Spontaneous decisions had never really been something Lily-Mae was familiar with. She typically spent a lot of time in her head, mulling things over. Being thoughtless wasn't in her vocabulary. Yet, she was already four hours into a five hour drive from her house to a farm she hadn't seen in over two decades. She'd simply tossed herself into her Mazda Miata, turned off her phone, and set off onto the road like it was the only logical decision.

Two hours into the drive, she turned her phone on. She needed someone to know that she was okay. She'd originally planned on calling her best friend, the only woman on Earth who didn't make her feel insane for complaining about her loving fiancé, her amazing parents, and her perfect life. Lily-Mae had just planned on telling Adeline that she was safe and what she was doing, hoping to God someone would help her feel less insane. But the minute her phone turned on, several missed calls and messages began flooding in.

Twenty-four calls from Carter, followed by eighteen messages. Then, thirty calls from her Mother and a singular text from her father. Her eyes focused heavily on the road, doing her best to ignore the voicemails and messages left by her fiancé that spiralled in her mind. Well, ex-fiancé now.

"You're making a mistake, don't do this."

"We get married in a month, are you stupid?"

"I put too much work into you just for you to think you can throw it all away."

"You're nothing without me, Lily-Mae."

Lily-Mae couldn't even bear to listen to the multiple voicemails left by her mother, or the singular text her father had sent. Carter's words were enough for the night, eyes reddened from the tears that now stained her cheeks. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, a shuttered breath escaping her lips. Had running away in the middle of the night been the best decision? Probably not, but it beat dealing with the aftermath of daring to raise her voice at Carter and leave her ring behind.

Her finger felt oddly naked without it, like there was a piece missing from her. If she wasn't Carter's fiancé, then who was she? Lily-Mae struggled to come up with an answer. Her mouth felt dry, her body was tense all around. As much as she tried, she couldn't relax at all. Not until she was at the farm, in front of it's burgundy door and creaky steps. At 11:50PM, she finally drove past an old, beat-up sign.



The letters were aged, just barely visible in the dark of night. A twinge of sweat rolled down her neck, and a chill ran down her spine. Excitement? Fear? Both? Lily-Mae couldn't put her finger on it, but driving into Little Ridge brought back a familiar feeling that flooded her senses. Her mother always complained on the drive there, chiding they should have flown. Her father retorted that the drive would help Lily-Mae build character, patience. But really, it was Grandpa Maverick that had taught her patience, not the silly drives to him. Lily-Mae couldn't be anymore impatient during their drives to Little Rock.

It didn't matter what time of day it was, Grandpa Maverick would always be waiting on the porch for her. He'd be sitting on his swing with a fresh glass of tea for her, his arms open as she ran and tripped up his steps. Pulling up to the long, quiet driveway of Mossy Oaks Farm was bittersweet.

The farm hadn't been torn down like she was told. It still stood tall, whispering it's hundred-year-old secrets to her just like it did when she was little. When Lily-Mae stepped out of her car, the silence in the air carried. Only little chirps of crickets could be heard, and the warm air smelled like grass, menure, and rain. The scent brought tears to her eyes, a small sniffles escaping her lips as she quickly wiped her face.

Lily-Mae began approaching the steps, wiping the sweat building on her hands on the back pockets of her jeans. She hadn't packed much, if anything. The only thing she had on her was her purse, and a pair of pajamas in the backseat that she'd tossed. She absolutely was not sleeping in jeans. As she approached the portch, Lily-Mae noticed something odd. Incredibly odd.

In one of the bedrooms on the second floor, there was a gentle light illuminating from the window. Just soft enough for her to notice, and for her to panick. Of course, the night she comes back to the farm it's getting robbed! Or maybe there were squatters? Lily-Mae carefully opened the back seat of her car, pulling out the wooden baseball bat she kept back there. Everyone called her crazy for keeping something like that in the back seat, but safety always came first! Didn't matter if she was in the city, in the country, or on a ship; Lily-Mae knew how to handle herself with a bat.

With the deed to the farm, a pair of keys had been given to her by her mother. Lily-Mae quietly tried the keys, happy to find that they still worked! Walking into the house felt like walking into a museum. Everything was left exactly as it was. Her fingers tightened around the handle of the bat, looking along the walls where her grandfather's old decorations still hung as if he hadn't died at all. Surprisingly, there was also still a photo of them together by the front door. It was his favorite picture, he loved looking at it in the morning and coming home to it.

Lily-Mae's feet creaked underneath the old wood of the house, inspecting pairs of shoes still messily scrambled at the door. Nobody had been living in the house for over eight years, yet it still looked...homey? Like it was kept up to shape, like somebody had been coming by making sure everything was clean and well-kept.

Like someone had still been living there.

Gripping the handle of the baseball bat, Lily-Mae whipped her head around only to be face to face with an unfamiliar face. A man at that, fear striking her entire body as a startled gasp-squeal escaped her. She for sure had thought the house was being robbed, but hadn't expected to come face to face with the robber himself! Brows furrowed, cheeks flushed, Lily-Mae kept the bat between the two of them.

