the neighbors start gossiping."
I followed her inside, very aware of how much space I took up in the small apartment. It was cozy—one bedroom, living area, kitchenette—but clearly Sydney's. Books about veterinary medicine stacked on surfaces, framed photos of horses and family, a throw blanket on the couch that Jack's memories recognized from high school.
"You kept the blanket," I said without thinking.
Sydney glanced at it, then at me, something soft in her expression. "It's a good blanket. Warm. Practical."
"I gave it to you for your seventeenth birthday."
"I know." She moved to the kitchenette, starting the coffee maker with practiced movements. "Sit down. You're making the apartment look smaller just standing there."
I settled on the couch—carefully, because it looked like furniture designed for normal-sized people and I was very much not that anymore.
"So," Sydney said, her back to me as she worked. "Beth sent you my address and told you about Miller's Creek. What else did she tell you?"
"Just that you spend your days off there. And that I shouldn't be a coward."
Sydney laughed—surprised and genuine. "That sounds like Beth." She turned, leaning against the counter while the coffee brewed. "Are you planning to follow me there? Because that would be slightly creepy."
"I was thinking more along the lines of offering you a ride," I said. "If you wanted company. If not, I can leave and we can pretend this never happened."
"On your motorcycle?"
"Yeah. The Fat Bob's got room for two."
Sydney studied me for a long moment, and I could see her weighing options, assessing risks. Patrick Jane's ability to read people showed me the tells: slight forward lean (interested), bottom lip caught between teeth (uncertain), fingers drumming against the counter (nervous energy).
"I haven't been on a motorcycle since we were seventeen," she said finally. "You had that beat-up Honda that barely ran."
"The Shadow," I said, remembering. "That thing was a death trap."
"It was terrible. I loved it." She smiled, but it was complicated. "We used to ride out to Miller's Creek on it. You'd go too fast and I'd hold on and think we were going to die, and it was perfect."
The memory hit me—Jack's memory, vivid and intense. Sydney pressed against his back, arms around his waist, her laughter in his ear as the Honda struggled up the hillside. The way she'd felt, warm and alive, trusting him completely.
"The Fat Bob is significantly less of a death trap," I said, my voice rough. "Better suspension, actual brakes, an engine that doesn't sound like it's plotting murder."
"High praise."
"It's a good bike. Safe. Powerful. I wouldn't offer if I didn't think I could keep you safe."
Something shifted in Sydney's expression—recognition, maybe, of the underlying promise in those words. That I wouldn't let her get hurt. Not physically, at least.
The coffee maker beeped, breaking the moment.
Sydney poured two cups, added cream to hers, left mine black because she remembered, and brought them over. She handed me one and settled on the opposite end of the couch, tucking her legs under her.
"Okay," she said. "Let's say I take you up on this offer. We ride out to Miller's Creek together. What then?"
"Then we talk. Or don't talk. Whatever you want." I took a drink of coffee—good, strong, exactly how I liked it. "I just... Sydney, I meant what I said last night. About being glad to see who you became. About wanting to figure out what this is between us. And I thought maybe going to our old spot would be a good place to do that."
"Our old spot," she repeated softly. "You still think of it that way?"
"Do you?"
She was quiet for a moment, staring into her coffee. "Yeah. I do. Even after seven years, even after dating other people, even after convincing myself I'd moved on—I still go there and think about you. About us. About what we had."
The admission hung in the air between us, heavy and honest.
"I'm leaving in the fall," Sydney said, looking up at me with those blue eyes that Jack had fallen in love with. "For LA. For the residency. This isn't... we can't just pick up where we left off, Jack. That's not how life works."
"I know."
"And you're leaving too. For LAPD. We'll both be in LA, which is weird and complicated and—"
"I know," I repeated gently. "Sydney, I'm not asking for promises or commitments or anything more than what you're willing to give. I'm just asking if you want to ride out to Miller's Creek with me today. That's all."
She studied me over the rim of her coffee cup, and I could see her making the decision. Weighing past hurt against present possibility.
Finally, she smiled—small but genuine. "Okay. Give me twenty minutes to get ready."
"Take your time."
She disappeared into her bedroom, and I sat there in her apartment, drinking coffee and feeling the weight of what I was doing.