"How dare you burgle an old man's house!" She accused, voice wobbling with a false sense of courage. Maybe she should have just called the cops...?

The warm air of the Farmhouse was thick with log-burner heat. Jax was resetting the kitchen whilst his son, Scout, finished his dinner. The young boy’s starfish hands gripped his plastic spoon, shovelling somewhat clumsily at his bowl of pasta. Jax glanced over his shoulder whilst wrist-deep in soapy water, scrubbing away at the pots he’d used to quickly rustle up Scout’s simple dinner. Although he was no Michelin Starred Chef, Jackson had become quite domesticated over the last few years. Fatherhood had really moulded him, reshaped him. Scout was not his best customer, a fussy eater with an affiliation for plain pasta and sliced apples. But on the odd occasion he cooked for someone other than his 5 year old son, a very rare occurrence, Jax enjoyed the art of putting a tasty dish together.

There was something about prepping fresh ingredients from the farm, carefully seasoning, making marinades and the like that brought Jax a specific breed of inner peace. Perhaps it was the order of it all that he embraced? The careful, methodical calm of following a recipe and producing something delicious? He took like a duck to water with knife skills, his hands intuitively knowing where to chop, how much pressure to add to the blade, the best angle… Those hands, so adept on the farm, wielded a knife with a practiced expertise. There was no elaborate menu tonight. Scout had, to no one’s shock or surprise, requested “Daddy’s ‘Mato Pasta.” He’d of course obliged, bartering a deal where “Mato Pasta” would happen if he also had a small bowl of runner beans from the allotment alongside all those carbs. Scout had angled his head at Jax, eyes narrowed. The 5 year old had feigned a deliberately elongated pensive look, a theatrical “Hmmmm” humming in his lips. Jax had laughed, ruffled his son’s hair, and told him he wouldn’t be taking no for an answer.

“What would your Great Grandpa Maverick say, huh? He’d turn in his grave if he knew of your pathological fear of all things green!” Scout had wrinkled his button nose in mock disgust but was begrudgingly nibbling on a green bean as Jax laid the wet crockery on the drying rack.

He often did that. Brought Maverick into the present day in honour of his memory. The man had practically adopted Jackson all those years ago and he had everything to thank him for. The grief of losing him had flipped the man’s life upside down for a while. He’d spent days on end losing himself in the groundwork of Mossy Oak, blistering his hands with manual labour fuelled by the heartbreak in his chest. Though the deeds weren’t left in Jackson’s name, Maverick had as good as told him the farm was his. On his death bed, near the end, he’d frantically reached for Jackson’s hand and made him promise to take care of Mossy Oak. It was a moment seared into his brain. A memory he treasured with a laden heart…

A knock at the front door plucked Jackson’s attention from the washing up and Scout’s eyes widened mid-chew. An exasperated sigh huffed out of Jax as he wiped his damp hands on a kitchen towel.

“That’ll be your mum, Scout!” Jackson sighed, fixing his son with eyes softened by endearment. He hated this chapter in their routine. The “Hand-Over.” “I’ll grab your bag. Finish those beans.”

The farmhouse floorboards creaked as Jax moved through the house to the front door. He smoothed his expression to neutral, shut off the dripping faucet of dread in his chest and gripped the door handle in his fist. The cool night air bouldered through the opening door, easily pressing through the material of his ribbed white vest. Instantly, goosebumps littered his body. Jax inhaled the familiar scent of the outdoors; The hay bales, the manure, the damp earth, the thickets… This was his home. Candace was stood a few steps back from the entryway, a knitted cardigan that swamped her slight frame wrapped tightly around her hips. She looked tired. Dark circles, poorly disguised by a lick of concealer, sat beneath her doe eyes. Her waist-length blonde hair, bristling with the absence of a good brush, was piled atop her head in a messy bun. Jackson shouldered the doorway, leaning against the wooden arch and fixed her with a furrowed brow.

“You alright, Candace?” he asked, his voice cool and calm but peppered with genuine concern. She flinched. Ran a hand through the stray hairs that leapt from the bun. “Did you want to come in for a minute? Scout’s just finishing up with dinner.”

The two of them, once fiery lovers, shared a bond that couldn’t be broken. Creating life bound two people together like no other. Despite there being no real romantic love between them anymore, Candace was the mother to his child. And that made her his responsibility, still. Scout spent the majority of his time with his mother and that meant her wellbeing still fell under his remit. Seeing her looking fragile in Mossy Oaks driveway made him twinge with concern.

“I’m fine, Jax…” Candace retorted, her tone clipped. There was nothing believable about her response but he nodded once, curtly. He didn’t push the matter, not even when he heard her snapping impatiently at Scout as he bundled into the backseat.

Even as Scout had shoved his little arms through the straps of his overnight bag and ran to his mother, arms spread wide, Jax couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. Arms folded, brows knitted together, he watched Candace’s car crawl down the Mossy Oak driveway in retreat. The taillights got smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing from view and the ghost of Scout’s goodbye was wrapped around him. The farewells were always hard. But this one felt harder, still.





Jax had struggled to unwind that night. He’d scraped Scout’s leftovers into the compost bin and finished washing up before pacing into the living room. The burner hissed for an extra log, the embers glowering hypnotically. He snatched a log from the woodpile and wedged it behind the grate in one easy movement, flames immediately lapping the wood up hungrily. Turning to the armchair that sat in audience of the fire, the same one Maverick had occupied almost permanently, Jax caught sight of himself in the antique mirror that hung above the decorated mantle. His tousled blonde hair, the stubble that framed his angular jaw, the white vest that hung off his traps…

Candace’s tired eyes haunted him. He sunk into the worn arm-chair, leaning his head against the backrest. Adjusting his light-wash, loose fitting jeans, Jax spread his legs and slumped back into the embrace of the chair. He let the well-worn cushions envelop him comfortingly. Running a palm over his face, he massaged his own temples, deep in thought. He wished Candace had been honest about what weighed on her. It was the not knowing, the defensive blockade she’d built against him, that left Jax feeling frustratingly out of control. The price of co-parenting felt hard to bare at moments like these. But the heat from the burner soothed the tight coil of worry in his stomach, loosening his tense, hardened muscles.

This room harboured so many memories. Happy, light-hearted memories. The faces of a family he’d been an honorary member of stared back at him from frames. The photographs were a reminder of the magic of Mossy Oaks. This was a place of love. Of family. Scout hadn’t had the chance to experience that feeling and Jax clicked his tongue at the thought. His ocean blue eyes found themselves drifting over the photo frames, landing on one in particular. Mavericks granddaughter. Lily-Rose? He forgot. She had Mavericks smile; All consuming. The kind that lights up a room. Jax felt his eyelids double in weight and he fought them as the flames of the fire flickered before him. Maverick’s smiling eyes watched him from a frame, his granddaughters infectious laughter practically ringing out from atop the mantle. The gentle rise and fall of his chest was heavy with the threat of sleep, body finally feeling relaxed enough for rest. He hazily thought of making his way upstairs but the arms of chair and the crackle of burning wood pinned him down, the seductive whispers of sleep in his ear.

Then, the rattle of keys in the door grabbed Jax by the scruff and shook him awake with a gasp. It was a sound that he hadn’t heard in years. The tinkering of keys rattling against the door. Was he dreaming? Was he being robbed!? He rose from the chair, fists clenched and jaw set with defensive alarm. Floorboards groaned beneath the weight of intruding steps and his ears ached as he strained to listen. Jackson’s heartbeat thumped in his chest. The quickened “thump, thump” of his heart thudded with warning and quick breaths heaved from his throat. The protector of Mossy Oaks, the one left in charge of this haven, snatched at the handle of the fire poker. Its handle felt heavy in his palm and he flexed his grip. Hasty long strides toward the door revealed a face he recognised.

She was staring right back at him. Wide-eyed and brandishing a baseball bat. A baseball bat!? Her face was aghast. Disgusted. Pinched with disdain, the woman kept the bat in the space between them and Jax relaxed his grasp on the fire poker. He knew that face. He’d seen it littered all over the farmhouse. Sinking realisation washed away his panic like a dam breaking wide open.

"How dare you burgle an old man's house!"

That was a voice riddled with nerves. Her poor disguise of strength was like glass to Jax. He could see the slight tremble of her fingertips, the barely-there wobble of her bottom lip. She had no idea who he was. But he knew exactly who stood in the farmhouse brandishing a baseball bat. Leaning the poker against the doorframe, Jax raised both hands in mock surrender. His expression was earnest, fighting a knowing smirk as he slowly raised his hands. Like approaching a wild street cat, he spoke as if coaxing a stray.

“Easy there, tiger” he purred. “No one’s robbing the old man. I live here.” Jax spoke firmly. Clearly.

Whilst keeping one palm raised in continued surrender, he reached and grabbed one of the many photographs framed in the entryway. It was of him and Maverick during lambing season. Bleached by sunlight and worn by many nostalgic fingerprints, the photo captured the two of them cradling little cotton-ball lambs in the barn. Jackson was younger there, of course. That version of him less tan, less muscular, clean shaven… But it was him, no doubt. Maverick was grinning at the camera and his favourite farmhand turned family was crouched next to him, matching the excitable smile. Jax brandished the photo like valuable evidence, gesturing for the woman to take a look.

“That’s me and the old man himself,” he insisted, nodding with conviction. He pointed an index finger at his photographed face then directed the point at himself. “Name’s Jackson. Jax. I work here. I live here. Have done for years now.”

Piercing blue gaze fixed on hers, he waited for the penny to drop. The baseball bat stayed between them, the threat of it said she might just try and use it. He did nothing but wait, watching the fear in her eyes.