This wasn't part of the plan. The plan was to save Lee, reconcile with Kayce, prevent the ranch from tearing itself apart, then head to LA and start over.
Sydney Miller was a complication.
But as Marcus Chen had learned when he'd pushed that little girl out of the way of a bus—sometimes the best things in life were complications you ran toward instead of away from.
---
Twenty minutes later, Sydney emerged in jeans, boots, and a leather jacket that looked well-worn and perfect. Her hair was down now, falling past her shoulders in blonde waves, and she'd applied minimal makeup that somehow made her even more beautiful.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Yeah." I stood, finishing my coffee and setting the mug in her sink. "You have a helmet?"
"From the Honda days. It's probably outdated and unsafe, but—"
"We'll get you a new one in town," I said. "Can't have you riding around in gear from 2018."
"That's only seven years ago."
"Seven years is ancient in helmet technology. Safety standards change."
Sydney rolled her eyes but smiled. "Fine. But you're buying, since this was your idea."
"Deal."
We headed out, and I very carefully did not offer my hand when she navigated the creaky stairs. She was independent, capable, and the last thing she needed was me treating her like she couldn't handle basic locomotion.
But I did stay close enough to catch her if the stairs decided to stage a rebellion.
The Fat Bob waited in the parking lot, gleaming black and chrome in the morning sun, looking exactly like what it was—controlled aggression in motorcycle form.
"Jesus," Sydney breathed, circling it with obvious appreciation. "This is gorgeous. How much did this cost?"
"More than I should've spent," I admitted. "But Beth invested my military savings and made it grow, so I figured I'd earned one indulgence."
"One indulgence that probably costs more than my car."
"Your car is a 2012 Ford Focus with questionable suspension and a check engine light that's been on since I left town. The bike absolutely costs more."
Sydney laughed, surprised. "How do you know about my car?"
"Beth mentioned it. Also, I saw it last night in the parking lot. The light was visible through the dashboard."
"You know what? I don't want to know how good your observation skills are. It's creepy."
"Ranger training. We notice things."
"Apparently."
We swung by the local motorcycle shop—a small place run by a guy named Kenny who'd known the Duttons forever. Twenty minutes and two hundred dollars later, Sydney had a new helmet that actually met current safety standards, along with riding gloves because I wasn't taking chances.
"This is excessive," Sydney protested as I paid.
"This is appropriate safety gear," I countered. "You remember what Beth said about the death machine comment?"
"Fine. But I'm buying lunch."
"Deal."
Back at the Fat Bob, I showed her how to mount—passenger foot pegs, where to hold on, how to lean with me in turns rather than fighting it.
"Lean with you," Sydney repeated, settling behind me. "Like dancing."
"Exactly like dancing. Except with more horsepower and less grace."
"You were terrible at dancing."
"I'm aware." I twisted to look back at her. "Ready?"
She hesitated for just a moment, then wrapped her arms around my waist, and the touch hit me like electricity. Seven years. Seven years since I'd felt this, since Sydney Miller had held onto me like I was her anchor.
"Ready," she said, her voice slightly breathless.
I started the engine—that distinctive Fat Bob snarl—and felt Sydney's grip tighten slightly.
"Too loud?" I called back.
"Perfect," she replied. "Now show me what this thing can do."
I grinned and pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward Miller's Creek.
The ride was everything I remembered and nothing like it had been. The Honda Shadow had been slow, temperamental, and made Sydney laugh at its inadequacy. The Fat Bob was power incarnate—smooth, responsive, eating up the highway with a deep rumble that felt like thunder.
And Sydney behind me was different too. At seventeen, she'd held on with nervous excitement. Now she held on with confidence, leaning into turns perfectly, reading my movements, trusting me completely.
We passed the town limits, hit the country roads, and I let the Fat Bob open up—not recklessly, but enough to feel the wind and the freedom and the pure joy of riding.
Sydney's laughter carried back to me, bright and unrestrained.
*This*, I thought. *This is what I left behind.*
And for the first time since Marcus Chen had died in London rain, I understood that maybe—just maybe—some things were worth coming back for.
Miller's Creek Overlook appeared ahead, and I slowed, taking the turnoff that led up the hillside toward the clearing where Jack Dutton and Sydney Miller had once planned a future that never happened.
Time to see if we could plan a new one.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!